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COPTRIGHT DEPOSIT 



HARPER'S CYCLOPAEDIA 



OF 



BRITISH AJSTD AMERICAN 



POETRY 



EDITED BV 

EPES SARGENT 



NEW YORK 

HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 



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Copyright, iS8., 1000, by Harper & Brothlrs. 
All rights reserved. 



LIBRARY o( CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

APR 2 1«09 

- Copynn^l Entry 
CLASS «^ )tXc. No, 

2-51 "i"^^ 

COPY li. 



6/f ? 



PREFACE. 



Poets have multiplied during the present century as at no previous period. Never 
was the accomplishment of verse so general as now. "Weren't we in the luck of it," 
said Scott to Moore, "to have come before all this talent was at work?" If the remark 
was apt in their dav, how much more so is it at the present time ! Works in verse, 
tliat M'ould have made a reputation a century ago, fall now almost unnoticed from the 
press. It is hard for the most diligent critic to keep pace with the fertility of our 
poets. The present compiler had despaired of doing this long before he had .proceeded 
far in his labors. The consequence is that there liave been omissions for which no 
better reason can bo given than that they were unavoidable. An apology under such 
circumstances would bo out of place. 

It cannot be overlooked, too, that much of the best poetry of recent times has been 
.the product of feminine genius. The progress of women in enlarging the sphere of 
tfieir occupations, and competing with the employments of the stronger sex, is repre- 
sented in no department of intellectual work more signally than in verse. Ever}- 
month new poetry, far above mediocrity, if not of really superior quality, is sent forth. 

This is a sign to be welcomed. True poetry, like the religious prompting itself, 
springs from the emotional side of man's complex nature, and is ever in harmony with 
his highest intuitions and aspirations. It cannot be poetry if it conflict with these. 
Its cultivation, therefore, apart from all calculations of profit or of reputation — since few 
can now realize their dream of fame — must always be an elevating pursuit. There are 
some great truths for the expression of which the speculative understanding is less 
fitted than that which is the issue of right feelings and noble impulses. That poets 
have not always practised what they have preached, only shows how hard it is for a 
man to act up to his best ideals. 

It is profoundly true that poetry is to be found nowhere, unless we liave it within 
us. Here, as throughout all nature and all art, we receive but what we give. And 
so it is that great poets like Goethe — of whom it was said that his praise of some 
of the younger poets of his day was " a brevet of mediocrity " — often detect in what 



PREFACE. 



may strike an inferior judge as commonplace, sometliing to which the broad poetical 
nature may respond. 

In poetry, as in other forms of art, tastes must differ widely, not only among dif- 
ferent persons, but among the same persons at different periods of their lives. The 
youth, in whose estimate the verse of Byron once had the highest place, often finds 
liimself, as he grows older, transferring his affections to Coleridge or Wordsworth. 
Then, too, it frequently happens that our fondness for a certain j^oeni may lie uncon- 
sciously in some early association with it, or in the fact that it was admired by some 
one near and dear to us. "We shut our eyes to minor flaws, and are "pleased we know 
not why and care not wherefore," — wholly regardless of the critic's shrug or even the 
grammarian's objection. All, then, that the compiler can do is, while admitting largely 
what he may regard as best and highest, to remember still that in the exercise of his 
individual taste he must not arbitrarily rule out the representation of any legitimate 
style or topic. Some of our best humorous poems, like Thackeray's " Ballad of Bouilla- 
baisse," have in them an element of pathos M'hicli redeems their character as poetry. 

There are many minor poets who, by some felicity of subject or of treatment, 
have produced one successful piece, but never repeated the achievement. Like the 
boy who shot an arrow through a ring, but would not make a second trial lest he 
should fail, they have been constrained to rest their fame on the one little waif by 
which they have been made known. This class, and such anonymous writers as have 
produced pieces that the world does not allow to become obsolete, are largely repre- 
sented in the present volume; and our Index of First Lines will be found a conven- 
ient concordance for the discovery of many a poem which everybody remembers, but 
few know where to find. 

In the introductor}' notices of poets, in reference to the most distinguished, the aim 
has been to condense, or to sum up briefly, the most interesting incidents of their lives, 
and the choicest characteristics of their writings. In doing this, occasional forms of 
expression, not designated by quotation-marks, have been adopted, with alteration or 
abridgment, from biographer or critic; but credit has been given in cases of any im- 
portance. Original matter has been largely introduced; but, inasmuch as the license 
of a compiler has been used to enrich the work with all that is most apt in the way 
of facts and of criticism, whether new or old, no pretensions to nniform originality in 
these respects are made. t^ o 

'■ • LpES bAEGENT. 

Boston, Dreemher, 1880. 



PUBLISHER'S NOTE. 

The concluding pages of this volume were put in type only a few days before 
the genial and cultured editor passed away from the scene of his labors. It was the 
crowning work of a life devoted to literature. Projected several years ago, it en- 
grossed Mr. Sargent's thoughts and time almost to the very last day of his life, and 
every page passed under his careful supervision. Although lie did not live to see it 
published, he had the pleasure of putting the final touches to it, and of knowing that 
his work was finished. 

Mr. Sargent was eminently fitted for the preparation of a work of this kind. Few 
men possessed a wider or more profound knowledge of English literature, and liis 
judgment was clear, acute, and discriminating. lie designed tliis volume especially for 
household use; and he could have desired no kindlier remembrance than that associ- 
ated with the innocent pleasure and refining influence it will carry to many a domestic 

fireside. 

Harper it BKOTnj:Rs. 
Franklin Square, New York, 
Febnmry 22, 1881.' 



iin^de:x of ^xjthohs, 

W^ITH CONTEjSTTS. 



Adams, John Quincy. r*GE 

To a Beicaved Mother 535 

Adams, Sarah Flower. 

Nuaier, my God, to Thee 608 

The World may Change (from Schiller) 609 

Thy Will, not Miue OOa 

Addison, Joseph. 

Hymn 137 

Ode from the Nineteenth Psalm 1-8 

Paraphrase on Psalm sxiii 128 

Cato's Soliloquy on the Immortality of the Soul. 139 
Ode : How are Thy Servants Blest 139 

Aiken, Berkeley. 
Uncrowned Kings 553 

Ainslie, Hew. 

Sighings for the Sea-side 441 

The Ingle-side 443 

Aird, Marion Paul. 
Far, Far Away 733 

Aird, Thomas. 
The Swallow 580 

Akeuside, Mark. 

The Soul's Tendencies to the Infinite 186 

The High-born Soul 187 

Mind, the Fount of Beauty 187 

The Ascent of Being 187 

Through Nature up to Nature's God 188 

Akin, Mary Elizabeth. 
Psalm cxxxvii .568 

Alden, Henry M. 
The Ancient " Lady of Sorrow" 881 

Aldrich, James. 

A Death-bed 691 

To One Far Away 691 

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey. 

Lines on Brownell 773 

Piscataqua River 867 

Before the Rain 868 

After the Rain 868 



Aldrich, Thomas Bailey. page 

Unsung 868 

Sounet 868 

Alexander, Mrs. Cecil Frances. 
The Burial of Moses 836 

Alexander, Joseph Addison. 
The Power of Short Words 667 

Alexander, William. 

Waves and Leaves 797 

Jacob's Ladder 797 

Alford, Henry. 
A Memory 693 

Alison, Richard. 

Hope 32 

Cherry-ripe 22 



Allen, Elizabeth Akers. 

RocU Me to Sleep 8.50 

Till Death 8.50 

Allingham, William. 

Sing 825 

The Touchstone 835 

Autumnal Sounet 835 

Allston, Washington. 

Sonnet on Coleridge 350 

America to Great Britain 3.50 

Anonymous and Miscellaneous Poems of the 
15th and 16th Centuries. 

Chevy Chase 63 

Sir Patrick Spens 65 

Give Place, Tou Ladyes All 66 

Tak' Your Auld Cloak About Ye 67 

The Heir of Linne 68 

The Nut-brown Maide 71 

Sir John Barleycorn 75 

Truth's Integrity 75 

The Twa Sisters o' Binnorie 76 

Dowie Dens o' Yarrow 78 

Robin Hood's Rescue of Will Stutly 79 

Begone, Dull Care 80 

Man's Mortality, by Simon Wastell 81 

Robin Hood and Allin-a-Dale 81 



IXDEX OF AUTHORS, WITH COXTIUXTS. 



Anonymous and Miscellaneous— Cunfi'nHfd. page 

^Vul y, Willy S3 

Edward '. . . . 83 

Love Me Little, Love Me Long 83 

True Loveliuess 84 

Lines by One in the Tower, by Cliidiock Tychbom 84 

Honnie George Campbell 84 

Silent Music, by Tlioraas Cumptou 85 

Tlie Jleavenly Jerusalem 85 

Helen of Kirk(*BueU 86 



Anonymous and Miscellaneous Poems of the 
■17th and 18th Centuries. 

The Lincolniliire Poaeher 

The Twa Corbies 

Still Water, by Thomas D'Urley 

The Jovial Beggars, by Richard Brome 

Harvest-home Song 

Time's Cure 

" When Shall We Three Meet Again ?" 

God Save the King 

Winifreda 

Why Should We Quarrel for Riches 

The Fairy Queene 

The Maiden's Choice, by Henry Fielding 

The White Rose 

From Merciless Invaders 

Willie's Visit to Melville Castle 

Our Gude-man 

Jock o' Hazelgreen 

Love Not Me for Comely Grace 

How Stands the Glass Around ? 

Ye Gentlemen of England 

Annie Laurie, by Douglas of Fingland 

The Soldier's Glee 

England's Vote for a Free Election 



Anonymous and Miscellaneous Poems of the 

18th and 19th Centuries. 

Merry May tlie Keel Row 

Oh Saw Ye the Lass ? 

The Pauper's Drive, by Thomas Noel 

Sonnet: December Morning, by Anna Seward... 

Song of Birth 

Song of Death 

Young Airly 

Love's Remonstrance, by James Kenney 

Sonnet ; Comparison 

The Crocus's Soliloquy, by Miss H. F. Gould 

The Managing Mamma 

A Riddle on the Letter H, by Miss Catherine M. 

Fanshawe 

Sweet Tyrant, Love, by James Thomson 

The End of the Drought 

Three Kisses of rarcwell 

The Sailor's Consolation, by William Pitt 

Where is He ':' by Henry Xrele 

Heaving of the Lead 

Coming Through the Rye 

Oh ! Say Not Woman's Heart is Bought, by 

Thomas Love Peacock 

Love and Age, by Thomas Love Peacock 

Go, Sit by the Summer Sea 



156 
156 
156 
157 
157 
1.57 
158 
158 
158 
159 
1.59 
160 
160 
160 
160 
161 
162 
163 
163 
164 
164 
164 
685 



527 
527 
.527 
.528 
528 
528 
529 
.529 
.530 
.530 
.530 



530 
.531 
531 
532 
.532 
533 
.533 
533 

534 
.534 
534 



Anonymous and Miscellaneous— Condniierf. page 
To a Bereaved Mother, by John Quincy Adams.. 535 

Again 535 

Never Despair 536 

My Philosophy 536 

Progress 536 

Reliqui* 537 

Faith 537 

Genius 537 

Deirdre's Farewell to Alba 538 

The Mystery of Life, by John Gambold 538 

Fame (from the German of Schiller) 539 

The Clown's Song 539 

The Song of the Forge 540 

Sunrise Comes To-morrow 540 

Where Are Ye ? 541 

Come, Sunshine, Come ! (from the French of 

Charles Vincent) 543 

When the Grass Shall Cover Me 543 

Battle Hymn and Farewell to Life (from the Ger- 
man of Theodore Korner) .542 

The Going of My Bride 543 

Erin, by Dr. Willinra Drennan 543 

The Swans of Wilton 544 

Hymn to the Stars 544 

Summer Days 545 

With a Rose in Her Hair 545 

A Huudrcd Years to Come, by William G. Brown. 546 

Lines on a Skeleton ' 546 

Sonnet: The Seen and the Unseen 546 

Thou Wilt Never Grow Old, by Mrs. Howarth... &t7 

Happiest Days 547 

I Am the Lord ; I Change Not, by Arrali Leigh.' .547 

Invocation of Earth to Morning 548 

Ode to Washington, by Mrs. A. B. Stockton .549 

Requiescam, by Mrs. Robert S. Howland 549 

The Departed Good, by Isaac Williams 549 

A Spring Song, by Edward Youl 550 

My Treasures 550 

"I Would Not Live Alway," by Rev. William 

Augustus Muhlenberg 5.51 

The Beautiful, by E. H. Burrington 551 

The Joy of Incompleteness 552 

Uncrowned Kings, by Berkeley Aiken 553 

Wonderland, by Cradoek Newton 5.52 

Alischicvous Woman, by "The Ettrick Sliepherd." 5.53 
The Water-drinker, by Edward Johnson, M.D. .. 553 

Glenlogie 554 

The Place to Die,'by Michael Joseph Barry 554 

To My Wife, by William Smith 555 

Love and Absence, by James Ashcroft Noble 5.55 

Dreams 5.55 

Epigram, by S. T. Coleridge .5.55 

The First Spring Day, by John Todhunter .5.56 

Unbelief 556 

On a Virtuous Young Gentlewoman Who Died 

Suddenly, by William Cartwriglit 556 

The Way, by William S. Shurtleff 556 

Anster, John. 

The Fairy Child 442 

The Days of Youth (from Goethe) 442 

The Soul of Eloquence (from Goethe) 443 



IXDEX OF AUTHORS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Armstrong, Edmund. 
From Darkness to Light , 

Arnold, Edwin. 

After Deatli in Arabia 

A Ma Future 



PAGE 

. 913 



Arnold, George. 

In the Dark 

Cui Bono ? 

A Summer Longius . 

Arnold, Mattheiv. 

Lines on Byron 

Self-Depcndence 

A Wish 

Dr. Arnold 

Austerity of Poetry. . 



851 

851 



858 
858 
859 



394 
783 

783 

784 



Askew, Anne. 

From "The Figlit of Faith". 



Aubanel, Theodore. 
Tliirteen (translated by Miss Harriet W. Preston). 

Austin, Arthur Williams. 
From " The Greek Anthology " 



Austin, Mrs. Sarah. 
The Passage (from the German of Uhland) . 

Ayton, Sir Robert. 
On Woman's Inconstancy 



Aytoun, "William Edmondstoune. 
The Old Scottish Cavalier 



Bailey, Philip James. 
Love, the End of Created Being. 
Thoughts from "Festus" 



Ballantine, James. 
Its Ain Drap o' Dew. 

Baillie, Joanna. 

To a Child 

Fame 



Ballou, Maturin M. 
Flowers 



Banim, John. 

Soggarth Aroon 

From "Damon and Pythias," Act V. 

Barbauld, Anna Letitia. 
Lile 



Lines written at the Age of Eighty-three Years 

Wliat do the Futures Speak of ? 

The Death of the Virtuous 

The L^uknown God 

For Easter Sunday 



919 



641 



451 



35 



713 



734 
735 



643 



266 
266 



504 
505 



236 
236 
227 
227 
327 
228 



Barbour, John. 

Freedom 



PAGE 

. 3 



Barham, Richard Harris. 

The Jackdaw of Rheims 405 

Song 407 

Barker, David. 

The Covered Bridge ! 743 

The Under Dog in the Fight «.- 743 

Barker, James Nelson. 
Little Red Riding-IIood 373 

Barlow, Joel. 
From "The Hasty Pudding" ^6 

Barnard, Lady Anne. 
Auld Robin Gray 336 

Barnes, William. 

Plorata Veris Lachrymis 673 

Sonnet : Rural Nature 673 

Barr, Mary A. 

White Poppies 939 

Out of tlie Deep 939 

A Harvest-homo 939 

Barr, Matthias. 

God's Flowers 848 

Only a Baby Small 848 

Barry, Michael Joseph. 
The Place to Die 554 

Barton, Bernard. 

To a Grandmother 368 

Farewell 369 

A Winter Niglit 369 

Bates, Charlotte Fiske. 

Satislied 923 

After reading Longfellow's "Morituri Salutamns." 923 

Woodbines in October 923 

Evil Thought 933 

The Power of Music 923 

Sonnet : To C. F 923 

Tlie Telephone 934 

Hopes and Memories 924 



Baxter, Richard. 
Thy Will Be Done. 



106 



Bayly, Thomas Haynes. 

The Soldier's Tear 501 

I'd be a Butterfly 503 

She Wore a Wreath of Roses 503 

The Premature White Hat 503 

Beattie, James. 

Nature and Her Votary 218 

Life and Immortality 219 



IXDEX OF A UTHOBS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Beattie, James. 1'*°= 

Moruiug Melodies 219 

Arraigameut of Providence 320 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

Mchmclioly 46 

Coesar's Lamentation ovei- Pompey's Head 40 

Song from " Valentinian " 47 

On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey, by Francis 

Beaumont 47 

Invocation to Sleep 47 

Song from " Rollo, Dulie of Normandy " 47 

From "The Humorous Lieutenant" 47 

From "Tlie Maid's Tragedy" 4« 

From " The Custom of the Country " 48 



Beddoes, Thomas Lovell. 

To Sea ! 



Beers, Mrs. Ethel Lynn. 
The Piclietguard 



Beers, Henry Augustin. 

Psyche 

Car^amon 



Bell, Henry Glassford. 

From "Tlie End" 

Cadzow 



Bello, Emilio (Spanish\ 
Meeting (translated by Mrs. Conant). 

Bennett, William Cox. 

A May-day Song 

A Thought 



501 



818 



<.»30 
930 



609 
609 



895 



Beranger, Pierre Jean de (French). 
Popular Recollections of Bonaparte (translated by 
Francis Mahony) 599 

Berkeley, George. 
Verses on the Prospect of Planting Arts and 
Learning in America 139 

Bethune, George Washington. 

It is not Death to Die 610 

Sonnet, introducing " Lays," etc 610 



Blackie, John Stuart. 

The Hope of the Heterodox 

Beautiful World 

To the Memory of Sydney Dobell. 

Blair, Robert. 
Death of the Strong Man 



Blake, William. 

Night 

The Tiger 

On Another's Sorrow 

Introduction to "Songs of innocence' 



666 
666 
667 



1.55 



250 
250 
2.50 
351 



Blamire, Susanna. p-»ce 

The Siller Croun 233 

Blanchard, Laman. 

The Eloquent Pastor Dead 581 

The Bird-catcher .583 

Souuet : Hidden Joys 583 

Sonnet : Wishes of Youth 582 

Blood, Henry Ames. 

Pro Mortuis 897 

The Last Visitor 897 

Bloomfield, Robert. 
The Soldier's Home 271 



Boker, George Henry. 
Dirge for a Soldier 



791 



Bonar, Horatius. 

How to Live 650 

The Inner Calm 6.50 

Botta, Mrs. Anne (Lynch). 

Love Wins Love 770 

In the AdirondacliS 770 

The Lesson of the Bee 770 



Bourdillon, Francis W. 

Light 

Ctcli 



938 

938 

The Home of My Heart 938 

The Difference 938 

Let us Love 938 

Bowles, William Lisle. 

1 he Touch of Time 3()5 

The Bells of Ostend 365 

Sonnet : October, 1792 265 

Sonnet : On the River Rhine 265 

Bowring, Edgar Alfred. 

What Songs are Like (from Goethe) 818 

Youth and Age (from Goethe, ^t. 77) 818 

Bowring, John. 

Ode to God (from the Russian of Gabriel Romano- 
witch Derzluwin) 439 

Wisdom and Wealth (from the Russian of Khem- 

nitzcr) 440 

True Courage 440 

Brainard, John Gardiner Caulkins. 

The Sea-bird's Song 4l>4 

Stanzas 484 

To the Daughter of a Friend 4a5 

The Falls of Niagara 485 

Brome, Richard. 

The Jovial Beggars 1.57 

Bronte, Anne. 

If This Be All 744 



IXDEX OF AUTHORS, UlTH COKTENTS. 



Bronte, Charlotte. 
Life 



From '• Tlie Teacher's Moiiolos'iie ". 



Bronte, Emily. 
From "Anticipation'' 
.V Death Scene 



Brooks, Charles Timothy. 

Such is Life 

Tlie Two Grenatliei's (from the German of Heine). 
Alabama 

Brooks, James Gordon. 



743 
743 



743 
74:3 



711 
711 
712 



(irt 



Brooks, Mrs. James Gordon. 
Psalm cxx.xvii 



Brooks, Maria (Gowen\ 

Lilies to Soutlicy 

Son;; of E"la 



Brown, Frances. 
Losses 



Brown, 'William Goldsmith. 
A Hundred Years to Come... 

Browne, Sir Thomas. 
The Night is Come 



Browne, 'William. 
.Shall I tell Yuii whom I Lovi 
The Siren's Son"; 



Brownell, Henry Howard. 

.\t Sea : A Fiagmeiit 

From "The Bay Fi<;ht" 

The Burial of the Dane 



Browning, Elizabeth Barrett. 
Sonnet : Cheerfulness Taught by Reason . 

Cowper's Grave 

The Sleep 

A Woman's Question 

Souuet : Futurity 

Sonnet : Insufficiency 

Four Sonnets from the Portuarnese 



568 



568 



475 
47? 



741 



546 



53 
54 



t to 
77o 
775 



668 
668 
669 
670 
670 
670 
670 



Brow^ning, Robert. 
How they Brought the Good News from Ghent. 

The Freuch at Ratisbon 

Meeting at Night 

Evelyn Hope 

Lines on Alfred Domett 



709 
710 
710 
710 
734 



Bruce, Michael. 
Fioni ail "EUsry Written in Spring 

Bryant, John Howard. 

The Valley Brook 

The Little Cloud 

Sonnet : Autumn 



231 



636 
627 
627 



Bryant, 'William Cullen. pace 

November : a Sonnet 463 

The Antiquity of Freedom 463 

Tlianatopsis 464 

Summer Wind 465 

The Future Life 465 

Meeting of Hector aud Achilles 4<i6 

The Battle-field 466 

From "An Evening Reverie" 467 

To the Fringed Gentian 467 

Song: Dost Thou Idly Ask to Hear? 467 

The Return of Youth 468 

To the Rev. John Pierpout 468 

Brydges, Sir Egerton. 

Echo and Silence 264 

Tlic Approach of Cold Weather 364 

Written at Paris, May 11, 1826 364 

Written at Lee Priory, August 10, 1836 264 

Buchanan, Robert. 

Dying 907 

Herniione ; or. Differences Adjusted 907 

Laiiglcy Lane 908 

To Triflcrs 909 

Buckingham, Duke of (see VilliersV 

Burbidge, Thomas. 

Sonnet 747 

Eventide 748 

Burleigh, William Henry. 

The Harvest-call 705 

Sonnet : Rain 705 

Solitude 705 

Burns, Robert. 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 3.53 

A Prayer under the Pressure of Violent Anguish. 2.56 

Epistle to a Young Friend, May, 1786 2.56 

Bannockburn 3.57 

To a Mountain Daisy 257 

For A' That and A' That 258 

Highland Mary 268 

Bonnie Lesley 3.59 

Auld Lang Syne 2.59 

To Mary in Heaven 2.59 

Ac Fond Kiss 360 

John Anderson My Jo 360 

Duncan Gray 360 

Somebody . : 361 

A Red, Red Rose 361 

The Banks o' Doon 361 

Afton Water 361 

Burrington, E. H. 
The Beautiful 551 



Burroughs, John. 
Waiting 872 

Butler, Samuel. 

The Learning of Hudibras 104 

From " Miscellaneous Thoughts " 104 



B 



iXVEX OF AUTHOES, WITH CONTENTS. 



Butler, William Allen. p^ce 

Notliing to Wcai- 799 

Byrom, John. 

My Spirit Longeth for Thcc 153 

An Epigram on tlie Blessedness of Divine Love. 153 

St. Philip Neri and tlie Youlli 1.53 

Jacobite Toast 154 

Byron, Lord. 

Lines on George Croly 359 

Lines on Henry Kirke Wliite 377 

From " Cliilde Harold " 395 

Scenes by Lake Leman 395 

Waterioo 396 

Address to the Ocean 397 

Evening 398 

The Isles of Greece 398 

From the " Ode on Venice" 399 

She Walks in Beauty 400 

On His Thirty-sixth Year 400 

The Dream 401 

The Destruction of Sennacherib 403 

When We Two Parted 403 

Modern Critics 403 

Maid of Athens, Ere We Part 404 

To Thomas Moore 404 

Sonnet on Chillon 404 

When Coldness Wraps This Suffering Ch>y 404 

From " The Prophecy of Dante " 405 

Calderon, Don Pedro (Spanish^ 
Lines translated by Mrs. Conant 895 

Callanan, Joseph Jeremiah. 
The Virgin Mary's Bank 409 

Calverley, Charles Stuart. 
Lines Suggested by the Fourteenth of February. 844 

Calvert, George Henry. 
On the Fifty-Bfth Sonnet of Shakspearc 591 

Campbell, Thomas. 

Ye Mariners of England 332 

Lochicl's Warning 333 

Hallowed Ground 333 

Song of the Greeks 334 

Lord Ullin's Daughter 335 

Hohenliuden 335 

Freedom and Love 336 

The Soldier's Dream 336 

Valedictory Stanzas to John Philip Kcmblc, Esq. 337 

Exile of Erin 3.37 

Adelgitha 338 

Battle of the Baltic 338 

The Parrot 339 

To the Rainbow 339 

Hope's Kingdom 340 

Unbelief in Immortality 340 

Campion, Thomas. 
Silent Music 85 



Canning, George. i"-»oe 

The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-grinder : 
A Parody on Southey's Lines, "The Widow".. 375 

On the Death of His Eldest Sou 276 

Song by Eogcro 276 

Care-w, Thomas. 

Disdain Returned .52 

On Returning Her Letters 52 

Mediocrity in Love Rejected .53 

Song : Ask Me No More .53 

Carey, Henry. 
Sally in Our Alley 165 

Carleton, Will. 
Over the Hill to the Poor-house 928 

Carlyle, Thomas. 

Cui Bono ? 475 

To-day 470 

Carrington, Noel Thomas. 
The Pixies of Devon 341 

Cartwright, William. 
On a Virtuous Young Gentlewoman 5.56 

Cary, Alice. 

Alice's Last Hymn 768 

Thou that Drawest Aside the Curtain 769 

Cary, Phoebe. 

Tliou and 1 769 

Nearer Home 769 

Chadwick, John White. 

Auld Lang-sync 901 

By the Sea-shore 902 

Carpe Diem 902 

Channing, William EUery. 

To My Companions 744 

A Poet's Hope 744 

Channing, William Henry. 
Mignon's Song (from Goethe) 079 

Chapman, George. 

Of Sudden Death 19 

The Highest Standard 19 

Give Me a Spirit 19 

Charles I., King. 
A Royal Lamentation 86 

Charlton, Robert M. 
The Death of Jasper. 622 

Chatterton, Thomas. 
The Bristow Tragedy; or. The Death of Sir Charles 

Bawdin 2."9 

On Resignation 243 



IXDES OF AUTHOMS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Chaucer, Geoffrey. ^acb 

Au EurUily Paradise 1 

To his Empty Purse 2 

The Parson 3 

Good Counsel of Chaucer 3 



Cherry, Andrew. 
The Bay of Biscay. 



263 



Child, Lydia Maria. 
Lines on Whitticr 634 



Chorley, Henry FothergiU. 
The Brave Old Oalc 



(U2 



Churchill. Charles. 

Remorse .' 207 

From "The Kosciad :" Sketches of Yates, Foote, 
Murphy, Mrs. Clive, Mrs. Pope, Quin, and Gar- 
i-ick 207, 208, 209 



Gibber, Colley. 
The Blind Boy . 



127 



Clare, John. 

On an Infant Killed by Lightning 452 

The Thrush's Nest : a Sonnet 4.52 

Spring Flowers 452 

Lines iu a Lucid Interval 4.53 



Clark, James Gowdrey. 
Leona 



Clark, Willis Gaylord. 
" They that Seek Me Early shall Find .Me 



834 



iJ'M 



Clarke, James Freeman. 

Pr.ayer of Mary Queen of Scots 677 

The Rule with no Exception (after Goethe) 678 

White-capped Waves 678 

A Reminiscence (after PaiUeron) 678 

The Perfect Whole (after Geibel) 679 

Clarke, Miss Lilian. 
A Slielter against Storm and Rain (after the Ger- 
man of Ruekert) 678 

Clemmer, Mary. 

Waiting 889 

A Perfect Day 

Nantasket 

Alone with God 



890 



Clive, Mrs. Archer Wigley. 
The Wish 



891 



569 



Clough, Arthur Hugh. 

I will not Ask to Feel Thou Art 753 

Consider it Again 7.53 

Qui Laborat, Orat 753 

Dulce et Decornm Est Pro Patria Mori 754 

Qua Cursum Ventus 754 

In a Gondola 755 



Cockburn, Alicia Rvitherford. 
Tlie Flowers of the Forest 



PAGE 

. 194 



Coffin, Robert Barry. 
Ships at Sea 



815 



Coleridge, Hartley. 

Still I am a Cliild 496 

Song: She is not Fair to Outward View 490 

No Course I cared to Keep 497 

Sonnet to Wordsworth 497 

The Flight of Youtli 497 

November : a Sonnet 497 

Wisdom the Gray Hairs to a Man 497 

Sonnet to Shakspeare 497 

Liberty : a Sonnet 498 

No Life Vain 498 

The Waif of Nature 498 

To a Newly-married Friend 498 

The Same, and Not Auotlier 498 

On Receiving Alms 498 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. 

Love 306 

Hymn before Sunrise in tlie Vale of Cliamouni.. 307 

Complaint 808 

Human Life 308 

Fancy in Nubibus ; or, The Poet in tlie Clouds.. 308 

Love, Hope, and Patience in Education 309 

From " Dejection : an Ode" 309 

Death of Max Piccolomiui 309 

Epitaph on an Infant 309 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 310 

To the Author of "The Ancient Mariner" 317 

Epigram on Poetasters 555 

Coleridge, Sara. 
Sonnet on Blanco White 325 



Collier, Thomas Stephens. ■ 

A Windy Evening 917 

A Sea Echo 918 

Collins, Mortimer. 

First of April, 1876 817 

In View of Death 817 

The Positivists 817 

Collins's Last Verses 817 

Collins, William. 

Ode, Written in the Tear 1740 188 

Ode to Evening 189 

Ode on the Death of Thomson 189 

The Passions : an Ode for Music 190 

Collyer, Robert. 

Saxon Grit 79:! 

Colman, George, the Younger. 

Sir Marmaduke 263 

Colton, Caleb C. 

Life s a52 



INDEX OF AUTHORS, KITH COSTENTS. 



Conant, Helen S. pioE 

From the Spanish of Calilerou 895 

Ahis ! (fioni the SpauisU of Heredia) 895 

Spanish Song 895 

Meeting (from tlie Spanish of Emilio Bcllo) 895 

German Love Song 895 

Conant, Samuel Stillman. 

Release ; 880 

A Vigil 880 

The Saucy Rogue (from the German) 880 

Conrad, Robert T. 
From "My Brother" 611 

Constable, Henry. 
Diaphenia 40 

Cook, Clarence. 
Abram and Zimri •. 823 

Cook, Eliza. 
The Old Arm-chair 746 

Cooke, John Esten. 
May 838 

Cooke, Philip Pendleton. 
Florence Vano 736 

Cooke, Rose Terry. 

Trailing Arbutus 819 

Indolence 819 

Corn-wall, Barry (see Procter, Bryan Waller'. 

Cotton, Charles. 
No Ills but wliat we Malic 114 

Cotton, Nathaniel. 
To-morrow 175 

Cowley, Abraham. 

My Picture 109 

Tentanda Est Via 110 

A Happy Life (from Martial) 110 

Marie tlial Swift Arrow 110 

On the Death of Crashaw Ill 

From " Tlie Wish " lU 

Co-wrper, William. 

Rural Sounds 210 

Aflectatiou 310 

Industry in Repose 211 

Welcome to Evening 211 

An Ode : Boadicca 211 

A Winter Evening in the Library 213 

On tlie Receipt of My Mother's Picture 213 

Loss of the. liiiyal George 213 

To Mary Unwin 214 

Character of Lord Chatham 214 

The Diverting History of John Gilpin 214 

Cox, Christopher Christian. 

One Year Ago 737 

Haste Not, Rci^t Not (after Schiller) 7:37 



Coxe, Arthur Cleveland. pace 

Watchwords 7.50 

Matin Bells 730 

Crabbe, George. 

The Sea in Calm and Storm 345 

The Pilgrim's Welcome 345 . 

It is the Soul that Sees 346 

Craik. Mrs. Dinah Mulock. 

To a Winter Wind 813 

Ton Late 812 

Pliilip, My King 813 

Cranoh, Christopher Pearse. 

Sonnet , 714 

Gnosis .' 714 

From an '-Ode" on Margaret Fuller Ossoli 715 

Crasha-w, Richard. 

In Praise of Lcssius's Rule of Ilealtli 101 

From "Wishes to his Snpi'osed Mistress" 101 

Two went up to the Temple to Pray 103 

Croly, George. 

Tlie Death of Leonidas 3.56 

Tlie Seventh Plague of Egypt a57 

Catiline's Defiance to the Roman Senate 358 

Cross, Marian Evans (George Eliot\ 

Oil, may I Join tlie Choir Invisible 771 

Day is Dying 771 

Cros^well, William. 

Drink and Away 603 

De Profiindis 1104 

Cunningham, Allan. 

A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 366 

It's Hamc, and It's Hame 366 

Tlie Spring of the Tear 367 

Cunningham, John. 

May-eve ; or, Kate of Aberdeen 204 

Curry, Otway. 

Kingdom Come 605 

Curtis, George William. 

Egyptian Serenade r.'. 794 

Pearl Seed 794 

Ebb and Flow 794 

Major and Minor 794 

Music i' tlie Air 794 

Cutler, Elbridge Jefferson. 

A Poem for the Hour (ISGl) 846 

Cutter, George Washington. 

Song of Steam 732 

Dale, Thomas. 

Stanzas for Music 499 

Dirge 499 



lyDEX OF AUTHORS, WITH CONTEJ^TS. 



Dana, Charles Anderson. fioE 

Sonnet : Manhood 756 

Sonnet : Via Sacra 757 

Sonnet : To R. B 757 

Dana, Richard Henry. 

Immortality -383 

Wasliington Allstou 383 

Tlie Island 3.'*i 

Tlie Pirate 384 

Daniel, Samvtel. 

Epistle to the Countess of Cumberland 20 

Fail- is ni}' Love 21 

Early Love 21 

Darley, George. 

Fi-oni " The Faiiic.s" 378 

Tlie Queen of the May 379 

Suicide 379 

Darwin, Erasmus. 

Tlie Goddess of Botany 206 

Eliza at the Battle of Minden 206 

Davenant, Sir William. 

Th3 Soldier Going to the lield 87 

To the Queen 87 

Davidson, Lucretia Maria. 

To my Sistei- 613 

Prophecy : To a Lady 644 

Davidson, Margaret Miller. 
Dedication of "Lenore"" 



Joy. 



644 

644 

Introduction to " Lenore " 64.5 

From "Lines to Lucretia" 646 

Davies, Sir John. 

The Soul's Aspirations 45 

Myself 46 

Davis, Thomas Osborne. 
The Welcome 719 

Davy, Sir Humphry. 
Written after Recovery from a Dangerous Ill- 
ness 341 

Life 342 

Thought 342 

Dawes, Rufus. 

To Genevieve 589 

Love Unchangeable 589 

De Kay, Charles. 

The Blush 933 

Fingers 933 

On Revisiting Statcn Island 933 



Denham, Sir John. 
Description of the Thame 



104 



Derzhavin, Gabriel R. pace 

Ode to God (Bowring's translation; 4'.9 

De Vera (see Vere). 

Dibdin, Charles. 
Poor Jack 228 

Dickens, Charles. 
The Ivy Green 706 



Dimitry, Charles. 
Viva Italia 



886 



Dimond, William. 
The Mariner's Dream. 



.350 



Doane, George Washington. 
What is that, Mother ? 518 

Dobell, Sydney Thompson. 

How's my Boy? 794 

Sonnet : America 795 

Dobson, Austin. 

'• More Poets Yet !" 89() 

The Prodigals 8iHi 

You bid me Try 890 

A Song of the Four Seasons 890 

Chansonctte 897 

The Child Musician 897 

Doddridge, Philip. 

Ye Golden Lamps 171 

Awake, Ye Saiuts 173 

Epigram 173 

Hark, the Glad Sound 173 

Dodge, Mary Mapes. 

In the Canon 903 

Shadow Evidence 904 

The Two Mysteries 904 

Now the Noisy Winds are Still 905 



Domett, Alfred. 
A Christmas Hymn. 



734 



Donne, Dr. John. 

Sonnet 43 

The Soul's Flight to Heaven 42 

Elegy on Mistress Elizabeth Drury 42 

Dorr, Mrs. Julia C. 

Quietness 80S 

Heirship 808 

To-day : a Sonnet 809 

Somewhere 809 

Twenty-one 809 

Doten, Lizzie. 
" Gone is Gone, and Dead is Dead " 829 

Doubleday, Thomas. 
Sonnet : The W.illflowcr 413 



INDEX OF AUTHORS, WITH COXTESTS. 



Douglas of Fingland. 



Anuie Laurie . 



PAGE 

. 164 



Dowden, Edward. 

Aboard the Sea-swalluii} 931 

Oasis 931 

Wise Passiveness 933 

Tlie Inner Life 933 

Two Infinities 933 

Drake, Joseph Rodman. 

He put his Acorn Helmet on 473 

Tlie American Flag 473 

Ode to Fortune 473 

The Gathering of the Fairies 473 

Drayton, Michael. 

A Parting 34 

The Ballad of Agincourt 34 



Drennan, William. 
Erin 



.543 



Elliot, Miss Jane. 
The Flowers of the Forest . 



PAGE 
. 193 



Drummond, William. 

The Universe 49 

Man's Strange Ends 50 

The Hunt 50 

Dryden, John. 

Alexander's Feast 115 

Veui Creator 117 

Shaftesbury Delineated as Achitophel 113 

Buckingham Delineated as Zimri 118 

Eujoy the Present US 

Dufferin, Lady. 
Lament of the Irish Emigrant (571 

D'Urfey, Thomas. 
Still Water 150 

Durivage, Francis Alexander. 

All "37 

Chez Brebant 737 

Jerry 737 

Dwight, John Sullivan. 

Translation from Friederike Brun 306 

True Rest 717 

Vanitas! Vanitatum Vanitas ! (from Goethe) 71S 

Dyer, Sir Edward. 
My Mind to me a Kingdom is 8 

Dyer, John. 
Grougar Hill 170 

Eastman, Charles Gamage. 

Scene in a Vermont Wiuter 738 

Thanatos 739 

Eliot, George (see Cross, Marian Evans). 

Ellet, Elizabeth Fries. 
Sonnet : O Weary Heart 749 



Elliott, Ebenezer. 

Epigram 360 

Farewell to Riviliu 360 

From "Lyrics for ray Daughters" 360 

Hymn 361 

Not for Naught 361 

Spring : a Sonnet 361 

The Day was Dark 363 

A Poet's Epitaph 362 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo. 

The Snow-storm 593 

Goodbye, Proud Worid ! -593 

Sursura Corda 593 

To the Humblebee 593 

The Soul's Prophecy 593 

The Apology 593 

Concord Monumental Hymn 594 

English, Thomas Dunn. 
The Old Mill 



768 



Everett, Alexander Hill. 
The Young American 413 

Everett, Edward. 
Alaric the Visigoth 4.59 

Ewen, John. 
O Weel may the Boatie Row 334 

Faber, Frederick William. 

'1 he Life of Trust 7.33 

Harsh Judgments 733 

Fairfax, Edward. 
Rinaldo at Mount Olivet 37 



Falconer, William. 
From "The Shipwreck" 305 

Fane, Julian. 
Three Sonnets, "Ad Matrem " 833 

Fanshawe, Catherine M. 
A Riddle on the Letter H 530 

Fawcett, Edgar. - 
Criticism 930 

Fenner, Cornelius George. 

Winnipiscogee Lake 779 

Gulf-weed 780 

Ferguson, Samuel. 
The Forging of the Anchor 

Fielding, Henry. 
The Maiden's Choice 



611 



160 



Fields, James T. 

Last Words in a Strange Land 748 

Agassiz 74S 



IXDEX OF AVTUOBS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Finley, John. 
Bacheloi-'s Hall. 



PAGE 

. 503 



Fletcher, John (see Beaumont and Fletcher). 

Fletcher, Maria Jane (Jewsbury). 
Birth-day Ballad 

Ford, John. 
Musical Contest with a Niirhtini;ale 



56S 



49 



Foster, Stephen Collins. 
Old Folks at Home 



Freneau, Philip. 
May to April 



Frere, John Hookham. 

The Proem 

Whistlecraft and Murray . 

Frisbie, Levi. 

A Castle in the Air 



Frothingham, Nathaniel Langdon. 

The Sight of the Blind 

O Gott, Du Frommer Gott ! 



Fuller, Margaret (Marchioness Ossoli). 
Sonnet : Orpheus 



Sonnet : Beethoven 

On Leaving the West. 



Gall, Richard. 
.My only Jo and Dearie O. 

Gallagher, William D. 
From "My Fiftieth Year" 

Lines 

The Laborer 

From " Miami Woods" 



Gambold, John. 
The Mystery of Life 

Gannett, William Channing. 
Listeuing for God 



Garrison, William Lloyd. 

The Guiltless Prisoner 

Freedom of the Mind 

To Benjamin Lundy 

Sonnet 



810 



344 



aid 
374 



369 



445 

440 



677 
677 
677 



330 



6.51 
6.51 
&51 
653 



538 



898 



614 
614 
614 

615 



Gasooigne, George. 
The Lullaljy 



Gay, John. 
Sweet William's Farewell to Black-eyed Susan... 
The Hare and many Friends 

Gibson, William. 
From the "Hymn to Freya" 



151 
153 



798 



Gifford, William.. taue 

To a Tult of Eariy Violets 34.S 

From " The Baviad " 349 

Gilbert, William Schwenck. 

To the Terrestrial Globe 871 

Mortal Love STl 

Gilder, Richard Watson. 

The River ;)24 

A Thought 934 

Song 934 

O Sweet Wild Roses that Bud and Blow 9ri4 

Call me not Dead 935 

My Songs are all of Thee 935 



Gillespie, William. 
The Highlander 



331 



Gilman, Mrs. Caroline. 

From " The Plantation " 4.58 

Annie in the Graveyard 458 



Glen, William. 
Wae's me for Prince Charlie. 

Glover, Richard. 
Admiral Hosier's Ghost 



411 



179 



Goethe, John Wolfgang von. 

The Days of Youth (Anster's translation) 443 

The Soul of Eloquence (Anster) 443 

The Rule with no Exception (Clarke) 678 

Mignon's Song (Channing, W. H.) 679 

Vanitas ! Vanitatum Vanitas ! (Dwight) 718 

What Songs are Like (Bowring) 818 

Youth and Age (Bowring) 818 

Goldsmith, Oliver. 

The Deserted Village 195 

From " The Traveller ; or, A Prospect of Society " 199 
Retaliation ■ 3U0 



Good, John Mason. 
The Daisv 



369 



Goodale, Dora Reed. 

Ripe Grain 943 

April ! April ! are you here ? 943 

What is Left ? 943 

Goodale, Elaine. 

Papa's Birthday {141 

Ashes of Roses 943 

Gosse, Edmund W. 

Villanelle 920 

The God of Wine :— Chant Royal 937 

Gould, Hannah Flagg. 

The Crocus's Soliloquy .530 

Gower, John. 

Medea gathering Herbs 3 



IXDEX OF AUTBOBS, WITE CONTESTS. 



Graham, James (Marquis of Montrose\ paoe 
I'll never Love Thee more 103 

Graham, Robert. 
Oil, Tell me how to Woo Thee 235 

Grahame, James. 

Subb;Uh Mornin;;- 269 

A Winter Sabbath Walk 370 

A Present Deity 370 

Grant, Mrs. Anne (of Laggan). 
Oh, Where, Tell me Where ? ai7 

Grant, Mrs. (of Carron). 

Roy's Wife of Aldivalloeli 225 

Grant, Robert. 
Whom have I in Heaven but Thee? 378 

Gray, David. 

Wintry Weather 888 

Die Down, O Dismal Djiy 889 

If it Must Be •. 889 

An October Musing 889 

Gray, Thomas. 

Elesy Written in a Country Chureh-yard 183 

Ode on a Distant Prospeet of Eton College 184 

Green, Matthew. 
From " The Spleen " 154 

Greene, Albert Gorton. 
Old (jrimcs 578 

Greene, Robert. 
A Death-bed Lament 19 



Greg, Samuel. 
Pain 



Beaten! Beaten!. 



600 
(iOl 



Greville, Fulke (Lord Brooke\ 

Reality of a True Religion. 18 

From "Lines on the Death of Philip Sidney"... 18 



Griffin, Edmund D. 
Lines on Leaving Italy . 



004 



Griffin, Gerald, 

Song: A Place in Thy Memory, Dearest 586 

Adare .586 

The Bridal of Malahide 586 

Gustafson, Zadel Barnes. 

Zlobane 906 

The Factory Boy 907 



Habington, William, 
Nomine Labia Mea Aperies. 

Hageman, Samuel Miller. 
Stanzas from " Silence" ... . 



88 



933 



Hall, Joseph. f aoe 

Anthem for the Catliedral of Exeter 40 

On Love Poetry 41 

Hall, Mrs. Louisa Jane. 

Grow not Old 580 

Waking Dreams 580 

Hall, Samuel Carter. 
Nature's Creed 571 

Hallam, Arthur Henry. 

Three Sonnets 695 

To Alfred Tennyson 695 

Halleck, Fitz-Greene. 

On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake 476 

Marco Bozzaiis 470 

Burns 478 

Alnwick Castle 479 

Halpine, Charles Graham. 
Janctte's Ilair 833 

Hamilton, Elizabeth, 
My Aiu Fireside .^ 2.53 

Hamilton, William. 
The Braes of Yarrow 173 

Hamilton, William Ro-wan. 

A Prayer fii:! 

To Adams, Discoverer of the Planet Neptune 613 

Harney, William Wallace. 
Jimmy's Wooing S.^ 

Harris, Thomas Lake. 
The Spirit-born 785 

Harte, Bret. 

Dow's Flat 877 

Jim 878 



Hawker, Robert Stephen. 

Song of llic Cornish Men .584 

"Are They not all Ministering Spirits?" 585 

Hawthorne, Juliaii. 

Freewill 939 

Hay, John. 

A Triumph of Order 893 

My Castle in Spain 894 



Hayley, William. 
The Departing Swallows. 



230 



Hayne, Paul Hamilton. 

From the Woods 848 

Lyric of Action 849 

Sonnet , &49 



IXDEX OF AUTHOES, WITH CONTENTS. 



Heber, Reginald. pace 

From Bishop Heber's Journal 363 

The Widow of Naiii 363 

Missionary Hymn 364 

Cliristnias Hymn 364 

Early Piuty .'.364 

Tlie Moonlight March 364 

M;iy-day 365 

Hedderwick, James. 
First Grief. 739 

Hedge, Frederic Henry. 

Tlie Crucifi.xion 615 

Questiouim^s 615 

Heerman, Johann (GermanV 
Hymn (translated by Frothiugham) 446 

Heine, Heinrich (German\ 
Sie Haben Mich Gequalet (Martin's translation). 740 
The Excellent Man (Martin's translation) 740 

Hemans, Felicia. 

Calm on the Bosom of Thy God 447 

The Graves of a Household 447 

The Pilgrim Fathers 448 

The Home of the Spirit 448 

Casablanca 448 

Sonnet on Grasmere 449 

The Messenger-bird 449 

Le.iTC Me Not Yet 4.50 

Evening Song of the Tyrolese Peasants 4.50 

Hymn of the Mountaineers 4.50 

The Greelc Islander in Exile 451 

Sunday in England 451 

Henryson, Robert. 
A Vision of j-Esop 5 

Heraud, John Abraham. 
The Emigrant's Home 519 

Herbert, George. 

Man 60 

The Elixir 61 

Sweet Day 61 

Heredia, Jose Maria (Spanish). 
Alas ! (translated Ijy Mrs. Couant) 895 

Herriok, Robert. 

To Dattbdils .54 

Not a Prophet Every Day 54 

Ode to Ben Jonson 54 

Litany to the Holy Spirit 55 

Night-piece to Julia 55 

To Blossoms 55 

To Corinna, to Go a-Maying 56 

To Dianeme 56 

Prayer to Ben Jonson 57 

The Primrose 57 

Herschel, Sir John. 
Throw Thyself on Thy God 441 

c 



Hervey, Thomas Kibble. paue 

Hope 601 

To One Departed 602 

Cleopatra Embarking on the Cydnus 602 

To Ellen— Weeping 603 

Hey~wood, Thomas. 

Fantasies of Drunkenness 30 

Song : Pack Clouds Away 37 

Search after God 37 

Higginson, Mary Thaoher. 

Gifts 791 

Higginson, Thomas Wentworth. 

"I will Arise and go to my Father" 791 

Decoration : 792 

The Reed Immortal 792 

Hill, Thomas. 

The Bobolink ._ 751 

Antiopa 751 

The W'inter is Past 753 

Hillhouse, James Abraham. 

Interview of Hadad and Tamar 410 

Hirst. Henry B. 

Parting of Dian and Endymion 718 

Hoffman, Charles Fenno. 

Monterey 617 

Hogg, James. 

Bonny Kilmeny 277 

The Skylark 381 

When Maggy Gangs Away 281 

Mischievous Woman 553 

Holoroft, Thomas. 

Gafler Gray 229 

Holland, Josiah Gilbert. 

Gradatim 766 

Wanted 766 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell. 

Bill and Joe 6.58 

Old Ironsides 653 

Kudolph, the Headsman 654 

Nearing the Snow-line 654 

The Chambered Nautilus 654 

The Two Streams 655 

To James Freemau Clarke 655 

Contentment 655 

The Voiceless 6.56 

L'Inconnue 656 

Holyday, Barten. 

Distichs 59 

Home, John. 

The Soldier-hermit 193 



ISUEX OF AUTHORS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Home, F. Wyville. f^cE 

A Choice 937 

From "Ode to the Viuc" 937 

Hood, Thomas. 

Sonnet on the Countin2;-house 507 

The Briclii-e of Sighs 508 

Tlie Song of the Sliirt 509 

I remember 510 

Fair Ines 510 

Farewell, Life 511 

The Monkey-martyr : a Fahle 511 

The Lee Shore 513 

To Charles DicUcns, Esq 513 

Ruth 513 

A Parental Ode to My Son 513 

The Impudence of Steam 514 

Tlie Death-bed 514 

Hooper, Lucy Hamilton. 

On an Old Portrait 876 

In Vain '. 87(5 

The Kinir's Ride 877 



Hopkinson, Joseph. 
Hail, Columbia ! 



295 



Home, Richard Hengist. 

Morning 581 

Summer Noon 581 



Hosmer, William Henry Cuyler. 

Blake's Visitants 

To a Long Silent Sister of Song 



731 
731 



Houghton, Lord (see Milnes). 

Howard, Henry (Earl of Surrey). 
How No Age is Content 6 

Howarth, Mrs. 
Thou Wilt Never Grow Old 547 

Howe, Julia Ward. 

Battle Hymn of the Reiniblic 7.58 

Speak, for Thy Servant Ileareth 758 

Howells, William Dean. 

Thanksgiving 871 

Tlie Mysteries 871 



Howitt, Mary. 
New-yc 



594 



The Fairies of Caldon-Low 590 

The Spider and the Fly 597 

CornheUls 598 

Howitt, William. 

Hoarfrost : a Sonnet 483 

The Wind in a Frolic 483 

Howland, Mrs. Robert S. 
Retinicscam 549 



Hoyt, Ralph. 

Stanzas from "New' 



r.iGE 
. 073 



Hume, Alexander a560-1609'. 
The Story of a Summer Day 



Hume, Alexander (1809-1851). 
My Wee, Wee Wife 



Hunt, Leigh. 
To T. L. II., Six Years Old, during Sickness. 

Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel 

An Italian Morning in May 

Thoughts on the Avon, Sept. 28, 1817 

May and the Poets 

Death 

Jenny Kissed Mc 



Hunter, Mrs. Anne. 
Indian Death-song.. 



Huntington, Frederic Dan. 
A Supplication 



Imlah, John. 
The Gathering .' 

From "There Lives a Young Lassie' 



35 



058 



370 
371 
371 
371 
371 
373 



225 



700 



5-36 
526 



Ingelow, Jean. 
The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire (1571). 

Inglis, Mrs. Margaret Max^vell. 
From "Lines on the Death of Hogg" 



840 



Jackson, Helen Fiske. 

The AVay to Sing 

March 



324 



843 

843 



Thougbt 843 

October 844 

Jackson, Henry Rootes. 

My Fatlier 776 

The Live-oak 776 

My Wife and Child 777 

James I. of England. 
Sonnet : To Prince Henry 38 

James I. of Scotland. 
1 lie Captive King 5 

James, Paul Moon. 
The Beacon 355 

Jenks, Ed'vyard Augustus. 
Going and Coming 840 

Jerrold, Douglas. 
The Drum 584 



Johnson, Edward. 

Tlie AVater-drinker 



553 



I^WEX OF AUTBOKS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Johnson, Samuel. p-ioe 

Charles XII, of Sn-cden 178 

On the Deatli of Mr. Robert Levett 178 

Cardinal Wolsey 179 

Nor Deem Rcligioix Vain 179 

On Claude Phillips, an Itinerant Musician in Wales. 179 

Jones, Sir William. 

A Persian Song of Hafiz 233 

Tetrastich (from the Persian) 233 

An Ode in Imitation of Aieicus 333 

Jonson, Ben. 

To the Memory of Sh;ikspeare 43 

See the Chariot iit Hand 43 

The Song of Hesperus 44 

On a Portrait of Sliakspcare 44 

An Ode : To Himself. 44 

Epitaph on tlie Countess of Pembroke 45 

The Sweet Neglect 45 

Epitaph on Elizabeth, L. H 45 

Song to Celia 45 

Good Life, Long Life 45 

Joyce, Robert Dwyer. 

F.air Gwendoline and her Dove 883 

The Banks of Anner 883 

Glenara 883 

Judson, Mrs. Emily. 
Watching ■ 747 

Keats, John. 

Sonnet 18 

The Eve of St. Agnes 48B 

Ode 490 

Beauty 491 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci 491 

Sonnet 493 

Sonnet to a Young Lady 493 

Sonnet in a New Form 493 

On the Grasshopper and Cricket 493 

Keats's Last Sonnet 493 

Fairy Song 493 

Fancy 493 

Ode to a Nightingale 494 

Ode to Autumn 495 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 495 

Keble, John. 

Morning 436 

Evening 437 

Address to Poets 438 

A Thought 438 

Kemble, Frances Anne. 

Lines Written in London. 694 

Written after leaving West Point G94 

Ken, Thomas. 
From the " Evening Hymn " 130 

Kennedy, William. 

Lines on Motherwell .' 530 

A Thought 530 



Kenney, James. tage 

Why are You Wandering Here? .3.59 

Love's Remonstrance .539 



Kenyon, John. 
Champagne Rose . 



SG(1 



Keppel, Lacly Caroline. 
Robin Adair 230 

Key, Francis Scott. 

Tlie Star-spangled Banner 343 

The Worm's Death-song 343 

Kimball, Harriet McEwen. 

The Guest S.57 

The Crickets 857 

Longing for Rain 8.58 

All's Well 858 



King, Henry. 
From the " E.xequy on liis Wife' 
Sic Vita 



58 
59 



Kingsley, Charles. 

The Three Fishers 765 

Tlie World's Age 705 

The Sands of Dee 705 

A Farewell 705 

Kinloch, Lord. 
The Star in the East 570 

Kinney, Coates. 

From " The Mother of Glory " 810 

Rain on the Roof. 811 



Knowles, Herbert. 
Lines Written in a Cliurch-yard . 



504 



Knowles, James Sheridan. 

From the last Act of " Virginius " 4.56 

Tell among tlie Mountains 457 

The Actor's Craft 457 

Knox, Isabella (Craig). 
The Brides of Quair 845 

Knox, William. 
Oh! why should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud? 410 

Korner, Theodore (German). 
Battle Hymn and Farewell to Life 543 

Lacoste, Marie R. 
Somebody's Darling 915 

Laighton, Albert. 

Under the Leaves 837 

To My Soul 837 

The Dead 837 

Laing, Alexander. 
The Happy Mother 383 



IXDEX OF A I'THORS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Lamb, Charles. tage 

The Old Familiar Faces 327 

Lines Written in inv own Album 327 

To James Sheridan Kiiowles 327 

Landon, Letitia Elizabeth (Mrs. Maclean). 

Success Alone Seen 577 

Death and the Youth 57S 

Landor, Walter Savage. 

To the Sister of "Elia" (Charles Lamb) 339 

Julius Hare 339 

Rose A.vlmer 339 

Death 339 

Langhorne, John. 
From "Owen of Carron" 218 

Lanier, Sidney. 

A Rose-moral 916 

Evening Song - 910 

The Harlequin of Dreams 917 

From the Flats 917 

Larcom, Lucy. 
Uaunah Binding Shoes 814 

Lathrop, George Parsons. 

Musie of Growth 937 

Sonnet : The Lover's Tear 937 

The Sunshine of Thine Eyes 937 

Lawrence, Jonathan, Jr. 
Look Aloft 626 

Leigh, Arrah. 

I Am the Lord; I Change Not 547 

Leighton, Robert. 

Ye Three Voices 785 

Books 786 

Leland, Charles Godfrey. 
Mine Own 796 

Lewis, Matthew Gregory. 

Lines to a Friend S2S 

The Helmsman 328 

A Matrimonial Duet 328 

Leyden, John. 

Ode to an Indian Gold Coin 326 

Sonnet on the Sabbath Morning 336 

Lilly, John. 
Cupid and Cainpaspe 40 

Linton, William James. 

From " Definitions" 703 

Real and True 704 

Labor in Vain 704 

Poets 704 

A Prayer for Truth 704 



Lippincott, Mrs. Sarah Jane. page 

The Poet of To-day 790 

Locker, Frederick. 

St. George's, Hanover Square 777 

The Unrealized Ideal 778 

Lockhart, John Gibson. 

Captain Patou's Lament 453 

Beyond 4.54 

Lamentation for Celin 455 

Logan, John. 

Ode to the Cuckoo 234 

Tlie Braes of Yarrow 3.34 

Lombard, James K. 

"Xut as Though I had Already AtUiined" 853 

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. 

Killed at tne Ford C29 

The Launch 639 

The Arrow and the Song 630 

Revenge of Rainin-the-Facc 630 

The Rainy Day 031 

Rain in Summer 631 

Sonnet : The Poets 633 

Phantoms 6.33 

Sonnet : Nature 632 

Excelsior 633 

Hawthorne 633 

The Bells of Lynn, heard at Nahant 634 

Longfellow, Samuel. 

April 766 

November 766 

Lovelace, Richard. 

To Althea (from Prison) 109 

To Lucasta (on Going to the Wars) 109 

Lover, Sam.uel. 

Rory O'More ; or. Good Omens 507 

The Angel's Whisper 507 

Lowell, James Russell. 

Auf Wiedersehen ! 763 

A Day hi June 763 

To Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 763 

Longing 704 

"In Whom We Live and Move " 7M 

She Came and Went 704 

Lowell, Robert Traill Spence. 
Love Disposed Of 741 

Ludlow, Fitz-Hugh. 
Too Late 883 

Lunt, George. 

From " The Pilgrim Song" 631 

The Haymakers 631 

The Comet 621 

Requiem 633 



IXDEX OF AUTHORS, WITR COXTENTS. 



Lunt, "William Parsons. 
Tlie Americau Flair 



PAGE 

. 613 



Luttrell, Henry. 
The Xovembcr Fog 



of London 297 



Lydgate, John. 
From the Ballad of "London Lyekpcnny" 4 

Lyle, Thomas. 
Kelvin Grove 



419 



Lyte, Henry Francis. 

Hymn: "Abide With Me" 44.5 

From Lines on "Evening" 445 

Lytle, William Haines. 
Autony to Cleopatra 814 

Lyttelton, George (Lord). 
Tell Me, My Heart 177 

Lytton, Lord (Edward Bulwer). 

Caradoc, the Bard to the Cyrarians 606 

A Spendthrift 606 

The Guardian Angel 606 

To the King 606 

Is it all Vanity ? 607 

Invocation to Love 607 

Epigrams from the German 607 

Lytton, Edward Robert (Lord). 
Leoline 845 

Macaulay, Thomas Babington. 

From the Lay of " Horatius" 5.57 

The Battle of Naseby 561 

The Armada .563 

Tlie Battle of Ivry 563 

McCarthy, Denis Florence. 
Summer Longings 749 

Mace, Frances Laughton. 

Easter Morning 866 

Indian Summer 866 

Only Waiting 867 

McCord, Mrs. Louisa S. 

What Used to Be 675 

Tliy Will Be Done 675 

Passages from " Caius Gracchus " 676 

Dedication of " Caius Gracchus " 676 

Macdonald, George. 

Baby 797 

"Lord, I Believe; Help Thou Mine Unbelief".. 798 



McGee, Thomas D'Arcy. 
Cathal's Farewell to tlie Rye. 



805 



Mackay, Charles. 

Tlie Watcher on the Tower 724 

The Good Time Coming 725 

Nature and her Lover 726 



McKnight, George. pa^'K 

"Tliougli Naught Tlicy May to Others Be" 891) 

Perpetual Youth S99 

Scorn 899 

Opportunity 899 

Triumph 899 

In Unison 900 

"The Glory of the Lord siiall Endure Forever" 900 

Tlie Test of Truth 900 

Euthanasia 9U0 

Consummation 900 

Clear Assurance 90O 

Live While You Live 901 

Memento Mori 901 

Gifts 901 

Kinship 901 



Maclagan, Alexander. 
"Dinna Ye Hear It?". 



McCIellan, Isaac. 
The Notes of the Birds. 



McMaster, Guy Humphrey. 

Carmen Bellieosum 

Brant to the Indians 



Macneil, Hector. 
JIary of Castle-Cary . 

Macnish, Robert. 
My Little Sister 



008 



093 



830 

Sol 



230 



573 



Macpherson, James. 
Ossiau's Address to the Sun. 
The Song of Colma 



Maginn, William. 
The Irishman 



Mahony, Francis (Father Prout'. 
Poetical Epistle from Father Prout to Boz (Charles 

DieUens) 

The Bells of Shandon. 

Popular KecoUeetions of Bonaparte (after Be- 

ranger) 

Mangan, James Clarence. 

The JIariner's Bride 

The Nameless One 

From " Soul and Country " 



Marlowe, Christopher. 

The Death of Faustus 

The Passionate Shepherd to his Love. 
Answer to the Same 



Marston, John. 

The Scholar and his Spaniel 

To Detraction I Present my Poesie. 

Marston, Philip Bourke. 
From Far 



598 
590 

599 



589 
.590 
590 



■■io 
26 



41 
41 



916 



IXVEX OF A UTHOHS, WITH COXTEXTS. 



Martin, Theodore. page 

Napoleon's Mklniglit Review (from the Germnn 

of Baron Joseph Christian von Zedlitz) 739 

Sie Haben Mich Gequalet (from Heine) 740 

Ihe Excellent Man (fi-om Heine) 740 

Marvell, Andrew. 

Sons of the Emigrants in Bermuda Ill 

Cour.nge, my Soul ! 113 

A Drop of Dew 113 

Thoughts in a Garden 113 

Marzials, Tlieophile. 
Carpe Diem ; Kundcan 936 

Mason, Caroline Atherton. 

Not Yet 788 

Beauty for Ashes 7S8 

An October Wood Hymn 788 

Mason, William. 
Epitnph on Mrs. Mason, in the Cathedral of Bristol 193 

Massey, Gerald. 
Little Willie 826 

Massinger, Philip. 

Waiting for Death 48 

From "A New Way to Pay Old Debts" 48 

Mayne, John. 
Logan Braes 263 

Meek, Alexander Beaufort. 
Balaklava 731 

Mellen, Grenville. 

Tlie Bugle 52.5 

Meredith, George. 

Love within tlie Lover's Breast 826 

At the Gate 826 

Merivale, Jolm Herman. 

" Evil, be Thou my Good" 343 

Reason and Understanding 344 

From the Greek Anthology 344 

Merrick, James. 
The Chameleon 185 

Messinger, Robert Hinckley. 
A Winter Wish C93 

Mickle, William Julius. 
The Mariner's Wife 217 

Miller, Abraham Perry. 

A Summer Afternoon 885 

The Divine Refuge 885 

Turn to the Helper 885 

The Disappointed Lover 886 

Keep Faith iu Love 886 



Miller, Elizabeth Henry. i-age 

Now and Ever Wl 

Miller, Joaquin. 

Longings for Home 914 

Palatine Hill 914 

Love Me, Love 914 

Miller, Robert. 
Where are They? 691 

Miller, Thomas. 
Evening Song 658 

Miller, William. 
Willie Winkle 692 

Milliken, Richard Alfred. 
The Groves of Blarney 272 

Milman, Henry Hart. 

The ApoUo-Belvidere 417 

Stanzas on Sophia Loekhnrt 417 

The Love of God : Two Sonnets 418 

Milnes, Richard Monckton (Lord Houghton\ 

All Things Once are Things Forever 6.59 

The Worth of Hours 659 

Youth and Manhood 6.59 

I AVandercd by the Brook-side 660 

From " The Long-ago " 6(;0 

Milton, John. 

L' Allegro 90 

n Penseroso 91 

Lycidas 93 

The Messenger's Account of Samson 95 

Scene from "Coraus" 96 

Satan's Encounter with Death 96 

Adam and Eve's Morning Hymn 97 

One First Matter All 98 

What is Glory? 98 

Epitajih on Shakspeare 99 

On his being arrived to the Age of Twcuty-three. 99 

To the Lord-general, Cromwell 99 

To Sir Henry Vane the Younger 99 

On his Blindness 99 

To Mr. Lawrence 100 

To Cyriac SkinhCH- 100 

On the Religious Memory of Mrs. Catherine Thom- 
son, my Christian Friend, Deceased Dec. 16, 1646. 100 

Song : On May Morning lUO 

From the Spirit's Epilogue in "Comus" 100 

Mitchell, Walter. 
Tacking Ship Off Shore 813 

Mitford, Mary Russell. 

Rienzi's Address to the Romans 882 

Song 383 

Moir, David Macbeth. 
Langsyue 500 



I\DEX OF A UTHORS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Montgomery, James. fage 

The Common Lot , . . . 303 

ForeTcr with the Lord 303 

Touth Renewed 304 

Lift lip Tliine Eyes, Afflicted Soul 304 

Sonnet : The Ci-ueitixion ._ 304 

Humility .' 305 



Moore, Clement C. 
A Vifit from St. Nicholas. 



351 



Moore, Thomas. 

Yet, yet forgive Me, O ye Sacred Few ! 34.5 

The Meeting of the W.iters 345 

Believe Me, if all those Endearing Young Charms. 345 

The Turf shall be my Fragrant Shrine 34n 

Oh! Breathe not his Name 846 

The Harp that once through Tara's Halls 346 

Oft, in tlie Stilly Night .346 

Those Evening Bells 347 

Farewell ! — but, whenever you 'Welcome the Hour. 347 

Oli, could We do with this World of Ours 347 

Remember Thee 347 

Thou art, O God 348 

The Last Rose of Summer 348 

The Modern Puffing System ;>iS 

I saw from the Beach 349 

Love's Young Dream 349 

Oh, Thou who Dry'st the Mourner's Tear 349 

Come, ye Disconsolate 349 

To Greece we give our Shiuing Blades 350 

More, Hannah. 

The Two Weavers 239 

Kindness in Little Things 230 

More, Henry. 

The Pre-cxisteucy of the Soul 105 

From "The Philosopher's Devotion" 100 

Morris, Lewis. 

It Shall be Well 8.53 

Dear Little Hand 8.54 

The Treasure of Hope 854 



Morris, William. 
March 



802 



Motherwell, William. 

The Cavalier's Song 499 

Jeanie Morrison 500 

Lines Given to a Friend 501 

Motley, John Lothrop. 
Lines Written at Syracuse 723 

Moulton, Ellen Louise. 

Alone by tlie Bay 863 

lu Time to Come 803 

Moultrie, John. 

"Forget Thee?" 515 

Here's to Thee, my Scottish Lassie 515 



Mowatt-Ritohie, Mrs. Anna Cora. "ge 

To a Beloved One 770 

Muhlenberg, William Augustus. 
"I Would Not Live Alway" 551 

Mulock, Dinah M. (see Craik\ 

Munby, Arthur. 

Autumn 881 

Doris : A Pastoral 884 

Nairne, Carolina (Baroness). 

Tlie Land o' the Leal 271 

AVould you be Young again ? 271 

Nash, Thomas. 

Spring 38 

The Coming of Winter 38 

The Decay of Summer 39 



Neal, John. 
Goldau 



443 



Neele, Henry. 
Where is He ? , 5.33 

Newman, John Henry. 

Flowers without Fruit 571 

A Voice from Afar 572 

Guardian Angel 572 

Newton, Cradock. 
Wonderland 552 

NiooU, Robert. 

People's Anthem 720 

Life in Death 720 

Niles, Nathaniel. 
The American Hero 223 

Noble, James Ashcroft. 
Love and Absence 555 

Noel, Thomas. 
The Pauper's Drive .527 

Norris, John. 

The Aspiration 123 

Superstition 122 

Norton, Andrews. 

Scene after a Summer Shower 381 

Trust and Submission 3S1 

Norton, Caroline. 

Bingen on tlie Rhine (>46 

The Child of Earth 647 

To my Books 648 

Love Not 648 

The King of Denmark's Ride 648 

Noyes, Charles H. 

The Prodigal Son to tlie Earth 934 

My Soldier 934 



JXDEX OF AUTHORS, WITS CONTENTS. 



O'Brien, Fitz-James. 
Elislui Kent Kane 



PAGE 

. 833 



O'Keefe, John. 
I am a Fi uir of Orders Gray 233 

O'Reilly, John Boyle. 

Western Australia 9313 

Forever 933 

At Best 923 

Osgood, Frances Sargent. 

"Bois Ton Sang, Beaumanon-" 707 

Little Things 708 

Laborarc est Orare 708 

An Atlantic Trip 708 

The Author's Last Verses 70S 



Osgood, Kate Putnam. 
Driving Home the Cows. 



905 



Otway, Thomas. 
From " Venice Preserved " 121 



Page, Emily R. 
The Old Cauoe. 



887 



Pailleron, Edouard (French). 
A Reminiscence (translated by J. F. Clarke) 678 

Paine, Robert Treat, Jr. 
Ode : Adams and Liberty 318 

Palgrave, Francis Turner. 

Faith and Sight : In the Latter Days 796 

To a Child 797 



Pardoe, Julia. 
The Beacoudight . 



630 



Parker, Martyn. 
Ye Gentlemen of England 164 

Parker, Theodore. 

Three Sonnets 689 

Hymn 690 



Parnell, Thomas. 
The Hermit 



133 



Parsons, Thomas 'William. 

Saint Peray 759 

In St. James's Park 760 

Partridge, Samuel 'William. 
" Not to Myself Alone " 674 

Patmore, Coventry. 

From " Faithful Forever" 790 

The Toys 790 



Payne, John Howard. 
Home, Sweet Home ! ... 



439 



Pajme, John. page 

I!ond(;au Redouble 918 

Villanelle 918 



Peabody, Ephraim. 

To a Child 

From "The Backwoodsman' 

Peabody, Everett. 
Soug of the Cadets 



623 
623 



523 



Peabody, O. "W. B. 

Visions of Immortality 523 

To a Departed Friend 534 

The Disembodied Spirit 524 

Peabody, "W. B. O. 

The Autumn Evening .523 

The Alarm 523 

Nature and Nature's God 523 

Hymn of -Nature 535 

Peacock, Thomas Love. 

Oh! say not Woman's Heart is Bought .534 

Love and Age 534 

Penney, 'William (Lord Kinloch). 
The Star in the East 570 

Percival, James Gates. 

Elegiac : From " Classic Melodies" 481 

To Seneca Lake 483 

The Coral Grove 483 

Sonnet on Emilic Marshall 483 

May 483 

A Vision 483 

Percy, Thomas. 
The Friar of Orders Gray 202 



Perkins, James Handasyd. 

On Lake Michigan 

The Upriglit Soul 



688 
689 



Perry, Nora. 

In the Dark 920 

In June 920 

Riding Down 921 

Some Day of Days 921 

Pfeiffer, Emily. 
Summer-time : Villanelle 920 

Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart. 

Apple Blossoms 925 

On the Bridge of Sighs 925 

Philips, Ambrose. 

A Fragment of Sappho 126 

To Miss Georgiana Carteret 126 

Philips, John. 
From "The Splendid Shilling " 131 



IXDEX OF AUTHORS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Phillips, Katherine. pace 

To Jlrs. M. A., at Parting 119 

On Couti'oversies in Kclij;ion 110 

Piatt, John James. 

The First Tryst 864 

The Morning Street 804 

Piatt, Mrs. J. J. 
The Gift of Empty Hands 865 

Pickering, Henry. 
Tlie House in whieli 1 was Born 303 

Pierpont, John. 

The Pilsfrim Fathers 3T0 

From "The Departed Child " 3S0 

What Blesses Now Must Ever Bless 3S0 

Pike, Albert. 
Buena Vista 



657 

Pinkney, Edward Coate. 

A Health 5T2 

Song : We Breali the Glass 573 

Pitt, William. 

The Sailor's Consolation 533 



Plimpton, Floras Beardsley. 



Tell Her. 



833 



Poe, Edgar Allan. 

To Sarali Helen Wliitnian 661 

The Bells 663 

The Raven 603 

To Fiances Sargent Osgood 605 

Pollok, Robert. 

Invocation (from "The Course of Time") 510 

Pride the Cause of Sin (from "The Course of Time") 516 

True Happiness (from "The Course of Time").. 517 

Holy Love (from "The Course of Time") 517 

A Moonlight Evening (from "The Course of Time") 517 

Poole, Hester M. 

An October Scene 943 

A Little While 943 

Pope, Alexander. 

Lines on Robert Harley, Earl of Oxford 133 

Ode on Solitude 143 

From " The Essay on Criticism " 143 

To Henry St. John (Lord Bolingbroke) 143 

From the "Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot" 144 

From " The Rape of the Locli" 145 

The Universal Prayer 146 

Tlie Dying Christian to bis Soul 146 

From " Eloisa to Abelard" 147 

Conclusion of the "Essay on Man" 147 

Of tlie Cliaracters of Women 149 

Prologue to Mr. Addison's Tragedy of "Cato".. 1.50 

Tlie Moon (translated from Homer) 1.50 

From "The Temple of Fame" 1.50 

Lines on Addison 151 

Conclusion of " The Dunciad" 151 



Powers, Horatio Nelson. paoe 

From "Memorial Day" 810 

A Rose-bud 816 

Praed, Winthrop Mackworth. 

My Little Cousins 574 

Where is Miss Myrtle ? 574 

Tell Him I Love Him Yet 575 

April-fools 575 

Good-night 576 

Charade on Campbell 570 

I Remember, I Remember 577 

Prentice, George Denison. 

To an Absent Wife 578 

Lookout Mountain 579 

Preston, Harriet W. 
Thirteen (after Theodore Aubanel) 919 

Preston, Margaret Junkin. 

Dedication 837 

Tlie Tyranny of Mood .837 

Saint Cecilia 837 

Pringle, Thomas. 

Afar in the Desert 407 

The Emigrant's Farewell 408 

Prior, Matthew. 

A Simile 123 

To a Child of Quality 133 

Procter, Adelaide Anne. 

Ministering Angels 805 

The Lost Chord 8(16 

Strive, Wait, and Pray 800 

Procter, Bryan 'Waller (Barry Cornwall). 

The Sea 385 

The Return of the Admiral 385 

Sonnet to Adelaide 386 

A Petition to Time 380 

Softly Woo Away Her Breath 386 

Life 386 

Proctor, Edna Dean. 

From " The Return of tlie Dead " 838 

Take Heart 839 

Heaven, O Lord, I Cannot Lose 839 

Prout, Father (see Mahony, Francis). 

Quarles, Francis. 

The Vanity of the World .~7 

Delight in God Only .58 

Raleigh, Sir Walter. 

Tlie Lie 14 

Tlie Silent Lover 15 

My Pilgrimage 10 

Ramsay, Allan. 

The Clock and Dial 1.39 

Farewell to Locljaber 139 



INDEX OF AUTHORS, Tl'ITB C02f TENTS. 



Randall, James Ryder. 
Marvkmd 



PAGE 

. 893 



Read, Thomas Buchanan. 

Drifting 7S0 

SUeridim's Ride 781 

Tlie Closing Scene 782 



Reade, John Edmund. 
The Colosseum 



610 



Realf, Richard. 

My Slain 8.59 

Symbolisms 800 

Robbins, Samuel Dowse. 

Euthanasia 707 

Lead Me 707 



Rockwell, James Otis. 
The Lost at Sea 



Rodger, Alexander. 

Behave Youi-sol' Before Folk 



638 



36S 



Rogers, Samuel. 

The Old Ancestral Mansion 207 

Hopes for Italy ogg 

Venice 308 

Roman Relics 308 

Rosooe. William. 
To My Books 244 



Roscoe, William Caldwell. 
Sonnet: To a Frieud 



787 



Roscommon, Earl of. 
Poctie Inspiration 120 

Rossetti, Christina Georgina. 

Consider 834 

Beauty is Vaiu 834 

Rossetti, Dante Gabriel. 

Lost Days : Sonuet 822 

From "The Portrait" 823 

Riiokert, Friedrich (German). 
A Shelter (translated by Miss Clarke) 678 

Russell, Thomas. 

To Valelusa ogg 

Sonnet 207 

Sands, Robert Comfort. 

From " Yamoydcn " 520 

1 he Dead of 1832 .521 



Sargent, Epes. 
Evenini; in Gloucester Harbor. 

Sunrise at Sea 

A Life on the Oceau Wave 



710 
710 
710 



Sargent, Epes. page 

Linda's Song 717 

Soul of My Soul 717 

Sonnet: To David Friedrich Strauss 717 

Webster 717 

Sargent, Horace Binney. 
After "Taps " 77s 

Sargent, John Osborne. 
Death of Henry Wolilleb (fjora the German of 
Von Auersperg) 703 

Savage, Minot Judson. 

Life from Death 909 

Life in Death 910 

Light on the Cloud yio 

Saxe, John Godfrey. 
The Superfluous Man 73.5 

Justine, You Love Me Not ! 730 

Schiller, J. C. F. von (German). 

Fame 539 

Haste Not, Rest Not (translated by C. C. Co.x).. 737 

Scott, John. 
Ode on Hearing the Drum 20.5 

Scott, Lady John. 

Lammermoor 740 

Ettriek 740 

Scott, Sir Walter. 

Loehinvar 298 

Scene from " Marmiou ■' 298 

Allen-a-Dale 299 

Ilelvellyn 300 

Jock of Hazeldean gOO 

Coronach 301 

Pibroch of Donuil Dim 301 

Border Ballad 301 

Rebecca's Hymn goi 

Song: The Heath this Night must be My Bed.. 302 
Nora's Vow 302 

Sears, Edmund Hamilton. 

Christmas Song 079 

The Angel's Soujj. OSO 

Sewall, Mrs. Harriet Winslow. 

Why Thus Longing ? 757 

Special Provideuces 7,58 

Seward, Anna. 
Sonuet : December Morning 528 

Shairp, John Campbell. 
Sonnet : Relief 708 

Shakspeare, William. 

Silvia 28 

Sigh No More 28 

Ariel's Song 28 



IXDEX OF AUTHORS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Shakspeare, William. page 

Man's Ingratitude 28 

Dirge of Imogen 29 

Tlie Song of Winter 29 

Cloten's Serenade 39 

Sonnets: xviii., xxx., sxxiii., liv., Iv., Ix., xc, 

xcviii., ex., cxi., cxvi., exlvi., cxlvii 29, 30, 31 

Ulysses's Advice to Aeliillcs 31 

Tlie Quality of Mercy 33 

Moonliglit and Musie 32 

England 33 

Song from " Twelfth Night" 33 

Henry IV.'s Soliloquy on Sleep 33 

Detached Passages from the Plays 33 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe. 

Lines on Horace SmiUi 3.52 

The Cloud 431 

Stanzas, Written in Dejection, near Naples 433 

The Fugitives 433 

To a Skylark 433 

Ode to the West Wind 43.5 

I Arise from Dreams of Thee 436 

Invocation 436 

Good-night 436 

One Word is Too Often Profaned 437 

A Lament 437 

On a Faded Violet 437 

Adonais : An Elegy on the Death of Jonn Keats. 437 

Invocation to Nature 433 

Sonnet 433 

Dedication to His Wife 431 

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty 43.5 

Lines to a Reviewer 436 



Shenstone, William. 
From "The School-mistress". 
Written at an Inn at Henley . 



181 
183 



Sheridan, Richard Brinsley. 

Had I a Heart for Falsehood Framed.- 237 

Song, from " The Duenna " 337 



Shirley, James. 
Death's Conquests. 



fiO 



ShurtlefT, William S. ■ 
The Way 556 

Sidney, Sir Philip. 

On Dying 16 

True Beauty Virtue Is 17 

Eternal Love 17 

On Obtaining a Prize at a Tournament 17 

Invocation to Sleep 17 

A Ditty 17 

Sigourney, Lydia Huntly. 

August 11 : The Blessed Rain 418 

Indian Names 419 



Sillery, Charles Doyne. 
She Died in Beauty 



639 



Simmons, Bartholcmew. 

Song of a Returned E.\ilc 

From "Stanzas on Tliomas Hood' 
From "The Mother of the Kings' 



698 
699 
700 



Simms. William Gilmore. 

The First Day of Spring 618 

Freedom of the Sabbath 618 

Solace of the Woods 618 



Simpson, Mrs. Jane Cross. 
Go when the Morning Shineth . 



700 



Smith, Alexander. 

A Day in Spring 835 

A Day in Summer 835 

Her Last Words 835 

Smith, Mrs. Charlotte (Turner). 

To Fortitude 2.35 

To a Young Man entering the World 235 

The Cricket 235 

Smith, Elizabeth Oakes. 

Sonnet : The Unatlained 619 

Sonnet : Poesy 619 

Sonnet: Faith GIU 

Smith, Horace. 
Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's Exhibition. 3.53 

Moral Cosmetics 3.53 

Sonnet 354 

The First of March 3.54 

Hymn to the Flowers 354 

Smith, James. 

Epigram 339 

The Theatre 330 

To Miss Edgeworth 330 



Smith, Mrs. May Riley. 
If 



Smith, William. 
To My Wife 



915 



555 



Smollett, Tobias George. 

The Tears of Scotland 191 

Ode to Leven-water 193 



Sotheby, William. 

Staffu— Visited 1839. 



349 



Southey, Caroline Bowles. 

Lines on Her Father 387 

The River 388 

To Little Mary 388 

"Sufficient unto the Day is the Evil thereof".. 389 

The Pauper's Death-bed 391 

To a Dying Infant 391 

Oh, Fear Not Thou to Die 393 

Sonnet : To the Mother of Lncretia and Margaret 
Davidson 643 



XXVlll 



INDEX OF AUTHORS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Southey, Robert. riOE 

Iiifcription liir the Apartment in Chepstow Castle. 37.5 

The Battle of Blenheim 3li0 

Imnioi'tility of Love 320 

A Beautiful Day in Autumn 3'2l 

The Holly-tree 331 

My Libraiy 331 

Night in the Desert 333 

The Dead Friend 333 

Imitated from the Persian 323 

The Morning Mist 333 

Reflections 323 

To William Wordsworth 333 

Southwell, Robert. 

Love's Servile Lot 33 

Times Gu By Turns 33 

Spencer. Hon. "William Robert. 

To the Lady Anne Hamilton 3y.5 

Beth Gelert; or, The Grave ot the Greyhound... 39.5 

Spenser, Edmund. 

From " The Epithalamion "' 10 

Una and the Lion 11 

Prince Arthur 13 

The Ministry of Angels 13 

From the " Hymn in Honor of Beauty " 13 j 

Easter Morning 13 

Miseries of a Court-life 13 



Stoddard, Mrs. R. H. 
On the Campagna 



Spofford, Harriet Prescott. 
A Four-o'clock 



863 



Sprague, Charles. 

The Winged Worshippers 41.5 

The Fourth of July 415 

From '' The Shakspeare Ode" 415 

I See Thee Still 416 



Stanley, Thomas. 
The Deposition. . .. 



114 



Stedman, Edmund Clarence. 

Provencal Lovers 854 

How Old Browu took Harper's Ferry 855 

Sterling, John. 

To a Child 019 

The Man Survives 630 

Prose and Song 030 



Stockton, Mrs. Annis Boudinot. 
Ode to Washington 



.549 



Stoddard, Mrs. Lavinia. 
The Soul's Defiance 



387 



Stoddard, Richard Henry. 

Songs Uusung 803 

From the "Proem to Collected Poems" 803 

How arc Songs Begot and Bred ':' 803 

The Country Life 804 



PAGE 

. 804 



story, William "Wetmore. 

Lines on John Lothrop Motley 723 

The Unexpressed 7.53 

Wetmore Cottage, Nahant 7.53 

Sto-we, Harriet Beecher. 

The Other World 706 

Street, Alfred Billings. 

The Nook in the Forest 701 

A Forest Walk 701 

The Bluebird's Song 703 

Music 703 



Strode, 'William. 
Music 



61 



Suckling, Sir John. 
Why so Pale and Wan, Fond Lover? 103 

Swain, Charles. 

What it is to Love .585 

The Beautiful Day .585 

Swift, Jonathan. 

From " The Death of Dr. Swift" 134 

Stella's Birthday, 1720 135 

Swinburne, Algernon Charles. 

An Interlude 873 

Love and Death 873 

A M.atch 873 

Sylvester, Joshua. 

Plurality of Worlds 33 

Love's Omnipresence 33 

Symonds, John Addington. 

In the Mentone Graveyard 910 

Seven Sonnets on Death 911 

The Will 912 

Beati Illi 913 

Talfourd, Thomas Noon. 

To the South American Patriots 470 

Love Immortal 470 

Verses on a C'hikl 471 

An Act of Kindness 471 

Sonnet on Wordsworth 472 

Tannahill, Robert. 

The Flower o' Duniblane 324 

The Braes o' Bahiuhither S'24 

Taylor, Bayard. 

Storm-song .....' 807 

A Crimean Episode 807 

The Fight of Paso Del Mar 807 



Taylor, Jane. 
Teaching from the Stars., 



365 



IXDEX OF AUTHORS, WITH CONTEXTS. 



Taylor, Jeremy. 
Thy Kiiii;"duin Ciniie. 

Taylor. Sir Henry. 



PAGE 

. 10.5 



On Edward Ernest Villiers 56.5 

What Makes a Hero ? 5B5 

Extract from "Philip Van Artevelde" 5(iH 

Greatness and Success 507 

Artevelde's Soliloquy 567 

Artevelde and Eleua 567 

Taylor, Thomas. 

Ode to the Risin"; Sun 351 



Tennant, William. 
Description of Maggie Lauder . 



307 



Tennyson, Alfred. 

From the Lines on Bulwer 605 

Edward Gray 680 

(io Not, Happy Day 681 

Welcome to Alexandra 681 

Ask Me No More CSI 

To , after Reading a Life and Letters 083 

Garden Song 083 

l)e Profundis 683 

Bugle Song 683 

Tlie Foolish Virgins 681 

Charge of the Light Brigade 084 

Turn, Fortune, Turn Thy Wheel Osi 

Stanzas from " In Memoriam " GS5 

Tears, Idle Tears 088 

From " The Golden Year" OSS 

Tennyson, Charles (see Turner). 

Tennyson, Frederick. 

Tlie Blackbird 610 

Sounet 617 

Thackeray, William Makepeace. 

Little Billee .' 696 

At the Church Gate G',16 

The Ballad of Bouillabaisse 090 

The Mahogauy-tree 097 

Thaxter, Mrs. Celia. 

Song S(;3 

The Sand-piper 863 

Thorn, William. 

The Mitherless Bairn 409 

Dreamiugs of the Bereaved 409 



Thompson, John Randolph. 
Music in Camp 

Thomson, James. 
Lines Written at the Age of Fourteen 



789 



166 

The Approach of Spring 166 

Sunrise in Summer 167 

Hymn on the Seasons 167 

The Bard's Song 168 

Rule, Britannia ! 169 

Love of Nature 169 

Sweet Tyrant, Love 581 



Thoreau, Henry David. page 

Smoke in Winter 745 

LTpon the Beach ■ 745 

Thornbury, Walter. 

How Sir Richard Died 824 

The Old Grenadier's Story 834 



Thorpe, Mrs. Rosa Hartwiok. 

Down the Track 

"Curfew Must Not Piing To-night' 



935 

935 



Thurlo'w, Edward Hovel (Lord). 

Sonnet to a Bird 359 

Song to May 359 

Tickell, Thomas. 
On the Death of Addison 141 

Tighe, Mrs. Mary. 

On Receiving a Branch of Mezereon 317 

Written at Killaruey 318 

Tilton, Theodore. 
Sir Marmaduke's Musings 864 

Timrod, Henry. 

Hark to the Shouting Wind 838 

Ode 828 

A Common Thought 838 

From " A Southern Spring " 838 

Sonnets 839 

Timrod, William H. 
Lines to Harry 420 

Tobin, John. 

The Duke Aranza to Juliana 275 

Todhunter, John. 
The First Spring Day : Sonnet 5.56 

Toplady, Augusttis Montague. 

Deathless Principle, Arise ! 234 

Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me 334 

To'wnshend, Chauncy Hare. 

"Judge Not" 587 

" What God hath Cleansed," etc 587 

" His Banner over Me was Love " 588 

"■In My Father's House are many Mansions"... 588 

An Evening Thought 5S8 

On Poetry 588 

May 588 

Concluding Sonnet 588 

Trench, Richard Chenevix. 

Our Fatlier's Home 640 

Be Patient 640 

Sonnet: On Prayer 610 

Spring 641 

Trowbridge, John Townsend. 

Beyond 820 

The Vagabonds 820 



n 



IXDEX OF AUTHORS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Trumbull, John. ''*<;'= 

From "il'Fin-ul" 337 

Tucker, St. George. 
Days of My Youth 238 

Tuckerman, Henry Theodore. 
Sonnet : Freedom T15 

Tupper, Martin Farquhar. 
Carpe Diem 691 

Turner, Charles (Tennyson). 

Lines on "In ilemoriam " 049 

Morning 040 

Tlie Lattiee at Sunrise 049 

A Brilliant Day 049 

Letty's Globe 650 

Tuttle, Mrs. Emma. 
Tlie First Flwlgling 893 

Tychborn, Chidiock. 
Lines by One in tlie Tower 84 

Uhland, Johann Ludwig (1787-1862). 
Tlic Passage (translated by Mrs. Austin) 4.51 

Vandyne, Mary E. 

Wlien I went Fishing with Dad 940 

Vaughan, Henry. 

Tlie Retreat 107 

The Rainbow 107 

They Are All Gone ! 107 

The Request 108 

Like as a Nurse 108 

Vaux, Thomas (Lord). 
Of a Contented Mind 7 



Vere, Sir Aubrey de. 

Cianmer 393 

Sonnet : Time Misspent 393 

Three Sonnets on Columbus 393 

Diocletian at Salona 394 

Glengariff 394 

Vere, Aubrey Thomas de. 

The True Blessedness 728 

Adolescentulffi Amaverunt te Nimis 738 

Sonnet: How All Things Are Sweet 738 

Very, Jones. 

The Bud Will Soon Become a Flower 713 

Home and Heaven 713 

The Spirit-land 713 

Nature 713 

Our Soldiers' Graves 713 

Villiers, George (Duke of Buckingham\ 

E|iUaph on General Fairfax 503 

Vincent, Charles (French). 
Come, Sunshine, Coine ! 543 



Wakefield, Nancy Priest. tace 

Over the River 801 

From " Heaven " 801 



Walker, William Sidney. 

The Voice of Other Years 

To a Girl in Her Thirteenth Year. 



409 
409 



Wallace, Horace Binney. 
Ode on the Rhine's Returning into Germany from 
France 746 



Waller, Edmund. 
The Message of the Rose. 
On a Girdle 



88 
88 



Waller, John Francis. 

Kitty Neil 074 

Ware, Henry. 

A Thanksgiving Song 4.59 

Resurrection of Christ 459 

Warton, Thomas. 

To Mr. Gray 204 

To the River Lodon 204 

Wasson, David Atwood. 

Ministering Angels to the Imprisoned Soul 786 

All's Well 787 



Wastell, Simon. 
From ''Man's Mortalitv' 



81 



Watts, Alaric Alexander. 

A Remonstrance 518 

Forever Thine 519 

Watts, Isaac, D.D. 

True Riches 130 

Earth and Heaven 130 

From All That Dwell 131 

Joy to the World 131 

Webster, Mrs. Augusta. 

To Bloom is then to Wane 913 

The Gift 913 

Webster, John. 

A Dirge 34 

From " The Duchess of Malfl " 34 

Weeks, Robert Kelly. 

Winter Sunrise 898 

Ad Fincm 898 

Welby, Amelia B. 

Twilight at Sea ; A Fragment 779 

The Golden Ringlet 779 

Wentz, George. 

"Sweet Spirit, Hear My Prayer" 903 

No Death '. 903 



INDEX OF AUTHORS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Wesley, Charles. face 

The Wn'stler ^ 175 

Come, Let Us Anew 176 

The Only Light 177 

Wesley, John. 
Commit Tlioii .411 Thy Griefs (from tlie German 
of Paul Gerhardt) 173 

Westwood, Thomas. 

The Pet Lamh 739 

Little Bell 730 

White, Henry Kirke. 

Time 377 

Concluding Stanzas of "The Christiad" 377 

To an Early Primrose 877 

White, Joseph Blanco. 

Xiillit and Death : Sonnet 325 

Sonnet, on Hearing Myself for tlic First Time 
called an Old Man, ^t. 50 325 

Whitman, Sarah Helen. 

Lines on Edgar A. Poe 583 

Tlic Last Flowers .583 

Sonnets to Edgar A. Poe 583 

Whitman, Walt. 
From " Tlie Mystic Trumpeter " 755 



Williams, Isaac. pace 

The Departed Good: Sonnet 54y 



Passages from "Leaves of Grass' 



756 



Whitney. Adeline D. T. 
Behind tlie Mask 795 

Whittier, John Greenleaf. 

Mand Mnller 634 

Barbara Frietchie 636 

Mr. Whittier to His Friends 637 

My Two Sisters 637 

The Poet's Portrait of Himself 638 

The Eternal Goodness 638 

Whytehead, Thomas. 
The Second Day of Creation 761 

Wilooz, Carlos. 

A Late Spring in New England 461 

A Vision of Heaven 461 

September 463 

Wilde. Lady. 
Tlie Voice of tlie Poor S42 

Wilde, Richard Henry. 

Sonnet : To the Mocking-bird 412 

Stanzas 412 

Willard, Mrs. Emma C. 
Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep 384 

Williams, Helen Maria. 

Sonnet to Hope _ 262 

Trust in Provideuco 262 



Williams, Richard Dalton. 
From the "Lament for Clarence Mangan" 



767 



Willis, Nathaniel Parker. 

Saturday Afternoon 024 

Thirty-iive 625 

Tlie Spring is Here 625 

Acrostic Sonnet on Emilie Marshall 625 

To a City Pigeon 625 

Willson, Foroeythe. 

From Lines to His Wife 874 

The Old Sergeant 874 

Wilson, John (Christopher North). 

From "Address to a Wild-deer" 374 

Hymn 374 

The Evening Cloud 375 

The Shipwreck 375 

Wilson, William. 
Sabbath Morning in the Woods 570 

Winchelsea, Countess of. 
From " A Wished-for Retreat " 140 

Winter, William. 

The Ballad of Constauce 860 

Orgia S6<J 

The Golden Silence ■ S70 

Wither, George. 

Companionship of the Muse .50 

The Heavenly Father and His Erring Child 51 

Vanished Blessings 51 

I Will Sing as I Shall Please 51 

Shall I, Wasting in Despair .52 

Lines on William Browne .5o 

Wolcot, John. 

On Dr. Johnson 221 

Epigram on Sleep 221 

The Pilgrims and the Pease 221 

Wolfe, Charles. 

The Burial of Sir John Moore 413 

If I Had Thought 414 

Go, Forgot Me 414 

Woodworth, Samuel. 
The Old Oaken Bucket 377 

Woolson, Abba Goold. 
Carpe Diem 88S 

Wordsworth, William. 

To Dafiodils 282 

To the Cuckoo -z^ 

Ode to Duty 283 

She was a Phantom of Delight 283 

Character of the Happy Warrior 284 



IXDEX OF A UTHORS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Wordsworth, William. page 

The Fountain 2&5 

From Lines composed near Tiutern Abbey 285 

Laodamia 287 

Ode on Immortality 289 

Extempore Effusion upon the Death of James Hogs; 291 

The Sonnet's Scanty Plot 291 

Scorn Not the Sonnet 293 

Evening 293 

To Sleep 292 

The World is Too Much with Us 293 

The Favored Ship 293 

The Mind that Builds for Aye 293 

Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1803 293 

To Toussaint L'Ouverture 293 

Philoctetes 293 

Thy Art be Nature 293 

London, 1803 293 

We Must be Free, or Die 293 

October, 1803 294 

On Personal Talk (in Four Sonnets) 294 

Lines on Uartley Coleridge 49(1 

Wotton, Sir Henry. 

On His Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia 39 

The Happy Life 39 



Wyatt, Sir Thomas. pagk 

Pleasure Mixed with Pain 6 

Of Dissembling Words 6 

Free at Last 6 

Youl, Edward. 
A Spring Song 530 

Young, Andrew. 
The Happy Laud 658 

Young, Edward. 

Invocation to the Author of Light 135 

The Departed Live 136 

Homer, Milton, Pope 136 

Welcome to Death 137 

I Trust in Thee 137 

Humanity of Angels 137 

No Atom Lost 137 

Immortality Deciphers Man 1.37 

Existence of God 138 

Zedlitz, Joseph Christian von (GermanV 
Napoleon's Midnight Review (translated by Theo- 
dore Martin 73S 



_^s^«^eiQ^ 




ofBRITISH^AMERICAN Poetk 




©coffrcj) (Hljauccr. 



Cliaucer, the fiither of English poetry, was born about 
the year 1338, probably hi London, and educated at Cam- 
bridge. On arriving: at man's estate, he joined the army 
witli wliich Edward III. was trying to subjugate France. 
Talicn prisoner at Poitiers, Cliaucer, on being released, 
returned to England, and married a sister of the lady 
who became tlic wife of the Duke of Lancaster, better 
known as John of Gaunt. 

King Edward regarded Chaucer with f\ivor, and in 1373 
sent him on a mission to Italy, where he made the ac- 
quaintance of Petrarch, then living at Padua. He was 
employed in other public services, sat in Parliament, 
shared in the downfall of John of Gaunt, fled to Hol- 
land, returned home in 1489, abandoned public life, and 
devoted himself to poetical composition. At the age of 
sixty-four he began the "Canterbury Tales," a picture 
of Engli.sh life in the fourteenth century. He afterward 
wrote "The Romaunt of the Rose," "Troilus and Cres- 
scidc," "The Legende of Good ^Yomen," "Chaucer's 
Dream," "The Flower and the Leaf," "The House of 
Fame" (richly paraphrased by Pope), etc. 

The accentuation in Chaucer's verse, by a license since 
abandoned, is different in many instances from that of 
commcn speech. For example, in 

"Full weU she sange the service divuie," 



mnijd is two syllables, while service furnishes an ex- 
ample of a transposed accent. This poetical license of 
transposing an accent is not uncommon in the later 
poets. 

Chaucer appears to have been of a joyous and hajipy 
temperament, generous and affectionate. He had that 
intense relish for the beauties of Nature so characteris- 
tic of the genuine poet. His works abound with enthu- 
siastic descriptions of spring, the morning hour, the 
early verdure of groves, green solitudes, birds and flow- 
ers. Nature, courts, camps, characters, passions, mo- 
tives, are the topics with wliich he deals. He was op- 
posed to the priests, whose hypocrisy lie unmasked. A 
vigorous temperament, a penetrating, observing intel- 
lect, and a strong, comprehensive good -sense, are the 
instruments with which he fashions his poetical mate- 
rials. Spenser refers to him as 

"That renowned Poet, 
Dan Cliancer, well of English undefiled. 
On Fame's eternal beadroll worlhy to be fyled." 

In the following extracts the orthography is partially 
modernized. Where the change would impair either the 
measure or the spirit of the passage, the original spelling 
is retained. 



'AN EARTHLY PARADISE. 

Fkom "The Fi.ou-rK and the Leaf." 
When that Plioebiis his chair of gold so high 
Had whirli?!! up the starry sky aloft. 
And in the Bull was entered certainly ; 
When showers sweet of rain descended soft, 
Causing the ground, feolc' times and oft, 
Up for to give many a wholesome air: 
And every plaint was y-cloth6d fair 



With new4 green, and makcth sniall<5 flowers 
To spriugea here and there in field and mead : 
So very good and wholesome he the showers 
That it reneweth that was old and dead 
In winter time; and ont of every seed 
Springeth the herb^, so that every wight 
Of this season wexeth glad and light ; 



* Many ; German, vicl. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



And I, so gladdd of the season sweet, 
\yas liappdd thus : Upon a certain night 
As I lay in my bed, sleep full unmeet 
Was unto me ; hut why that I ne might 
Rest I ne wist, for there n' 'as' earthly wight, 
As I suppose, had more of hertz's ease 
Tliau I, for I u' 'ad'' sickness nor disease. 

Wherefore I marvel greatly of myself 
That I so long withouten sleepiS lay, 
And np I rose three hours after twelf, 
About the springing of the day.' 
And on I put my gear and mine array, 
And to a pleasant grov<5 1 'gan pass, 
Long ere the suund bright uprisen was, 

In which were oakds great, str.iight as a line, 
Under the which the grass so fresh of hue 
Was newly sprong ; aud an eight foot or nine 
Every tree well fro his fellow grew 
With br.anches broad laden with leavds new, 
That sprougeu out agen the sonnd-shcen, 
Some very red, aud some a glad light green, 

Which, as mcthought, was right a pleasant sight ; 

And eke the birdes souge for to hear 

Would luive rejoiced any earthly wight, 

Aud I, that couth' not yet iu no niauere 

Hear<i the nightingale of all the year. 

Full busily hearkened with heart and ear. 

If I her voice perceive could .any whore. 

And at the last a path of little brede* 

I found, that greatly had not usiSd be ; 

For it forgrow<5n° was with grass and weed. 

That well uuneth' a wight(5 might it see. 

Thought I, "This path somewhither goeth, pardi? !" 

Aud so I followed, till it me brought 

To right a pleasant herbcr* well y-wrought, 

That was y-benchdd ; and with tnrfes new 
Freshly y-tnrved, whereof the green<S grass 
So small, so thick, so short, so fresh of hue. 
That most like uuto green wool wot I it was. 
The hedge also that ycde there in compass,' 
And clost^d in alliS the green herbere, 
With sycamore was set and eglatere." 



> Was lint. 2 nnd not 

3 Line of imperfi-ct meaeiire in the copies. Some editors in- 
sert tlie e|)illiet rjUutsmne. 
* Had nut been able. ^ Breaiith. 

fl Overgrown. ' Srarcely. 

** Arbor. e Timt went round about. 

1' Eghiuluie, or (accordin;^ to Warton) sweetbrier. 



TO HIS EMPTY PUKSE. 

To you, my purse, aud to none other wight 

Complaiuo I, liir ye be my lady dere ; 

I am sorry now that ye bo light. 

For certes yo now make me heavy cheer ; 

Me were as lefe laid upon a here 

For which uuto your mercie thus I crie, 

Be heavy agaiue, or els mote I die. 

Now vouchsafe this or it be night. 

That I of you the blissful sowue may here, 

Or see your color like the 8unn6 bright, 

That of yelowness had never pere. 

Ye be my life, ye be my hort(S's store, 

Queeue of comfort aud of good companie. 

Be heavy agaiue, or els mote I die. 

Now purse that art to me my liv<)'s light 
Aud saviour, as downe iu this world here. 
Out of this towu6 helpe me by your might, 
Sith that you woll not be my treasure. 
For I am shave as uere as any fiere, 
But I pray unto yonr curtesie, 
Be heavy againe, or els mote I die. 



THE PARSON. 

A good man there was of religioun, 

That was a poor(5 Parson of a town ; 

But rich he was of holy thought aud work, 

He was also a learned man, a clerk. 

That Christ(?s gospel trudly would preach ; 

His parishens devoutly would he teacb. 

Benign he was and wonder diligent. 

And iu .adversity full patient; 

And such he was y-prov<5d' oft(5 sith^s,' 

Full loth were him to curson for his tithes;' 

But rather would he given, out of doubt, 

Unto his poord p.arishens about, 

Of his offring and eke of his substance ; 

He couth in little thing h.ave suffi.sauce. 

Wide was his parish, aud houses far asunder; 

But ho ne kfte not, for rain nc thunder, 

In sickness nor in mischief to visite 

The furthest in his parish, much and lite,* 



> ris the old English prefix of the past participle ; Saxon and 
German fje. 

2 Oftentimes. 

3 Theeor iof the plural in old poetry is always sounded when 
the verse requires it. 

« Great and small. 



GEOFFREY CHA VCEn.—GOWER.—BARBOVIi.—LYDGATE. 



Upon his ft-et, mid iu liis liaiid a staff. 
This uoble eiisavuple to his sheep lie gaf/ 
That first he wrought and afterward he tanght. 
Out of the gospel he the wordes caught, 
And this figure he added eUe thereto, — 
That, if gold rustf, what should irou do ? 
For, if a priest be foul on whom we trust. 
No wonder is a lew&P man to rust. 

» * * * ^ * 

Ho was a shepherd, and no mercenary ; 
And, though ho holy were and virtuous. 
He was to sinful man not dispitous,^ 
Ne of his speeche dangerous ue digue,* 
But ill his teaching discreet and benign. 
To draweii folk to heaven by fairness 
By good eiisample, this was his business. 
But, it were any person obstinate. 
What so ho were, of high or low estate. 
Him would he snibben^ sharply for the noniSs." 
A better priest I trow there uowhcro none is. 
He waited after no pomp ue revereuce, 
Ne maU^d liim a spiced' conscience ; 
But Clii'ist«5s lore and his apostles twelve 
He taught, but first he followd it liiiiiselve. 



GOOD COUNSEL OF CHAUCER. 

In one of the Cottoiiian MSS. (junon^ those destroyed by fire) 
tills poem was described .is m:\de by Cliaucer " uptm llis deatli- 
iied, iu his great anguish." The versions differ considei'abiy. 

Fly fro the i)ress and dwell with soothfastuess;' 
Suffice unto thy good though it be small: 

For hoard hath hate, aud climbing tickleness,'' 
Press h.ath envy, and weal is blent'" over-all. 
Savour no more than thee bchovd." shall. 

Kcde'^ well thyself that other folk canst redo ; 

And Truth thee shall deliver, it is no drede.'^ 

PaiiiiS thee uot each crooked to redress 
In trust of her that turueth as a ball ; 

Great rest standcth in little bii.syness. 
Beware also to spurn against an a« 1 ; 
Strive not as doth a crockd" with a wall ; 

Deemd'' thyself that deemest others' deed ; 

And Truth thee shall deliver, it is uo drede. 



' Gave. 3 Lay, nnlennied. 

3 Without pity. * Domineering nor disdainful. 

* Chccl^, reprove, s?iMb. ^ For Ihe nonce. 

' Disguised, as food by spices. * Truth. 

= Instability. lo Blind. 

'1 Thau shall be for thy good. 12 Counsel. 

13 Doubt. " Piece of china. >* Judge. 



That thee is sent, receive iu biixomness;' 
The wrastliug of this world asketh a fall. 

Here is no home, here is but wilderness. 

Forth, pilgrim! Forth, beast, out of thy stall I 
Look up on high, and thauk6 God of all. 

\Vaiv4^ thy lusts, and let thy ghost thee lead ; 

Aud Truth thee shall deliver, it is uo drede. 



©otucr. — Caibour. — Cjibgatc. 

Contemporary with Chaucer, but several years his 
junior, was John Gower (132.5-140S), a wealthy "es- 
quire" of Kent. The grave and sententious turn of his 
poetry won for him from Chaucer and others the appella- 
tion of tlie " Moral Gower," which has become almost a 
synoii}me for dulncss. He gives little evidence of the 
genuine atflatus. 

The Scottish poet, John Barbour, horn about the year 
1310, grew up in the midst of exciting political events. 
He was archdeacon of Aberdeen, and in 137.5, when Rob- 
ert ni. had been king five years, he was occupied iu writ- 
ing a metrical history, c.illed "The Bruce," of Robert I. 
It is in the octosyllabic rhymed couplet of the old ro- 
mances, and is ranked as authentic history. 

The most notable of Chaucer's younger contempora- 
ries was John Lydgate (13T3-14C0). He was named from 
his birth in Sutfolk, at the village of Lydgate, and became 
a Benedictine monk. His "Ballad of London Lyckpen- 
ny," relating the ill success of a poor countrymau iu the 
London Courts of Law, is a remarkable specimen of hu- 
morous verse. Both Gray and Coleridge seem to have 
been impressed by the merits of Lydgate. 



MEDEA GATHERING HERBS. 

Gower. 
Thus it fell upon a night, 
When there was naught but starrie light, 
She was vanished right as she list. 
That no wight but herself wist, 
Aud that was at midnight tide. 
The world was still on every side. 
With open hand and foot all bare ; 
Her hair too spread, she 'gau to fare ; 
Upon her clothfe girt she was. 
And spechelcss, upon the gra.ss, 
She glode forth, as an adder doth. 



FREEDOM. 

Bakuour. 
Ah, Freedom is a nolde thing ! 
Freedom makes man to have liking f 



' Cheerfulness, 



2 Cast away. 



3 Enjoyment. 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BEITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



FreecTom all solace to man gives ; 
He lives at ease that freely lives ! 
A noble heart may have naue ease, 
Ne ellis nocht' that may liira please, 
Gif freedom failetli ; for free liking 
Is yearned" o'er all other thing ; 
Nor he that aye has lived free 
May nocht know well the property,' 
The anger, ne the wretched doom 
That is coiiplit to foul thirldom. 
But, gif he had assayed it. 
Then all perqnere'' he should it wit. 
And should think freedom mair to prize 
Thau all the gold in the warld that is. 



FEOM THE BALLAD OF '-LONDON LYCK- 
PENNY." 

Lydg.vxe. 

To Loudon once my steps I bent. 

Where truth in nowise should be faint; 

To Westminster-ward I forthwith went. 
To a Man of Law to make complaint, 
I said, "For Mary's love, that holy saint. 
Pity the poor that would iiroceed !" 
But for lack of Moucy I could not speed. 

And as I thrust the press among. 

By froward chance my hood was gone, 

Yet for all that I stayed not long 
Till to the King's Bench I was come. 
Before the Judge I kneeled anon, 
And prayed him for God's sake take heed. 
But for lack of Money I might not speed. 

Beneath them sat Clerks a great rout. 
Which fast did write by one assent ; 

There stood up one and cried about 
"Richard, Robert, and Jolm of Kent!" 
I wist not well what this man meant, 
He cried so thickly there indeed. 
But he that lacked Money might not speed. 

Unto the Common Pleas I yode^ tho, 
WluTe sat one with a silken hood ;° 

I tlid him reverence, for I ought to do so, 
And told my case as well as I conld. 
How ray goods were defrauded me by falsehood. 



1 Nor anything else. 
3 The kind of cxisteuce. 
' Went. 



Desired. 

Perfectly. 

B.adge of a 6erge(iut-at-law. 



I got not a mum of his mouth for my lueed. 
And for lack of Money I might not speed. 

Unto the Rolls I gat me from thence. 
Before the clerkes of the Chaucerie, 

Where many I found earuing of peuee, 
But none at all ouce regarded me. 
I gave them my plaint ui>on my kuee ; 
They liked it well when they had it read, 
But lacking Money I could not be sped. 

lu Westminster Hall I fouud out one 

Whicli went in a long gown of ray;' 
I crouched and kneeled before him ; anou. 

For Mary's love, for help I him jiray. 

"I wot not what thou meau'st," gau he say; 

To get me thence he did mo bedc ; 

For lack of Money I could not speed. 

Within this Hall, neitlier rich nor yet i)oor 

Would do for me aught although I should die : 

Which seeing, I got me out of the door 
Where Flemings began ou me for to cry, 
"Master, what will you copen^ or buy? 
Fine felt hats, or spectacles to read ? 
Lay down your silver, and here you may speed." 

Then I conveyed mc into Kent ; 

For of the law would I meddle no more. 

Because no man to mo took intent, 
I dight me to do as I did before. 
Now Jesus, tliat in Bethlehem was bore. 
Save Loudon, and send true lawyers their meed I 
For wlioso wants Money with them shall not 
speed. 

ilames 5. of Scotlanii. 

This Scottish prince (1394-1437) was intercepted at 
sea, and made prisoner by Henry IV. in 140.5. Durinj;' 
his captivity he produced one of the most graceful poems 
that exist in old English. The "King's Quhair" (tliatis, 
quire, or little book) has for its main incident the discov- 
ery of a lady walking in the prison garden, to whom lie 
becomes attached. This beauty is supposed to have been 
Lady J.ine Beaufort, who became his wife, and eventually 
Queen of Scotland, and mother of the royal line of the 
subseciueut Stuarts. King James returned to Scotland 
after the death of Henry V.,was crowned at Scone in 
1434, and was for twelve years a wise ruler, endeavoring 
to establish law and order among turbulent nobles, aud 
to assure the rights and liberties of his people; but his 
firm upholding of justice led to his assassiuatiou at Perth 
in 1437. 

' A r.iyed or striped cloth. = (Dutch "kooiien"),bny. 



ROBERT UENRTSOX. 



THE CAPTIVE KING. 

Wliorcaa in ward fall oft I would bewail 
My deadly life, full of paiu aud penance, 

Saying right tbus, '■ What liave I guilt' to fiil 
My froedoui iu this world, aud luy pleasauce ? 
Siu every wight has thereof suffisauce 

That I behold, aud I a creiiture 

Put from all this, hard is ruiue aveiiture! 

'•The bird, the beast, the fish eke in the sea. 
They live iu fiecdoui, ever}- iu his kind, 

Aud I a man, aud lacketh liberty ; 

What shall I sayn, what reason may I find, 
Tliat Fortune should do sof" Thus iu my mind 

My folk^ I would argiie, but all for nought ; 

Was none that might that on my paines rought!' 



Hobcrt (^tni'Mson. 



Henryson (cinn 1425-1507) was the oldest of an im- 
portant group of Seottisli poets, who, at the close of the 
tiftcentli :uid beginning of the sixteenth centuries, *' were 
tilling the North country with music." Admitted iu 
1403 to the newly-founded University of Glasgow, he be- 
came notary public and school-m.ister at Dunfermline. 
In his lifetime the iirt of printing first came into use in 
Enillnnd. He was a writer of ballads ; and his "Robin 
and Mawkiu" is one of the best early specimens of pas- 
toral verse. He also wrote a metrical version of ..Esop's 
Fables. 



A VISION OF ^SOP. 

In mids of June, that jolly sweet seasouu, 

When that fair Phoebus with his beam^s bricht 

Had dryit up the dew frao dale aud down, 
And all the land made with his gleaui^s licht. 
In ane morning, betwixt mid-day and uicht, 

I rase, aud jmt all sloth and sleep aside, 

.\nd to a wood I went alone, but guide.* 

Sweet was the smell of flowers white aud red, 
The noise of bird^s richt delicious ; 

The bonghi^s bloomed broad above my head. 
The ground growaud with gersses gracious: 
Of all pleasauee that place wers plenteous, 

With sweet odors and birdes harmony. 

The morning mild, my mirth was mair forthy.' 



> Dune guilty. a My nttendants. 

3 Th:it if, "No one tnnk pity on my suffeiiii^'s." Itought, 
|):i«t tense uf rue, in care for. 
• Without a guide. 6 Therefore. 



Me to conserve then frae the sunnds heat, 

Under the shadow of ane hawthorn green 
I leanit down amaug the flowers sweet ; 

Syne cled my head aud closed baitli my een. 

On sleep I fall amaug these bonghds been ; 
And, in my dream, methocht come through the 

shaw 
The fairest man that ever before I saw. 

His gown was of ane elaith as white as milk. 
His chimeris' was of chambelote purple-browu : 

Plis hood of scarlet bordered weel with silk, 
Unheckdd-wise,'' untill his girdle doun ; 
His bonnet round aud of the anld fiissoun ; 

His beard was white, his ecu was great and grey, 

With locker' hair, whilk over his shoulders lay. 

Ane roll of paper iu his hand he bare. 
Alio swan6s pen stickaud under his ear, 

Ane ink-horn, with ane pretty gilt peunair,' 
Ane bag of silk, all at his belt did bear; 
Thus was he goodly graithit' iu his gear. 

Of stature large, and with a fearfuU face, 

Even where I lay he come ane sturdy pace; 

And said, "God speed, my son;" and I w.as fain 
Of that couth word, ami of his company. 

With reverence I saluted him again, 

" Welcome, father ;" and lie sat down mo by. 
"Displease you nocht, my good raaister, though I 

Demand your birth, your faculty, aud uanie, 

Why ye come here, or where ye dwell at hamo ?" 

"My sou," said he, "I am of gentle blood. 
My uative land is Kome withouteu nay ; 

And iu that town first to the schools I gaed, 
III civil law studied full many a day, 
Aud now my wouniug' is in heaven for aye. 

^Esop I hecht ;' my writing and my wark 

Is couth' and kend" to moiiy a cunning clerk." 

"O maister .Ssop, poet laureate! 

God wot ye are full dear welcome to me ; 

Are ye nocht he that all those Fables wrate 
Which, in eft'ect, suppose they feigndd be. 
Are full of prudence aud morality ?" 

"Fair son," said he, "I am the sauiiu man." 

God wot gif" that my heart was merry than. 



' Sliort li,2:ht gown. 

^ Arrjyed. 
' Am Ciilled. 



- Uiifasteued-wiee. 
* Pen-holder. 
« Dwelling. 
^ Known. 



Known (other form of same verb). '» God knows if. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICA}f POETRY. 



Sir ii[l)oinas lUjiatt. 

Among the piincipal successors of Uenryson were Wil- 
liam Dunbar (circa 14C0-15-'0|, Jobn Skeltou (1400?-1539), 
(iavin Douglas ( 1475 - 15:.'2 ), Sir David Ljndsay (1490- 
1557), and Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542), who translated 
many of the Sonnets of Petrarch. He became M.A. of 
Cambridge at seventeen ; was made a gentleman of King 
Henry VIII. *s bedchamber; was knighted in 1537; and 
went as ambassador to the Emperor Charles V. in Spain. 
In the winter of 1540-'41 he was in tlie Tower, cliarged 
with treasonable correspondence with Cardinal Pole. 
Acquitted in 1541, he was again befriended by the king; 
but in the autumn of 1543 he died of a fever, caught in 
riding fast through bad weather to meet au ambassador 
from Charles V. 



PLEASURE MIXED WITH PAIN. 
.Venomou,s thorns that are so sharp and keen 

Bear llowers, we see, full fresh ami fair of hue. 
Poisou is also imt in medicine, 

And unto man his health doth oft renew. 
The tire that all things eke coiisnnieth clean 

May hurt and heal ; then if that this bo true, 
I trust sometime my harm may be my liealtli, 
Siuce every woe is joined with some wealth. 



OF DISSEMBLING WORDS. 
Tlironghout the world, if it were sought, 

Fair words enough a man shall find: 
Tliey be good cheap; they cost right nought; 

Their substance is but only wind. 
But well to say, and so to mean, 
That sweet accord is seldom seen. 



FREE AT LAST. 
Tangled I was in Loves snare. 
Oppressed with pain, torment with care, 
Of grief right sure, of joy full bare. 

Clean in despair by cruelty : 
But ha! ha! lia! full well is nie. 

For I am now at liberty. 

The woful days so full of pain. 
The weary night all spent iu vain. 
The labor lost for so small gain, 

To write them all it will not be : 
But ha! ha! ha! full well is me, 

For I am now at liberty. 
* # * # # 

With feigned words which were but wind, 
To long delays I was assigned ; 



Her wily looks my w its did blind ; 

Tims as she would I did agree: 
But ha! ha! ha! full well is me. 

For I am now at liberty. 

Was never bird tangled iu lime 
That brake away iu better time 
Thau I, that rotteu boughs did climb. 

And had no hurt, but scaped free: 
Now Iia! ha! ha! full well is me. 

For I am now at libertv. 



l)cnrji C)Ott)iavLi, (Ptavl of Surrcn. 

The son of the Duke of Norfolk, the victor of Flodden 
in 1513, Henry Howard (circa 1517-1.546), was from his 
youtli associated with the Court of Henry VIII. in the 
capacity of companion to the Duke of Richmond, a nat- 
ural son of that prince. He was subsequently employed 
in high military commands. But the whole family of 
Howard fell under Henry's hatred, after the execution of 
Queen Catharine, Surrey's sister. He and his father wcrv 
tlirown into the Tower, and eondcnuied on frivolous ac- 
cusations. He was executed in 1.546, the warrant for his 
death being one of the latest signed by Henry VIII., 
then upon his deatli-bed. Surrey was the first translator 
in blank verse of tlie .^neid of Virgil ; he likewise intro- 
duced the Petrarchan sonnet into English literature. 



HOW NO AGE IS CONTENT. 

Laid in my quiet bed, 

In study as I were, 
I saw within my troubled bead 

A heap of thoughts appear; 
And every thought did show 

So lively iu niiue eyes, 
That now I sighed, and then I smiled, 

As cause of thought did rise. 

I saw- the Jittle boy. 

In thought how oft that he 
Did wish of God to 'scape the rod, 

A tall young uiau to be : 
The young mau eke, that feels 

His bones with pains opprest, 
How he would be a rich old man. 

To live and lie at rest. 

The rich old mau that sees 

His cud draw on so sore, 
How he would bo a boy again, 

To live so much tho more ; 



TBOilAS, LORD VAUX.—ANNE ASKEW. 



Whereat full oft I smiled, 
To see how all these three, 

From hoy to man, from mau to boy, 
Would chop and chauge degree. 

And musing thus, I think 
The case is very strange, 

Tliat mau from weal to live iu woo 
Doth ever seek to chauge. 



Whereat I sighed and said : 

"Farewell, my wouted joy; 
Truss up thy pack, and trudge from me 

To every little boy ; 
And tell them thus from me, 

Their time most happy is. 
If, to their time, they reasou had 

To know the truth of this." 



itijoinas, Cori) llaiu-. 

Thomas, Lord Vaux (ciVc-u 1510-15.57) of HaiTOwden, 
in Northiimptoushirc, was Captain of the Isle of Jersey 
imder Henry VIII. Tlic following lines were tirst print- 
ed in "The Paradise of Dainty Deviecs," 1576. In neat- 
ness and literary skill they are far above most of the 
contemporary productions. 



OF A CONTENTED MIND. 

When all is done and said, 

Iu the end thus shall you find. 
He most of all doth bathe in bliss, 

That hath a quiet mind; 
Aud, clear from worldly cares. 

To deem cau be content 
The sweetest time iu all his life, 

In thinking to be speut. 

The body subject is 

To fickle Fortune's power. 
And to a million of mishaps 

Is casual every hour : 
Aud Death in time doth chauge 

It to a clod of clay ; 
When as the mind, which is divine, 

Runs never to decay. 

Companion none is like 
Unto the mind alone ; 



For many have been harmed \>y speech. 
Through thinking, few or none. 

Fear oftentimes restraineth words, 
But makes not thought to cease ; 

Aud he si>eaks best that hath the skill 
Wheu for to hold his peace. 

Our wealth leaves us at death ; 

Our kinsmen at the grave ; 
But virtues of the miud unto 

The heavens with us we have. 
Wherefore, for virtue's sake, 

I cau be well content. 
The sweetest time of all my life 

To deem in thinking spent. 



vlnne 3skcui. 

If her poetry be not of the first order, Anne Askew 
(burned at the stake, 1546) deserves to be enrolled amoui;- 
the poets for showing tliat she could practise, in a heroic 
death, wliat she had preached iu verse. She was cruelly 
toi'tured by the minions of Henry VIII. for denying the 
real presence in the eucharist. Prevailed on by Bonner's 
menaces to make a seeming recantation, she qualified it 
with some reserves, which did not satisfy that zealous 
prelate. She was thrown into Newgate, and there wrote 
her poem of " The Fight of Faith." She was condemned 
to be burned alive ; but being so dislocated by the rack 
that she could not stand, she was carried to the stake in 
a chair, and there burned. Pardon had been offered her 
if she would recant ; this she refused, and submitted to 
her fate with the utmost intrepidity. 



FROM "THE FIGHT OF FAITH." 

Like as the arm^d knight, 

Appointed to the field. 
With this world will I fight. 

And faith shall he my shield. 

Faith is that weapon strong. 
Which will not fail at need ; 

My foes therefore among 
Therewith will I proceed. 

Thou sayst. Lord, whoso knock. 
To them wilt thou attend. 

Undo, therefore, the lock, 
And thy strong power send. 

More enemies now I have 
Thau hairs uiiou my head ; 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BKITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Lot them not mo deprave, 
But ligbt thou iu my stead. 

Not oft I use to writo 

In inose, uor yet iu rhyme; 

Yet will I show one sight, 
That I saw iu my time : 

I saw a royal throne, 

Where Justice should have sit ; 
But iu her stead was one 

Of moody, cruel wit. 

Absorpt was rightwisness, 
As by the raging flood ; 

Satan, iu his excess. 

Sucked up the guiltless blood. 

Then thought I, — Jesus, Lord, 
When thou shalt judge us all. 

Hard is it to rect>r(l 

On these men what will fall! 

Yet, Lord, I thee desire, 
For that they do to me. 

Let them not taste the biro 
Of their iniquity. 



Sir ([rbiuorb Dncr. 

Born in the reigu of Henry VIII. {clvca 1.540-1607), Dyer 
livctl till some ycai's after King James's aocessiou to tlie 
English throne. He was a friend of Sir Plnliii Sidney, 
wlio, in his verses, celebrates their intimacy. Dyer was 
educated at Oxford, and was employed in several foreign 
embassies by Elizabeth. He studied elieniistry, and was 
thought to bo a Rosicrueiau. Pnttenham, in his "Art 
of English Poesie" (1589), commends "Master Edward 
Dyer for elegy most sweet, solemn, aiul of high conceit." 
The popular poem, " My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is," 
with additions, is credited in some collections to William 
Byrd (1543-1023), an eminent composer of sacred music, 
lud who published in 1588 a volume of "Psalms, Son- 
nets," etc. Botli Byrd and Josliaa Sylvester seem to 
iiave laid claim to the best parts of Dyer's poem. A col- 
lection of Dyer's writings was printed as late as 1872. 



MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS. 

My mind to me a Ivingdom is! 

Such iH'eseut joys therein I find. 
That it excels all otlicr bliss 

That earth afl'ords or grows Ijy kind: 



Thongh nnieh I want which nuist would have, 
Tet still my min<l forbids to crave. 

No princely jiomp, no wealthy store, 

No force to win tlio victory, 
No w-ily wit to salvo a sore. 

No shape to feed a loving eye ; 
To none of these I yield as thrall: 
For why, my mind doth servo for all. 

I see Low plenty surfeits off. 

And hasty climbers soon do fall; 
I see that those which are aloft, 

Mish.ap doth thi-eaten most of .all ; 
These get witli toil, they keep with fear: 
Such cares my mind could never bear. 

Coutent I live, this is my stay; 

I seek no more than may sufticc ; 
I press to bear no haughty sway ; 

Look, what I lack my mind sui^dies: 
Lo, thus I triumph like a king, 
Couteut with that my mind doth bring. 

Some have too much, yet still do crave: 

I little have, and seek no more. 
They are but poor, thongh unicli they have, 

And I am rich with little store: 
They poor, I rich ; they beg, I give ; 
They lack, I leave ; they pine, I live. 

I laugh not at another's loss; 

I grndgo not at another's gain ; 
No woiddly waves my mind can toss; 

My state at one doth still reniaiu : 
I fear no foe, I fawn no friend ; 
I loathe not life, uor dread my end. 

Some weigh their pleasnre bj' their lust, 
Tlieir wisdom by their rago of will; 

Their treasure is their only trust, 
A cloak(5d craft' their store of skill : 

But all the pleasnre that I find 

Is to maintain a ((uiet miud. 

My wealth is health and perfect ease; 

My conscience clear my chief defense : 
I neither seek by bribes to please, 

Nor by deceit to breed ofl'euse: 
Thus do I live, thus will I die; 
Would all did so, as well as I! 



^ A hidden craftiuess. 



GEORGE GASCOIGNE.— EDMUND SFEXSER. 



©corgc (Pascoignc. 



Gascoigne (circa 1535-1577), besides being notable as 
one of llie earliest Englisb dramatists, was one of tbe 
earliest writers of Eiiglisli blank verse. He was a native 
of Essex, became a lawyer, was disinlieritcd by bis fatber, 
took foreign military service in Holland under tbe Prince 
of Orange, and displayed great bravery in action. His 
best known work is " Tlie Steel Glass," a satire iu rather 
formal blank verse. 



THE LULLABY. 

Sins; lullabies, as women do, 

With which they charm their babes to rest; 
And lullaby can I sing too, 

As womanly as can the best. 
With lullaby they still the cbild, 
And, if I be not much beguiled, 
Full many sranton babes have I 
Which must be stilled with lullaby. 

First Inllaby my youthful years, 

It is now time to go to bed ; 
For crooked age and hoary hairs 

Have wore the haven within mine head. 
With lullaby, then. Youth, bo still. 
With Inllaby content thy will; 
Since courage quails and comes behind. 
Go sleep, and so beguile tliy mind. 

Next lullaby my gazing Eyes, 

Which wonted were to glance ap.iee ; 

For every glass maj' now suffice 
To show the furrows iu my face. 

With lullaby, then, wink awhile ; 

With lullaby your looks beguile ; 

Let no fair face or beauty bright 

Entice you eft' with vain delight. 

And Inllaby my wanton Will, 

Let Reason's rule now rein thy thought. 
Since all too late I fiud by skill 

How dear I have thy fancies bought. 
With lullaby now take thine ease. 
With lullaby tliy doubt appease ; 
For, trust iu this, if thou be still. 
My body shall obey thy will. 

Til us lull.aby, my Youth, mine Eyes, 
My Will, my ware and all that was; 

I can no more delays devise. 

But welcome pain, let pleasure pass. 

- Ag.iin. 



With lullaby now take your leave, 
With lullaby your dreams deceive: 
And when you rise with waking eye, 
Remember then this lullaby. 



€bmunb S|3cnscr. 



The circumstances which prevent our reading Chaucer 
with that facility which is indispensable to pleasure, 
arise from the time in which he lived. But a poet of 
far greater genius, not more than ten years older than 
Sliakspeare, and who lived when English literature had 
passed into its modern form, deliberately chose, by adopt- 
ing Chaucer's obsolete language, to place similar obsta- 
cles in the way of studying bis works. 

Edmund Spenser (chx-a 1553-1599), the son of a gen- 
tleman of good family, but of small estate, was a native 
of London. Educated at Cambridge, he began, almost 
from the moment of his leaving tlit university, to pub- 
lish poems. His lirst book, " The Shepherd's Calendar," 
helped to popularize pastoral poetry in England. His 
sonnets are still among the best iu the langnage. The 
patronage of Sidney and the friendship of the Earl of 
Leicester obtained for him tbe appointment of Secretary 
to Grey, Lord-lieutenant of Ireland. Thus he was fated 
to spend many years of his life iu Ireland, in various of- 
ficial posts, among a race of people with whom he had 
but few interests in common. Not the romantic beau- 
ty of Kilcolman Castle, iu County Cork, with its three 
thousand surrounding acres of forfeited lands of the 
Earls of Desmond, granted to him by Queen Elizabeth, 
could compensate the poet for the loss of more familiar 
if less lovely English scenes ; and a prevailing melan- 
choly and discontent m.ay be observed in most of his 
allusions to his own Ufe-story. 

In 1590 Sir Walter R.ileigh persuaded him to accom- 
pany him to England, and presented him to Queen Eliz- 
alieth,wbo accepted the dedication of that marvellously 
heautiful poem, "The Faery Queene," of which the first 
three books were just finished. During a second visit 
to London, in 1595, the fourth, fifth, and sixth books 
were published, together with a re-issue of tlic preceding 
books. Of the remaining sis books needed to complete 
tbe work, only one canto and a fragment of another 
canto exist. 

Spenser bad long been on ill terms with his Irish 
neighbors. In those days Ireland was not a residence 
propitious for a literary student in quest of tranquillity. 
In 1598 insurrections broke out, and as Spenser was 
Sbcriff of tbe County of Cork for that year, bo was ren- 
dered oy his office a conspicuous mark for the enmity 
of the insurgents. They attacked and burned Kilcol- 
man, and his infant child perished in the flames. These 
were evils too terrible to bo borne by one of Spensei''s 
sensitive temperament. He returned to England, and 
at the beginning of the next year died of a broken heart, 
and in extreme indigence. 

Of Spenser, as a poet, Campbell says : " We shall no- 
where find more airy and expansive images of visionary 
things, a sweeter tone of sentiment, or a finer flush ia 



10 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



tbe colors of language, than in this Rubens of Englisli 
poetry. Tliougli his story grows desultory, tlie sweet- 
ness and grace of his manner still abide by him. He 
is like a spealier whose tones continue to be pleasing 
though he spealc too long." 



FROM "THE EPITHALAMION." 

This pure and noble sponsal tribute, the most remarkable in 
tbe hinguage, was written by Spenser to welcome his own l)ride 
to his Irish home. It places him among tl>e first of lyric poets. 



Wake now, my Love, awake ; for it is time ! 
The rosy moru long since left Titbon's bed, 
All ready to her silver coach to climb, 
And Pha'bus 'gins to show liis glorious lie.ad. 
Hark bow the cheerful birds do chant their lays, 

And carol of Love's praise ! 
The merry lark her matins sings aloft, 
The thrush replies, the mavis descant plays, 
The onsel shrills, the ruddock' warbles soft; 
So goodly all agree, with sweet consent. 

To this day's merriment. 
All! my dear Love, why do ye sleep thus long. 
When nieeter were that ye should now awake, 
T' await the coming of your joyous make. 
And hearken to the birds' love-learn(5d song 

Tbe dewy leaves among ? 
For tliey of joy and pleasance to you sing. 
That all the woods them answer, and their echo 
ring. 

My Love is now awake out of her dreams. 
And her fair eyes, like stars that dimmed were 
With darksome cloud, now show their goodly 

beams. 
More bright than Hesperus his head doth rear. 
Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight, 

Help quickly her to diglit : 
But first come ye fair Hours," which were begot, 
III Jove's sweet paradise, of day and night ; 
Which do the seasons of the year allot, 
And all that ever in this world is fair 

Do make and still repair. 
And ye three handmaids of tbe Cyprian queen," 
The whicli do still adoru her beauty's pride, 
Help to adorn my beautifnllest bride ; 
And as ye her array, still throw between 

Some graces to be seen : 

' Redbreast. Fh-st Engbsh " rnddnc,"frnm "rndc,"rcd. 

5 Goddesj^es of the changing seasons of the year or d;iy. In 
Greek mythology they were thl-ee — Eauomia, Good Order; 
Dikt', Nalnral .Justice ; and Eirene, Peace. 

' The Graces— Aglaia, Radiant Beauty ; Euphrosyne, Cheer- 
ful Sense ; Thalia, Abounding Joy. 



And as ye use to Venus, to her sing, 
The whiles the woods shall answer, and your echo 
ring. 

Now is my Love all ready forth to come. 
Let all tbe virgins therefore well await ; 
And ye fresh boys that tend upon her groom, 
Prepare yourselves, for he is coming strait. 
Set all your things in seemly good array, 

Fit for so joyful day : 
The joyful'st day that ever sun did see ! 
Fair Sun, shew forth thy favorable ray, 
And let thy lifcful heat not fervent be, 
For fear of burning her sunshiny face. 

Her beauty to disgrace. 
O fairest Phoebus, father of the Muse, 
If ever I did honor thee aright. 
Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight. 
Do not thy servant's simple boon refuse, 
But let this day, let this one day be mine. 

Let all the rest be thine! 
Then I thy sovereign praises loud will sing, 
That all tbe woods shall answer, and their echo 



Hark ! How the minstrels 'giu to shrill aloud 
Their merry music that resounds from far, 
The pipe, the tabor, and tbe trembling croud. 
That well agree withouten breach or jar. 
But most of all tbe damsels do delight 

When the}' their timbrels smite, 
And thereunto do dance and carol sweet, 
That all the senses they do ravish quite; 
The whiles the boys run up and down the street. 
Crying aloud with strong coufus&l noise, 

As if it were one voice : 
"Hymen, lo Hymen, Hymen," they do shout. 
That even to the heavens their shout itig shrill 
Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill; 
To which the people standing all about, 
As ill approvanCe do thereto applaud. 

And loud advance her laud. 
And evermore they " Hymen, Hymen" sing. 
That all the woods them answer, and their echo 
ring. 

Lo! where she comes along with portly' pace, 
Like Plnebe,- from her cb.aniber of the east. 
Arising forth to run her mighty race. 
Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best. 

' Of good carriage. 

2 A name of Diana, sister of Phffibns : the Mocm, sister of the 
Sun. The word means "the pare shining one." 



EDMUND SPENSER. 



11 



So well it her beseems, that ye would weeu 

Some angel she had been ; 
Her long loose yellow locks like golden wire, 
Sprinkled with peari, and pcariing flowers atween, 
Do like a golden mantle her attire, 
And being crowudd with a garland green, 

Seem like some maiden cineen. 
Her modest eyes abashed to behold 
So many gazers as ou her do stare. 
Upon the lowly ground affixed are : 
Nc dare lift up her countenance too bold, 
But blush to hear her praises sung so loud, 

So far from being inond. 
Nathless do yo still loud her praises sing, 
That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. 

Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see 
So fair a creature in your town before? 
So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she. 
Adorned with beauty's grace and virtue's store ? 

* * # *f if * 

But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, 
The inward beauty of her lively spriglit, 
Garnished with heavenly gifts of high degree. 
Much more then would ye wonder at that siglit, 
And stand astonished, like to those which red' 

Medusa's mazeful head. 
Tliere dwells sweet Love and constant Chastity, 
I'nspotted Faith, and comely Womanhood, 
Regard of Honor, and mild Modesty ; 
Tliere Virtue reigns as queen in royal throne, 

And giveth laws alone, 
The which the base affections do obey, 
And yield their services unto her will ; 
Ne thought of things uncomely ever may 
Thereto approach to tempt her mind to ill. 
Had ye once seen these her celestial treasures, 

And unreveal^d pleasures, 
Tlien would ye wonder, and her praises sing, 
Tbat all the woods should answer, and your echo 
ring. 

Open the temple-gates nnto my Love, 
Open them wide, that she may enter in, 
Ami all the posts adorn as doth behove. 
And all the pillars deck with garlands trim. 
For to receive this saint with honor due, 

That Cometh in to yon. 
With trembling steps and humble reverence 
She Cometh in, before th' Almighty's view : 
Of her, ye virgins, learn obedience, 

' Saw. 



Whenso yo come into those holy places, 

To humble yonr proud faces. 
Bring her up to th' high altar, that she may 
The sacred ceremonies there partake. 
The which do endless matrimony make: 
And let the roariug organs loudly play 
The praises of the Lord in lively notes; 

The whiles, with hollow throats. 
The choristers the joyous anthem sing. 
That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring. 

Behold, whiles she before the altar stands. 
Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks 
And blesses her with his two h.appy hands. 
How the red roses flush up in lier cheeks. 
And the pure snow with goodly vermeil stain. 

Like crimson dyed in grain : 
That even the angels, which continually 
About the sacred altar do remain. 
Forget their service and about her fly. 
Oft peeping In her face, that seems more fair 

The more they on it stare ! 
But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground. 
Are governed with goodly modesty 
Til at sufl'ers not one look to glance awry, 
Which may let in a little thought unsound. 
Why blush ye. Love, to give to me your hand, 

The pledge of all our band ? 
Sing, ye sweet angels, AUelnya sing. 
That all the woods may answer, and your echo 
ring. 



UNA AND THE LION. 

From the " Faery Qdeene," Book I., Canto III. 

One day, nigh weary of the irksome way. 

From her unhasty beast she did aliglit ; 

And on the grass her dainty limbs did lay 

In secret shadow, far from all men's sight ; 

From her fair head her fillet she undight. 

And laid her stole aside : her angel's face. 

As the great eye of Heaven, shiudd bright, 

And made a sunshine in the shady place ; 

Did never mortal eye behold such heavenly grace : 

It fortnui5d, out of the thickest wood 

A ramping lion rushed suddenly. 

Hunting full greedy after salvage blood : 

Soon as the royal virgin he did spy, 

With gaping mouth at her ran greedily. 

To have at once devoured her tender corse :' 

' Cors'. is often applied to the liviog body. 



12 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BUITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



But to the prey whcu as lie drew more iiigb, 

His l)lootIy rage assuaged with remorse, 

And, with the sight amazed, forgat his furious force. 

Instead thei-eof he kissed her weary feet, 
And licked her lily hands ivith fawning tougne ; 
As lie her wronged innocence did weet.' 
Oh, how can beauty master the most strong, 
And simple truth subdue avenging wrong ! 
Whose yielded pride and proud submission. 
Still dreading death, when she had marked long. 
Her heart 'gan melt in great compassion ; ». 
And drizzling tears did shed for pure affection. 

" The lion, lord of every beast in field," 

Quoth she, '■ his jirinccly puissance doth abate. 

And mighty proud to humble weak does yield. 

Forgetful of the liuugiy rage, which late 

Him pricked, iu jiity of my sad estate: — 

But he, my lion, and my noble loid,^ 

How does he find in cruel heart to hate 

Her, that him loved, and ever most adored 

As the god of my life ? why hath he mo abhorred ?'' 

Redounding tears did choke th' en<l of her plaint, 
AVhich softly echoed from tlie neighbor Avood; 
And, sad to see her sorrowful constraint, 
The kingly beast upon her gazing stood ; 
With pity calmed, down fell his angry mood. 
At last, ill clo.se heart shutting up her ))ain. 
Arose the virgin born' of heavenly brood. 
And to her snowy p.alfrey got again. 
To seek her strayed champion if slje ndght attain. 

The lion would not leave her desolate, 

But with her went along, as a strong guard 

Of her chaste person, and a, faithful mate 

Of her sad troubles and misfcu'tnnes hard : 

Still, when she slept, he kept lioth watch and ward ; 

And, when she waked, ho waited diligent. 

With humble service to her will prepared : 

From her fair eyes ho took conimaiul<^nu'nt. 

And ever by her looks conceived her intent. 



PRINCE ARTHUR. 

liooK I., Canto VII. 

At last she ehancijd by good hap to meet 
A goodly knight, fair marching by the way, 

• Perceive. 

^ Ttie Ked Cross Kniirht (Ilnlinese) hi\d been seduced from 
lier side by the \vitcli Diie.'sn (F;ilsehood), 



Together with his squire, arrayed meet : 
His glitteriug armor shiu^d far away, 
Like glancing light of Phcebus brightest ray ; 
From top to too no place appeart^d bare. 
That deadly dint of steel endanger may: 
Athwart his breast a bauldrick brave he ware. 
That shined, like twinkling stars, with stones most 
precious rare. 

And, in the midst thereof, one precious stone 
Of wondrous worth, and eke of wondrous mights, 
Shaped like a lady's head, exceeding shone, 
Like Hesperus amongst the lesser lights, 
And strove for to amaze the weaker sights : 
Thereby his mortal blade full comely hung 
In ivory sheath, y-carved with curious slights,' 
Whose hilts were burnished gold; aud handle strong 
Of mother-pearl, and buckled with a golden tongue. 

His haughty helmet, horrid all Avith gold, 
Both glorious brightness and great terror bled : 
For all the crest a dragon did enfold 
With greedy iiaws, and over all did spread 
His golden wings; his dreadful hideous Iwad, 
Close couched on the be.aver,'' scenic d to throw 
From tlamiug mouth bright sparkles fiery red. 
That sudden horror to faint hearts did show; 
And scaly tail was stretched adown his back full 
low. 

Upon the top of all his lofty crest, 

A bunch of hairs discolored diversely, 

With sprinkled jiearl and gold full richly dressed, 

Did shake, and seemed to dance for jollity ; 

Like to an almond-tree y-mounted high 

On top of green Selinis' all alone. 

With blossoms brave bedecked daintily ; 

Whose tender locks do tremble ev.ery one 

At every little breath th.at under heaven is blown. 

His warlike shield all closely covered was, 
No might of mortal eye be ever seen ; 
Not made of steel, nor of enduring brass 
(Such earthly metals soon consumed been). 
But all of diamond perfect, pure, and clean 
It framed was, one massy Entire mould. 
Hewn out of adamant rock with engines keen, 
That point of spear it never piercen could. 
No dint of direful sword divide the substance 
would. 

1 Devices. 

" The pnrt of n hohnet that covers the face. 

3 Seliuis, in Sicily. 



EDMrXD SPEXSEE. 



13 



Tlie same to ^vigbt be never vont tlisdosc, 
But wlieu as monsters huge lie would dismay, 
Or daunt unequal armies of bis foes, 
Or wbeu the tijiug beaveus be would affray: 
For so exceeding sboiie bis glistering ray, 
Tbat Phoebus' golden face bo did attaint,' 
As when a cloud bis beams doth overlay ; 
And silver C'yuthia \rcx<5d pale and faint. 
As when her face is stained with magic arts con- 
straint. 

No magic arts hereof had any might, 
Nor bloody words of bold enchanter's call ; 
But all tbat was not such as seemed in sight 
Before tbat shield did fade, and sudden fall ; 
And, when him list the rascal routs' appal, 
Men into stones therewith be could transmew,' 
And stones to dust, and dust to naught at all ; 
And, when him list the prouder looks subdue, 
He would them, gazing, blind, or turn to other hue. 



THE MINISTEY OF ANGELS. 
Book IL, Casto VIII. 

And is there care in heaven ? And is there love 
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, 
Tli.at may comiiassion of their evils move ? 
Tlicre is : — else much more wretched were the case 
Of men than beasts. Bnt oh ! tb' exceeding grace 
Of highest God, that loves his creatures so. 
And all his works with mercy doth embrace, 
That blessed angels be sends to and fro. 
To serve to wicked man, to servo bis wicked foe ! 

How oft do they their silver bowers leave 
To come to succor ns that succor want ! 
How oft do they with golden piuions cleave 
Tlie flitting skies, like tlying pursuivant, 
Against foul fiends to aid us militant ! 
Tlioy for us fight, tliey watch and duly ward. 
And their bright squadrons round about us plant; 
And all for love and nothing for reward : 
Ob, wliy should heavenly God to men have such 
regard ? 



FROM THE "HYMN IN HONOR OF BEAUTY." 

Tliereof it comes tbat tliese fair souls which have 
Tlie most resemblance of that heavenly light. 
Frame to themselves most beautiful aud brave 



* Obecnre. 



' The rabble. 



* Transmute. 



Their fleshly bower, most fit for their delight, 
And tlie gross matter by a soveraiu might 
Temjier so trim, tbat it may well be seen 
A iialace fit for such a virgin queen. 

So every spirit, as it is most pure. 

And bath in it the more of heavenly light, 

So it the fairer body dotli procure 

To habit in, aud it more fairly digbt 

With cheerful grace and amiable sight ; 

For of the sonl the body form doth take ; 

For soul is form, and doth the body make. 



EASTEK MORNING. 

Most glorious Lord of life, that on this day 

Didst make thy triumph over death aud sin, 

And, having harrowed hell, didst bring away 

Captivity thence captive, us to win ; 

Tills joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin, 

And grant that we, for whom thou diddest die, 

Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin. 

May live forever in felicitj- : 

And tbat thy love we weighing worthily 

May likewise love Thee for the same again : 

Aud for thy sake, that rfll like dear didst buy, 

With love may one another entertain. 

So let us love, dear Love, like as we ought ; 

Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught. 



MISERIES OF A COURT-LIFE. 

These lines, fr«im *' Mother Hubbard's Tnle," though not 
printed till 1561, seem to have refeieuce to that part of Spen- 
ser's life when he was a suitor for court favor. He here drops 
liis antique phraseology, and s'ves expression to earnest per- 
sonal feeling in the plain Ecglisii of his day. 

So pitiful a thing is Suitor's state ! 
Most miserable man, whom wicked Fate 
Hath brought to Court, to sue for "had I wist,"' 
Tbat few have fonud, and many one hath missed ! 
Full little knowest thou, tbat hast not tried, 
What hell it is in sueing long to bide ; 
To lose good days that might be better spent ; 
To waste long nights in pensive discontent ; 
To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow ; 
To feed on hope ; to jiine with fear and sorrow ; 
To have thy Prince's grace, yet want her Peers'; 
To have thy asking, yet wait many years ; 

' Interpreted to mean "patronage," from the customary ex- 
pression of patrons to their suitors, "Had I wist, I might have 
done so and so." 



14 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAX POETRY. 



To fret thy soul with crosses aud with cares; 
To eat thy heart throiigli comfortless despairs ; 
To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run. 
To speud, to give, to want, to he undone. 
Unhappy wight, horn to disastrous end, 
That dotli his life in so long tendance spend ! 
Whoever leaves sweet home, where mean estate 
In safe assurance, without strife or hate, 
Finds all things needful for contentment meek. 
And will to Court for shadows vaiu to seek, 
Or hope to gnin, himself will a daw try:' 
That curse God send unto mine eucmy ! 



Sir lHaltci- Ualcigl). 

Raleigh (bom 1553, beheaded 1G18) was nearly of like 
age with Spenser. There are forty short poems on mis- 
cellaneous subjects attributed, with tolerable certainty, 
to Raleigh. " The Nymph's Reply," sometimes placed 
among these, will be found hi this volume imder Mar- 
lowe. So small a quantity of verse cannot be regarded 
as adequately representing Raleigh's genius aud power 
in literature. His life was one of the busiest and fullest 
of results on record. From his youth he was a sailor, 
a warrior, and a courtier; but he was also a student. 
Aubrey relates that " he studied most In his sea-voyages, 
when he carried always a trunk of books along with him, 
aud hiid nothing to divert him." From the same source 
we learn that the compaulons of his youth "were bois- 
terous blades, but generally those that had wit." The 
famous Mermaid Club, frequented by Shakspeare, Ben 
Jouson, and the other wits of the day, was founded by 
Raleigh ; who, through his whole life, had a strong sym- 
pathy with literature and learning. His verses are vig- 
orous aud original, "full of splendid courage and a proud 
impetuosity." It is, however. In bis prose writings that 
we must look for the best evidence of his genius. 

Urged by the King of Spain to punish Raleigh for his 
attack on the town of St. Thomas, James I. basely re- 
solved to carry Into execution a sentence sixteen years 
old, which had been followed by an imprisonment of 
thirteen years, and then a release. So Ralclgli was 
brought up before the Court of King's Bench to receive 
sentence, and was beheaded the next morniug. The 
night before, the brave poet, looking at his candle as It 
was expiring in the socket, wrote this couplet : 

"Cowards fear to die; but convage stout, 
Eaiher than live in snuff, will be put out." 

The remarkable poem of "The Lie" is traced in man- 
uscript to 1.593. It exists in a MS. coUcetlou of poems 
in the British Museum of the date 1.59fi. It appeared In 
print with alterations, In "Davison's Poetical Rhapsody," 
second edition, 1608. J. Payne Collier (1807) claims It 
for Raleigh, resting his authority on a manuscript copy 



1 Will prove n jackdaw, a fool. 



"of the time," headed "Sir Walter Wrawly, his Lie." 
In this copy the first line is, 

"Heuce, soule, the bodie's guest." 

The poem has been assigned to Richard Barnfield ; also, 
by several recent authorities, to Joshua Sylvester, In the 
folio edition of whose works there Is an altered and in- 
ferior version, justly styled by Sir Egerton Brydges " a 
parody," and published under the title of "The Soul's 
Errand." It consists of twenty stanzas, all of four lines 
each, excepting the first stanza, which has six. "The 
Lie" consists of but thirteen stanzas, of six lines each. 
On Raleigh's side there Is good evidence besides the in- 
ternal proof, which is very strong. Two answers to the 
poem, written in his lifetime, ascribe it to him ; as do 
two manuscript copies of the period of Elizabeth. When 
and by whom it was first taken from Raleigh and given 
to Sylvester, with .an altered title, is still a matter of 
doubt ; and why Sylvester should have Incorporated Into 
his poem of "The Soul's Errand," six stanzas belonging 
to "The Lie," can be explained only by the laxity of the 
times In regard to literary property. The versions of 
this poem differ considerably. The title of "The Soul's 
Errand" is usually given to It. 



THE LIE. 

Go, soul, the hody's guest, 
Upon a thankless arrant :' 

Fear not to touch the best ; 

The truth shall be thy warrant : 

Go, since I needs must die, 

And give the world the lie. 

Say to the court, it glows 

And shines like rotten wood; 

Say to the chnrch, it shows 

What's good, and doth no good : 

If church and court reply. 

Then give them both the lie. 

Tell potentates, they live 
Acting by others' action ; 

Not loved unless they give. 
Not strong, but by a faction : 

If potentates reply. 

Give potentates the lie. 

Tell men of high condition, 
That rule .Tffairs of state, 

Their purpo.se is ambition, 
Their practice only hate: 

Aud if they once reply. 

Then give them all the lie. 

' Errand. 



SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 



15 



Tell them tbat brave it most, 
They beg for more by spending, 

Who, in tbc'ir greatest cost, 

Seeli nothing but commending : 

And if they make reply, 

Then give them all the lie. 

Tell zeal it lacks devotion ; 

Tell love it is but lust ; 
Tell time it is but motion; 

Tell flesh it is but dust : 
And wish them not reply. 
For thou must give the lie. 

Tell age it daily Tvasteth ; 

Tell honor how it alters ; 
Tell beauty how she blasteth ; 

Tell favor how it falters : ' 

And as they shall reply, 
Give every one the lie. 

Tell wit how much it wrangles 
In ticklo poiuts of niceness ; 

Tell wisdom she entangles 
Herself in over-wiseness : 

And when they do reply. 

Straight give them both the lie. 

Tell phj'sic of her boldness; 

Tell skill it is pretension ; 
Tell charity of coldness ; 

Tell law it is contention : 
And as they do reply. 
So give them still the lie. 

Tell foitnne of her blindness; 

Tell nature of decay ; 
Tell frieudship of nnkindness; 

Tell justice of delay: 
And if they will reply, 
Then give them all the lie. 

Tell arts they have no soundness, 

But vary by esteeming; 
Tell schools they want profoundness. 

And stand too much on seeming : 
If arts and schools reply, 
Give arts and schools the lie. 

Tell faith it's fled the city ; 

Tell how the country erreth^ 
Tell, manhood shakes off pity; 

Tell, virtue least preferreth; 



And if they do reply, 
Spare not to give the lie. 

So when thou hast, as I 

Commanded thee, done blabbiug,- 
Altliough to give the lie 

Deserves no less than stabbing ;— 
Yet stab at thee who will. 
No stab the soul cau kill. 



THE SILENT LOVER. 

Passions are likened best to floods and streams : 
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb ; 

So, when afliections yield discourse, it seems 
The bottom is but shallow whence they come. 

They that are rich in words, in words discover 

That they are poor in that which makes a lover. 

Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart, 

The merit of true passion. 
With thinking that he feels no smart 

That sues for no compassion; 

Since if my plaints serve not to approve 

The conquest of thy beauty. 
It conies not from defect of love, 

But from excess of duty. 

For knowing that I sue to serve 

A saint of such perfection. 
As all desire, but none deserve, 

A place in her affection, 

I rather choose to want relief 

Thau venture the revealing; 
Where glory recommends the grief, 

Despair distrusts the healing. 

Thus those desires that aim too high 

For any mortal lover. 
When reason cannot make them die, 

Discretion doth them cover. 

Yet, when discretion doth bereave 
The plaints that they should utter. 

Then thy discretion may perceive 
That silence is a suitor. 

Silence in love bewrays more woe 
Than words, though ne'er so witty : 



16 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



A beggar that is dumb, you kuow, 
May cballeuge double pity. 

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, 
My true, though secret, passion : 

He smarteth most that liides his smart. 
And sues for no compassion. 



MY PILGRIJIAGE. 

Supposed to hiive been written by Raleigb in 1603, iu tbe in- 
terval between his condemnation and his temporary respite. 
It manifests great mental e.xcitement; and alternates in rising 
to sublimity and sinking to bathos. There are several difl'er- 
ent versions of this estraordiuary prodactiou. 

Give mo my scallop-shell of quiet. 

My stati' of faith to wallj upon ; 
My scrip of joy, immortal diet; 

My bottle of salvation ; 
My gowu of glory, hope's true gauge, 
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage! 
Blood must bo my body's balraer. 

No other balm will there be given ; 
Whilst my soul, like quiet palitier, 

Travelleth towards the laud of Heaven ; 
Over the silver mountaius 
Where spring the nectar fountains : 
There will I kiss 
Tlie bowl of bliss. 
And drink mine eveil.'isting fill 
Upon every milkeu bill. 
My soul will bo a-dry before ; 
But after, it will thirst no more. 
Then by that happy, blissful day, 

More peaceful pilgrims I shall see, 
Tliat have cast otf their rags of clay. 

And walk apparelled fresh like me. 
I'll take them first 
To quench their thirst, 
And taste of nectar's suckets 
At those clear wells 
Wliere sweetness dwells 
Drawn up by saints iu crystal buckets. 
And when our bottles and all wo 
Arc filled with immortality, 
Then tlie blessdd paths we'll travel, 
Strewed with rubies thick as gravel ; 
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors, 
High walls of coral, and pearly doors. 
From thence to Heaven's bribeless' hall. 
Where no corrupted voices brawl ; 

• Allndiug to the common custom of bribery. Raleigh had 
himself given and taken bribes. 



No conscience molten into gold, 

No forged accuser,' bought or sold, 

No cause deferred, uo vaiu-si)eiit journey, — 

For there Christ is the King's Attorney ;' 

Who pleads for all without degrees, 

And he hath angels,^ but no fees ; 

And when the grand twelve million jury 

Of our sins, witli direful fury, 

'Gainst our souls black verdicts give, 

Christ pleads his death, and then wo live. 

Bo thou my speaker, taintless pleader, 

Uublotted lawyer, true proceeder ! 

Tliou giv'st salvation even for txlms, — 

Not with a bribed lawyer's palms. 

And this is mine eternal plea 

To Him that made heaven, earth, and sea: 

That since my flesh must die so soon. 

And want a head to dine next noon,* 

Just at the stroke when my veins start and spread. 

Set on my soul an everlasting head ! 

Then am I, like a palmer, fit 

To tread those blest paths which before I writ: 

Of death and judgment, heaven aiul hell. 

Who oft doth thiuli, must needs die well. 



Sir |)l)ilip Siiincj). 



Sidney (1554-1586) was born at Penshurst, in Kent. 
He takes his ranlv in Englisli literary histoi-y rather as a 
lirose writer than as a i;oet. The liigli repute in wliicli 
liis verses were lield among his contemporaries was due 
chiefly to what was esteemed their scholarhj style; but 
in these days we sliould call it artificial. Some of his 
sonnets, however, are graceful in expression and noble 
iu thought. "The best of them," says Charles Lamb, 
"are among the very best of their sort. The verse runs 
oft' swiftly and gallantly, and might have been timed to 
the trumpet." In 15SG Sidney took a command in the 
War in the Netherlands. His death occurred iu the au- 
tumn of the same year, from wounds received at the as- 
sault of Zutphcu. He was then only thirty-two years 
of age. 



ON DYING. 

Siuce Niiture's works Ije good, and death doth servo 
As Nature's work, wliy should wo fear to die ? 
Since fear is vain but when it may preserve. 
Why should we fear that which wo cannot fly? 
Fear is more pain than is the pain it i'ears, 
Disarming human minds of native might ; 

> Like Lord Cobham, at his trial in re Arabella Stuart, 
'■i Unlike Coke, the King's attorney in Kalcigli's trial. 
3 Anfjcl — a play upon the word, alluding to tbe coin called an 
"angel." 
^ Alluding to his impending execution. 



SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.— FULEE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE. 



While each conceit au ugly figure bears, 
Which were not evil, well viewed in reason's light. 
Our only eyes, which dimmed with passion be, 
And scarce discern the dawn of coming day — 
Let them be cleared, and now begin to see 
Our life is but a step in dusty way: 
Then let us hold the bliss of peaceful mind ; 
Since this we feel, great loss we cauuot find. 



TRUE BEAUTY VIRTUE IS. 

It is most true that eyes are formed to serve 
The inward light, and that the heavenly part 
Ought to be Kiug, from whose rules who do 

swerve, 
Rebels to uaturc, strive for their own smart. 
It is most true, what we call Cupid's dart 
Au image is, which for ourselves we carve, 
And, fools, adore in temple of our heart. 
Till that good god make church and churchmen 

starve. 
True, that True Beauty Virtue is indeed. 
Whereof this Beauty cau be but a shade 
Which elements with mortal mixture breed. 
True, that on earth we are but pilgrims made. 
And should in soul up to our country move : 
True ; aiul yet true — that I must Stella love. 



ETERNAL LOVE. 

Leave me, O Love which readiest but to dust, 
And thou, my Jlind, aspire to higher things; 
Grow rich in that which never talceth rust : 
Wliatever fades but fading jileasure brings. 
Draw iu thy beams, and humble all thy might 
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be ; 
Wliich breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light 
That doth both shine and give us sight to see! 
Oh, take fast hold ; let that light bo thj' guide 
In this small course which birth draws out to death ; 
And think how evil becometh liira to slide. 
Who seeketh Leaven and comes of heavenly breath. 
Then farewell, world ; thy uttermost I see : 
Eternal Love, maintain thy Life iu me ! 



ON OBTAINING A PRIZE AT A TOURNAMENT. 

Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance 
Guided so well fliat I obtained the prize, 
Both by the judgment of the English eyes 



And of some sent from the sweet enemy — France; — 
Horsemen my skill iu horsemanship advance ; 
Townsfolk my strength ; a daintier judge applies 
His praise to sleight, which from good use doth rise ; 
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance ; 
Others, becan.se of both sides I do take 
My blood from them who did excel in this ; 
Think Nature me a man of arms did make. 
How far they shot awry! The true cause is, 
Stella looked on, and from her heavenly face 
Shot forth the beams that made so fair my race. 



INVOCATION TO SLEEP. 

Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, 
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, 
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release. 
The indiftereut judge between the high and low I 
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease' 
Of those fierce darts Despair at mo doth throw ; 
Oh, make in me those civil wars to cease ; 
I w ill good tribute pay if thou do so. 
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed ; 
A chamber, deaf to noise and blind to light ; 
A rosy garland, and a weary head. 
And if these things, as being thine by right, 
Move not thine heavy grace, thou shalt in me 
Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see. 



A DITTY. 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 
By just exchange one to the other given: 
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss ; 
There never was a better bargain driven : 
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 

His heart in mo keeps him and me in one, 
My heart iu him his thoughts and senses guides; 
He loves my heart, for once it was his own, 
I cherish his because in me it bides : 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 



.fulkc (frcDillc, £ori) Ui-ookc. 

Greville (1554-1628) was born at Alcaster, in Warwick- 
shire. He was the school-mate and intimate friend of 
Sir Philip Sidney, and a court favorite during the reigns 
of Elizabeth, James, and Charles I. At tlic age of scven- 

* Press, crowd. 



18 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



t5'-four he was assassinated by a ci-azy servant. Soutliey 
calls Grevillc "the most difficult" of English poets, and 
says : " No other writer of this or any other country ap- 
l)ears to have reflected more deeply on momentous sub- 
jects." Charles Lamb says of his verse: "Whether we 
look into his plays, or his most passionate love-poems, 
\vc shall find all frozen and made rigid with intellect." 
His eulogy on Philip Sidney is a noble tribute, full of 
condensed thought. 



REALITY OF A TRUE RELIGIOJf. 

Froji the "Treatise of Religion." 

For sure in all kinds of bypocvisy 

No bodies yet are found of constant being; 

No uniform, uo stable mystery, 

No luward nature, but an outward seeming; 

No solid trutli, no virtue, holiness, 

But types of these, which time makes more or 
less. 

And from these springs strange iuuudatious flow. 
To drown the sea-marks of humanity, 
With massacres, conspiracy, treason, woe, 
By sects and. schisms profaning Deity : 

Besides, with furies, iieuds, earth, air, and hell, 
They fit, and teach coufusiou to rebel. 

But, as there lives a true God iu the heaven, 
So is there true religion here ou earth : 
By nature? No, by grace; not got, but given; 
Inspired, not taught; from God a second birth; 
God dwclleth near about us, even within, 
Working the goodness, censuring the sin. 

Such as we arc to him, to us is he ; 

Without God there was no man ever good ; 

Divine the author and the matter be. 

Where goodness must bo wrought in flesh and 
• blood : 

Religion stands not in corrupted thiug.s, 
But virtues that descend have heavenly wings. 



FROM "LINES ON THE DE.\TH OF PHILIP 
SIDNEY." 

Silence augmentcth grief, writing iuereaseth rage. 
Stalled are my thoughts, which loved and lost the 

wonder of our age, 
Y'et quickened now with fire, though de.ul with 

frost ere now. 
Enraged I write I know not w hat : dead, quick, I 

know not how. 



Hard-hearted minds releut,aud Rigor's tears abound, 
And Envy strangely rues his end iu whom uo fault 

she found; 
Kuowledge his light hath lost, Valor hath slain 

her knight, — 
Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the world's 

delight. 

He was — wo worth that word! — to each well-think- 
ing mind 

A spotless friend, a matchless man, whose virtue 
ever shined, 

Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ. 

Highest couceits, longest foresights, and deepest 
works of wit. 

Farewell to you, my hopes, my wonted waking 

dreams ! 
Farewell, sometimes enjoy(5d joy, eclipsed are thy 

beams! 
Farewell, self- pleasing thoughts which quietness 

brings forth ! 
And farewell, friend.sliip's sacred league, uniting 

minds of worth! 

And farewell, merry heart, the gift of guiltless 
minds, 

And all sports which for life's restore variety as- 
signs; 

Let all that sweet is. void! In me no mirth may 
dwell !— 

Philip, the cause of all this woe, my life's content, 
farewell ! 



(C'corge Cljapinan. 



Chapman (1.557-16.'U) wrote translations, plays, and 
poems. His translation of Homer, iu fourteen-syllable 
rhymed measure, is a remarkable production. From 
Lord Houi^hton's edition of tlic Poetical Works of .John 
Keats, we learn tlmt the fine folio edition of Chapnum's 
translation of Homer had been lent to Mr. Charles Cow- 
den Clarke, and he and Keats sat up till daylight over 
their new acquisition ; Keats shouting with delight as 
some passage of especial energy struck his imagination. 
At ten o'clock the next nioruiug, Mr. Clarke found this 
sonnet by Keats on his breakfast-table. 

"Much have I travelled in the re.ilms of j;nUl, 
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; 
Round many weslein i.slnnds have I been 
Which bards in fealiy to Apollo hold. J 

Oft of one wide expan.>ie had I been told, ^ 

That dccp-hrowed Homer ruled as his demesne: 
Yet did I never brcitlie its pure serene 
Till I beard Chapnniu speak out Imul and bold: 



GEORGE CHArMAX.—IiOBERT GREENE.— SAMUEL DAXIEL. 



10 



Then felt I like si>me watcber at the skies 
When a new i)lauct gwinis into his ken. 
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyc3 
He stared at the Pacitic— aud all his men 
Looked at each other with a wild snrmise— 
Silent, upon a peak in Darieu." 

In his youth Chapman had for contemporaries and 
fellow-workers Spenser, Sidney, Shakspeare, Daniel, and 
Marlowe. He regarded poesy as a "divine discipline," 
rather than as a pastime, and in his most elevated mood 
lie appears dignilied, self-reliant, reflective, and, above 
all, consijicuously lionest. 



OF SUDDEN DEATH. 

Wli.tt action wonldst thou wish to have iu hnml 

If .siulden death should come for his comniand ? 

I would be doing good to most good nieu 

That most did ueed, or to their cliildreu, 

And ill advice (to rnalie them their true heirs) 

I would bo giving up my soul to theirs. 

To wliich eft'ect if Death should find me given, 

I woiiUl, with both my hands lield up to heaveu, 

Make these my last words to my Deity : 

"Those faculties Thou hast bestowed on me 

To understand Thy government and will, 

I have, iu all fit actions. ofi"ered still 

To Tliy divine acceptance ; and, as far 

As I had influence from Thy bounty's star, 

I liave made good Thy form infused in me : 

The anticipations given me naturally 

I have, with all my study, art, and prayer, 

Fitted to every object and affair 

My life presented and my knowledge taught. 

My iioor sail, as it hath been ever fraught 

With Thy free goodness, hath been balhist too 

With all my gratitude. Wliat is to do, 

.Supply it, sacred Saviour ; Thy high grace 

III my poor gifts, receive again, and place 

Where it shall please Thee ; Tliy gifts never die, 

But, having brought one to felicity. 

Descend again, and help auother up." 



THE HIGHEST STANDARD. 

Thou must not undervalue what tliou hast. 

In weighing it with that wliich more is graced. 

Tlie worth that weigheth inward should not hmg 

For ontward prices. This should make thee strong 

In tliy close v.alue : naught .so good can be 

As that which lasts good betwixt God and thee. 

Rcnicmber thine own verse: Should hcaren turn hull 

For deeds well done, I would do erer well. 



GIVE ME A SPIRIT. 

Give me a Spirit that on life's rough sea 
Loves to luive his sails tilled witli a lusty wind, 
Even till his sail-yards tremble, his luasts crack. 
And his rapt ship run on her side so lovr 
That she drinks water, and her keel ploughs air 
There is no danger to a man that knows 
What life and death is ; tliere's not any law 
Exceeds liis knowledge, neither is it needful 
That lie should stoop to any other law : 
He goes before thcin, and commands them all. 
That to himself is a law rational. 



Uobcvt (!^l•ccltc. 

If only for one stanza that he wrote, Robert Greene 
(1560-1592), playwright aud poet, deserves a mention. 
He was born in Norfolk, got a degree at Cambridge in 
1578, travelled, in Italy aud Snain. and wasted his patri- 
mony in dissipation. Eeturning lioine, he betook him- 
self to literature as a means of livelihood. He died in 
great poverty and friendlessncss. From liis last book, 
"Tbe Groat's-worth of Wit bought with a Million of Re- 
pentance,'' we quote the following: 



A DEATH-BED LAilENT. 

Deceiving world, that with alluring toys 
Hast made my life the subject of thy scorn, 
-And scornest now to lend thy fading joys. 
To ont-length my life, whom friends have left for- 
lorn ; — 
How well are they that die ere they bo born, 
And never see thy slights, which few men shnii. 
Till unawares they helpless are undone I 

Oh that a year were granted ine to live, 
And for that year my former wits restored ! 
Wliat rules of life, what counsel I would give. 
How should my sin witli sorrow be deplored! 
But I must die of every man abhorred : 
Time loosely spent will not again be won ; 
My time is loosely spent, and I undone. 



Samuel Daniel. 

The son of a music-master. Samuel Daniel (1.563-1019) 
was born near Taunton, in Somersetsbire. Educated 
under the patronage of a sister of Sir Philip Sidney, he 
studied at Magdalene College, Oxford, but took no de- 
gree. His largest work is " The History of the Civil 
Wars;" he wrote also a number of Epistles, Sonnets, and 



^0 



CYCLOrjEDTA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Jinsques ; and in prose a " Dcfunce of Rliyrae" (1601) 
and a "History of England" (1613). The modem clmr- 
acter of his English, as well as of his thinking, has been 
often noted by critics. " For his diction alone," says 
Southey, "he would deserve to be studied, even though 
his works did not aliound in passages of singular beau- 
ty." He justly felicitated himself in his later days that 
he had never written unclean verses; that never had his 

"Harmless pen at all 
Distained with any loose immodesty, 
Nor never noted to be touched wiUi g:tll. 
To ai^^ravate the worst man's inf;imy; 
Bat still have done the fairest offices 
To Virtue and the time." 

D.micl became "poet-laureate voluntary" at the death 
of Spenser, but Was soon superseded by Ben Jonson as 
poet -laureate by appointment. There seems to have 
been ill-feeling between the tv\-o; for Jonson says of 
him: "He was a good, honest man, had no children, and 
was no poet." The slur is undeserved. Some years be- 
fore his death Daniel retired to a farm, where he ended 
his days. His "Epistle to the Countess of Cumberland '' 
is a noble specimen of meditative verse. It was much 
admired by Wordsworth, whose indebtedness to it, in 
tone at least, may be traced in his "Character of the 
Happy Warrior." 



EPISTLE TO THE COUNTESS OF CUMBER- 
LAND. 

Ho that of .such a lieiglit liivtli built lii."! mind, 
Aud reared the dwelling of lii.s tlionglits so strong, 
As iieitlier hope nor fear can sliako tlic frame 
Of l)is resolv(5d i)o\vprs ; nor all the wind 
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong 
Hi.s settled peace, or to di.stnrb the same: 
M'hat a fair seat hath lie, from whence he 7nny 
The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey! 

And with how free an eye doth li<' look down 
Upon the.se lower regions of turmoil! 
Wlicre all the storms of pa-ssion mainly beat 
On flesh and blood : where honor, iiowcr, renown, 
Are only gay afflictions, golden toil ; 
Wliere greatness stands npou as feeble feet. 
As frailty doth ; and only- great doth seem 
To little minds, who do it so esteem. 

He looks npon the mightiest monarch's wars 

But only as on stately robberies ; 

Where evermore the fortune that prevails 

Must be the right ; the ill-snccceding mars 

The fairest and the best faced enterprise. 

Circat pirate Pompey lesser pirates (jnails : 

Justice, he sees (as if sednc(;d), still 

Conspires with power, whoso cause must not be ilk 



He sees the face of right t' appear as manifold 
As are the passions of uncertain man ; 
Who puts it in all colors, all attires. 
To serve his ends, and make his courses hold. 
He sees, tliat let deceit work what it can. 
Plot and contrive base ways to high desires. 
That the all-guiding Providence doth yet 
All disappoint, aud mocks the smoke of wit. 

Nor is he moved with all the thunder-cracks 
Of tyrants' threats, or with the surly brow 
Of Power that prondly sits on otliers' crimes, — 
Charged with more crying sins thiin those he 

cheelis. 
The storms of sad confusion, that may grow 
Up in the present for the coming times. 
Appall liim not that hath no side at all, 
But of himself, and knows tlie worst can fall. 

Althoiigli his heart (so near allied to earth) 
Cannot but pity the perplext'd state 
Of troublous and distressed mortality. 
That thus make way unto the ngly birth 
Of their own sorrows, aud do still beget 
Afflictiou upon imbecility, — 
Yet, seeing thus the course of things must run, 
He looks thereon not strange, but as fore-doue. 

And whilst distraught ambition compasses. 
And is encompassed; whilst as craft deceives, 
And is deceived; whilst man doth ransack man. 
And builds on blood, and rises by distress; 
And tlie inheritance of desolation leaves 
To great-expecting hopes, — he looks thereon 
As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye, 
Aud bears no venture in impiety. 

Thus, madam, fares that man that hath prepared 

A rest for his desires; and sees all thiugs 

Beneath him ; and hath learued this book of man. 

Full of the notes, of frailty ; and comiiared 

The best of glory with her snfi'erings: 

By whom, I see, you labor all you can 

To plant your heart, and set your thoughts as 

near 
Ilis glorious mansion as your powers can bear. 

Which, madam, are so soiuidly fa.shion(5d 

By that clear judgment that hath carried you 

Beyond the feeble limits of your kind. 

As they can stand against the strongest head 

Passion can make ; inured to any hue 

The world can cast ; that cannot cast that mind 



SAM TEL DANIEL. 



■n 



Out of her fdvm nf gooiliicss, that dotli seo 
Buth what the Ijest ami worst of earth can he. 

Which makes, that whatsoever here befalls, 
You ill the region of yourself remain : 
(Where no vain breath of th' iinpuilent molests) 
That lieth secured within the brazen walls 
Of a clear conscience, that (without all stain) 
Rises in peace, in innocency rests; 
Whilst all what Malice from without procures; 
Shows her own ugly heart, but hurts not yours. 

And whereas none rejoice more in revenge 
Than women use to do, yet you well know 
That wrong is better checked by being contemned 
Than being pursued ; leaving to Him to aveugo 
To whom it appertains: W^herein you sliow 
How worthily your clearness hath condemned 
Base malediction, living in the d.-irk, 
That at the raya of goodness still dotli bark: — 

Knowing the heart of man is set to be 
The centre of this world, about the which 
These revolutions of disturbances 
.Still roll: where all th' aspects of misery 
Predominate : whose strong effects are such 
As ho must bear, being powerless to redress: 
And that unless above himself he can 
Erect himself, how poor a thing is man. 

And how tnrmoiled they are that level lie 
With earth, and caunot lift themselves from thence ; 
That never are at peace with their desire.'^, 
But work beyond their years ; and even deny 
Dotage her rest, and hardly will dispense 
With death ; that when ability expires, 
Desire lives still: so much delight they have 
To carry toil and travail to the grave ! 

Whoso ends yon see, and what can be the best 
They roach unto, when they have cast tlie snni 
And reckonings of their glory. And yon know 
This floating life hath but this port of rest: 
A heart prepared that fears no ill to come. 
And that man's greatness rests but in his show, 
The best of all wliose days consumed are 
Either in war or peace — conceiving war. 

Tills concord, madam, of a well-tuned mind 
Hath been so set by that .all-working hand 
Of Heaven, that though the world hath done his 

worst 
To put it out by discords most nnkiml, — 



Yet doth it still in perfect union stand 
With God and man : nor ever will be forced 
From that most sweet accord; but still agree 
Equal in fortune's inequality. 

And this note, madam, of your worthiness 
Eemaius recorded in so many hearts. 
As time nor malice cannot wrong your right 
111 th' iuheritanco of fame you must iiossess : 
You that have built you by your great deserts 
(Out of small means) a far more exquisite 
And glorious dwelling for your honored name. 
Tlian all the gold that leaden minds can frame. 



FAIR IS 5IY LOVE. 

Fair is my love, and cruel as she's fair; 
Her brow shades frown, altho' her eyes are sunny : 
Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair; 
And her disdains are gall, her favors honey. 
A modest maid, decked with a blush of honor, 
Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and 

love ; 
The wonder of all eyes that look upon her : 
S.icred on earth, designed a saint above : 
Chastity and Beauty, which are deadly foes, 
Live reeonciMd friends within her brow ; 
And had she Pity to conjoin witli those. 
Then who had heard the plaints I utter now ? 
For had she not been fair, and thus unkind, 
My muse had slept, and none had known my mind. 



EARLY LOVE. 

Ah, I remember well (and how can I 
But evermore remember well ?) when first 
Onr flamo heg.an, when scarce we knew what was 
Tlio flame wo felt ; when as we sat and sighed. 
And looked upon each other, and conceived 
Not what we ailed, yet something we did ail. 
And yet were well, and yet we were not well. 
And what was our disease we could not tell. 
Tlien would we kiss, then sigh, then look ; and 

thus, 
111 that first garden of our simpleuess. 
We sjient our childhood. But when years began 
To reap the fruit of knowledge — ah, how then 
Would she with steruer looks, with graver brow. 
Check my presumption and my forwardness ! 
Yet still would give me flowers, still would show 
What she would have me, yet not have me know. 



22 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AilEBICAX rOETUT. 



Uicljavi) niison. 



Little is known of Alison. He pnblished in 1590 "A 
Plaine Confutation of a Treatise of Brownism, entitled 
'A Description of the Visible Cliurch ;' " and, in 1606, 
"AuHoure's Recreation in Musieke, apt for Instruments 
and Voyces;" Irora wiiieli tlie following little poems are 
talicu. 



HOPE. 

Fnojr "An Houre's Recreation in Musicke." 

In hope a king (loth go to war, 
In hope a lover lives full long; 

lii hope a merchant sails fnll far, 
III hope jnst men do suft'er wrong; 

In hope the plonghmau sows his seed : 

Thus hope helps thonsands at their need. 

Then faint not, heart, among the rest; 

Whatever chauee, hope thou the best. 



CHEKKY-RIPE. 

Tliere is a garden in her face, 

Where roses and white lilies blow ; 

A heavenly paradise is that jilaee, 
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; 

There cherries grow that noue may buy 

Till eherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Tliose cherries fairly do enclose 

Of orient pearl a double row. 
Which, when her lovely laughter shows. 

They look like rose-bnds tilled with snow; 
Yet them no peer nor prince may bny 
Till eherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Her eyes like angels watch them still. 
Her brows like bended bows do stand, 

Threatening with piercing frowns to kill 
All that approach with eye or hand 

These sacred cherries to come nigh, 

Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 



liobcvt !5outl)iiicll. 



The rei;;n of Elizalictli includes, among other signs of 
the times, the hanging of a poet of rare purity and spir- 
ituality for his devotion to the Roman Catliolic religion. 
Robert Soutliwcll (1.")60-1.50.t) was born near Norwich, 
England. He was educated at Paris for two years before 
he went to Rome, and was received, at the age of seven- 



teen, into the order of Jesuits. From Rome he was sent 
as a missionary to England, and was attaclied to tlie 
household of Anne, Countess of Arundel, who perished 
in the Tower. Southwell sliared the fate of all piiesls 
who could be found and seized at that time in England. 
In 1593 he was sent to prison, and during three years 
was subjected to tlie toVtui'cs of the rack no less than 
ten times. At length, in 1.595, the Court of King's Bench 
condemned him as being a Catholic priest ; he was drawn 
to Tyburn on a hurdle, was hanged, and had his heart 
burnt in sight of the people. A good man and a noble, 
of gentle disposition and blameless life, his fate reflects 
deepest infamy on his brutal and heartless persecutors. 
Southwell exhibits a literary culture far above that of 
some poets of larger fame, and, as he was only tliii'ty- 
tive at the time of his execution, he probably had not 
reached the maturity of his powers. 



LOVE'S SERVILE LOT. 

Love mistress is of many minds, 
But few know whom they serve ; 

They reckon least how little hope 
Their service doth deserve. 

The will she robbeth from the wit, 
The sense from reason's lore ; 

She is delightful in the rind, 
Corrupted in the core. 

She sliroudeth viee in virtue's veil. 

Pretending good in ill ; 
She offereth joy, but bringeth grief, 

A ki.ss, — where she doth kill. 

Her watery eyes have burning force, 
Her Hoods and flames conspire ; 

Tears kindle sparks, sobs fuel are, 
And sighs but fan the fire. 

A honey shower rains from her lips, 
Sweet lights shine in her face ; 

She hath the bln.sh of virgin mind, 
The mind of viper's race. 

She makes thee seek, yet fear to find ; 

To find, but uanglit enjoy ; 
In many frowns, some passing smiles 

She yields to more annoy. 

She letteth fall some luring baits, 

For fools to gather up ; 
Now sweet, now sour, for every taste 

She tempereth her cup. 



nOBERT SOUTHWELL.— JOSHVASYLVESTEE.— MICHAEL DRAYTON. 



23 



With soothing words, iuthralled souls 
She chains in servile bands ! 

Her ej'e iu silence hath a speech 
Which eye best understands. 

Her little sweet hath many sours. 
Short haj), immortal harms ; 

Her loving looks are murdering darts, 
Her songs bewitching charms. 

Like winter rose, and summer ice, 
Her joys are still untimely; 

Before her hope, behind remorse, 
Fair first, iu fine unseemly. 

Plough Dot the seas, sow not the sands 

Leave off your idle pain; 
Seek other mistress for your minds — 

Love's service is in vain. 



TIMES GO BY TURNS. 

The lopped tree in time may grow again, 

Most naked jdants renew both fruit and flower; 

The sorest wight may find release of pain, 

The driest soil suck in some moist'uiug shower; 

Times go by turns and chances change by course. 

From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. 

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow, 
She draws her favors to the lowest ehb ; 

Her time hath equal times to come and go, 

Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web ; 

No joy so great but rnuneth to an end. 

Nor hap so hard but may iu time amend. 

Not always fall of leaf nor ever spring, 
No endless night yet not eternal day ; 

The saddest birds a season find to sing, 

Tbe ronghest storm a calm may soon allay ; 

Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all, 

That man may hope to rise yet fear to fall. 

A chance may win that by mischance was lost; 

The well that holds no great, takes little fish ; 
In some things all, in all tilings none are crossed. 

Few all they need, bnt none have all they 
wish ; 
Unnieddled' joys here to no man befall. 
Who least hath some, who most have never all. 

* Unmixed joys. 



Josljiux GnlucGtcr. 



Sylvester (1563-161S) was a l:\boi-ious but unequal 
writer. He styles himself a mercliant adventurer. Lit- 
tle is known of his life. His works consist principally 
of translations. In regard to "Tlie Soul's Errand," a 
poem resembling one by Raleigh, hut sometimes credited 
to Sylvester, see the memoir ofRaleigli iu this volume. 



PLURALITY OF WORLDS. 

I not believe that the great Architect 

With all these fires the heavenly arches decked 

Only for show, and with these glistering shields 

To amaze jioor shepherds w.atching in the fields; 

I not believe that the least flower which pranks 

Onr garden borders or our common banks, 

And the least stone that in her warming lap 

Onr mother Earth doth covetously wrap 

Hath some peculiar virfno of its own, 

And that the glorious stars of heaven have none. 



LOVE'S OMNIPRESENCE. 

Were I as base as is the lowly plain, 
And yon, my Love, as high as heaven above, 
Yet should the thoughts of me, yonr humble swain. 
Ascend to heaven in honor of my Love. 
Were I as high as heaven above the plain. 
And you, my Love, as humble and as low- 
As are the deepest bottoms of the main, 
Wlieresoe'er you were, with you my lo\e should go. 
Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies, 
My love should shine on yon like to the snn. 
And look upon yon with ten thousand eyes 
Till heaven waxed blind, and till the World were 

done. 
Wlieresoe'er I am, below, or else above yon, 
Whcresoe'cr you are, my heart shall truly love you. 



illicl)acl Dranton. 

Drayton {circa 1.563-1631) was of humble parentage, 
and from his earliest years showed a taste for poetry. 
He is one of the most voluminous of the rhyming tribe. 
Pope somewhere speaks of "a verv mediocre poet, one 
Drayton." Tlie slight is undeserved. Drayton's works 
extend to above one hundred thousand verses. The 
work on which his fome rested in his own day is the 
"Polyolbion," a minute chorographical description of 
England and Wales. Most of liis principal pieces were 
published before he was thirty yeiirs of age. His spirit- 



24 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRT. 



ud "Ballad of Asiiicourt " lias been the model foi- many 
similar productions; and there is much playful grace in 
the fairy fancies of "Nyinphidia." May not Drake have 
taken a hint from it in his "Culprit Fay?" 



A PARTING. 

Since tliere's no help, come let us kiss and part : 

Nay, I have done ; you get no more of me ; 

And I am glad, yea, glad witU all my Leait, 

That thus so clearly I myself can free. 

Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows. 

And, when we meet at any time again. 

Be it not seen in either of onr brows 

That we one jot of former love retain. 

Now, at the last gasp of Love's latest brcatli, 

When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies ; 

When Faith is kneeling hy his bed of death. 

And Innocence is closing np his eyes, — 

Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him 

over. 
From death to life thou mii'htst him vet recover. 



THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT. 

Fair stood the wind for Franco 
When we our sails advance. 
Nor now to prove onr chanco 

Longer will tarry; 
But, putting to the main, 
At Kause, the mouth of .Seine, 
AVith all his martial train. 

Landed King Harry; 

And, taking many a fort 
Furnished in warlike sort. 
Marched towards Aginconrt 

In happy hour; 
Skirmishing day by day 
With (hose that stopped his way. 
Where the French General lay 

With all his power, 

Wliicli, in his height of pride 
King Henry lo deride. 
His ransom to jiroviile 

To the King sending; 
Which he neglects the while 
As from a nation vile, 
Yet, with an angry smile, 

Tlicir fall portending. 



And, turning to his men. 
Quoth our bravo Henry then: 
Though they to oue be ten, 

Be not amazed ; 
Yet have wo well begun ; 
Battles so bravely won 
Have ever to the sun 

By fame been raisdd. 

And for myself, quoth he, 
This my full rest shall be ; 
England ne'er mourn for me, 

Nor more esteem me : 
Victor I will remain. 
Or on this earth lie slain : 
Never sli.all she sustain 

Loss to redeem me. 

Poitiers and Cressy tell. 

When most their pride did swell, 

Under our swords they fell : 

No less onr skill is 
Than when our Graudsire great. 
Claiming the regal seat. 
By many a warlike feat 

Lopped the French lilies. 

The Duke of York so dread 
The eager vaward led ; 
With the main Henry sped 

Amongst his heuchmen ; 
Excester h.ad the I'ear, 
A braver mau not there : 
O Lord, how hot they were 

On the false Frenchmen ! 

Tliey now to fight are gone : 

Armor on armor shone ; 

Drum now to drum did gro.in ; 

To hear was wonder ; 
That with the cries they make 
The very earth did shako ; 
Trumpet to trumpet spake, 

Thunder to thunder. 

Well it thine age became, 
O noble Erpingham ! 
Which did the signal aim 

To onr hid forces ; 
When, from a meadow by, 
Like a storm, suddenly, 
The English archery 

Struck the French horses 



MICHAEL DRATTOX.— CHRISTOPHER MABLOWE. 



25 



With Spanish yew so stroug, 
Arrows a cloth-yard long, 
That like to serpents stuug, 

Piercing the weather : 
None from his fellow starts, 
But, playing manly parts, 
And like true English hearts, 

Stuck close together. 

When down their bows they threw, 
And forth their bilbows drew. 
And ou the French they flew, 

Not one was tardy : 
Anns were from shonlder sent, 
Scalps to the teeth were rent, 
Down the French peasants went : 

Our men were hardy. 

This while onr noble King, 
His l)roadsword brandishing, 
Down the French host did ding 

As to o'erwhelm it; 
And many a deep wound rent 
Ills arms with blood besprent. 
Anil many a cruel dent 

Bruised his Jielmet. 

Glo'ster, that duke so good, 
Next of the royal blood, 
For famous England stood 

With his brave brother 
Clarence, iu steel so bright, 
Though but a maiden knight, 
Yet, in that furious fight. 

Scarce such another! 

W\arwick in blood did wade ; 
Oxford, the foe invade. 
And cruel slaughter made 

Still, as they ran nj) : 
Suffolk his axe did ply ; 
Beaumont and Willoughby 
Bare them right donglitily, 

Ferrers and Fauhope. 

Upon St. Crispin's day 
Fought was this noble fray, 
Which fame did not delay 

To England to carry : — • 
Oh, when shall Englishmen 
With such acts fill a pen, 
Or England breed again 

Such a King Harry? 



Cljiistof)l)cr fHavlouu'. 

Marlowe (1.564-1593) ranks among the most eminent 
of the Elizabethan dramatists. He was tlie son of a 
siioemaker in Canterbury. After graduating at Cam- 
bridge, lie became a writer for tlie stage and an actor. 
In 1.587, lie was known as the antlior of "Tamburlaine 
the Great." Other plays followed ; and for a time Mar- 
lowe and Shakspearc were competitors. This splendid 
rivalry, and all it miglit have led to, was, liowevcr, cut 
short in 1593, when Marlowe, still not thirty years of 
age, received a stab iu a brawl in some inn at Deptford, 
and died from its etfects. The pastoral song, to which a 
reply, supposed to be by Kaleigli, was written, is among 
the few specimens we liavc of Marlowe's nou-dramatie 
verse. In some versions of it the following stanza (com- 
ing next before the last) is contained; but it is believed 
to have been inserted by Izaak Walton, and presents a 
very unshepherd-like image : 

" Thy silver dishes for thy meat, 
As precious .ns the gi)ds do eat. 
Shall, on an ivory table, be 
Piepaved each dny for thee aud me." 



THE DEATH OF FAUSTUS. 

Bad Aiigeh Now, Faustus, let thiue eyes with hor- 
ror stare 
Into tliat vast perpetual torture-house : 

Those that are fed with sops of flaming lire. 
Were gluttons, and loved only delicates. 
And laughed to see the poor starve at their gates. 
But yet all these are nothing ; thou shalt sco 
Ten thonsand tortures that more horrid be. 

Faust. Oh, I have seen enough to torture me. 

B. Any. Nay, thou must feel them, taste the 
smart of all ; 
Ho that loves pleasure must for ideasnro fall. 
And so I leave thee, Faustus. * * * [Ejcii. 

The clock strikes eleven. 

Faunf. O Faustus! — 
Now hast thou but one bare hour to live. 

****** 
Stand still, ye ever-moving spheres of heaven. 
That time may cease, and midnight never come. 
Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make 
Perpetual day ; or let this hour be but 
A year, a month, a week, a natural day. 
That Faustus may repent and save his soul. 

****** 
The stars move still, — time runs — the clock will 
strike. 



26 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BIUTISH JXD JMEHICAX POETRY. 



Oil, I'll leap lip to lieaveu! — Who pulls mc (lowii ? 

* if * * if *- 

Yet will I call on Him! — Oh spare me, Lucifer! — 

AVlicre is it now? — 'Tis gone: 

And see a tbreateiiiug arm — an angry brow! 

Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall on nie. 

And hide me from the heavy wrath of heaven! 

No! — Then will I headlong run into the earth: 

Gape, earth! — Oh no; it will not harbor me. 

Ye stars that reigned at my nativity, 

Whose intlnence hath allotted death and hell, 

Now draw up Faustus, like a foggy mist. 

Into the entrails of yon laboring cloud ; 

That, when you vomit forth into the air, 

My limbs may issue from your smoky months. 

But let uiy soul mount and ascend to heaven. 

The H-atcli strikes. 

Oh! half the hour is past: 'twill all bo past anon. 

Oh! if my soul must suffer for my sin, 

Impose some end to my incessant pain : 

Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years, 

A hundred thousand, and at last be saved : 

No end is limited to damned souls. 

Why wert thou not a creature wanting sonl ? 

Or, why is this immortal that thou hast ? 

Oh ! Pythagoras, — Metempsychosis ! — were that 

true. 
This soul should fly from me, and I be changed 
Into some brutish beast. 
All beasts are happy, for w hen they die, 
Their souls are soon dissolved in element ! 

* ^ * * * w 

Now, Faustus, curso thyself — cur.se Lucifer, 
That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven. 

The clock strikes twelre. 

It strikes — it strikes! now body turn to air. 

Oil, soul, be changed into small water-drops, 
And fall into the ocean — ne'er be found. 



THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. 

Come live with mo, and be my love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove. 
That valleys, groves, and hills and fields. 
Woods, or steepy mountains yields :' 



' To nvnid the bad English, the couplet is altered as follows, 
*u some vei'Biong: 

"Ttmt hill niul valley, irrove niul field, 
Aud i)ll llie cr;iggy iiiouulains yield." 



And we will sit upon the rocks, 
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

And I w ill make tlice beds of roses, 
And a thousand fragrant posies, 
A cap of ilowers, and a kirtle. 

Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle; 

A gown made of the finest wool. 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; 
Fair-lin^d slippers for the cold, 
With buckles of the purest gold ; 

A belt of straw and ivy-buils, 
With coral clasps and amber studs : 
Aud if these pleasures may thee move, 
Come live with me aud bo my love. 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
For thy delight each May-morning. 
If these delights thy mind may move, 
Come live with me aud be my love. 



ANSWER TO THE SAME.' 

If all the world aud Love were young, 
And truth in every shepherd's tongue. 
These pretty pleasures might me move 
To live with thee and be thy love. 

Time drives the flocks from field to fold, 
WTieu rivers rage, and rocks grow cold ; 
Then Philomel becometh dumb, 
The rest complain of cares to come. 

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
To wayward winter reckoning yields ; 
A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 

Thy gowns, thy .shoes, thy beds of roses, 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, 
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten ; 
In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds. 
Thy coral clasps and amber studs, 



' Archbishop Trench is of opinion that the evidence which 
ascribes this to Raleigh is iusnfHcicut. 



EDJTAED FAIIiFAX.— WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 



27 



All these in me no means can move, 
To come to tbee anil be tby love. 

But, conld youth last, and love still breed, 
Had joys no date, nor .age no need ; 
Tlieu tbese deliglits my mind miglit move, 
To live vritb tbee, and be tby love. 



(Pbttiari) Jaufai'. 

The fii-st edition of FairfMx's celebrated translation of 
Tusso's " Ji-i-usulem Delivered" is dated 1000; tlie sec- 
ond, 1024. Drydcn ranked Fairfax with Spenser as a mas- 
ter of English ; and Waller derived from him, according 
to his own confession, the harmony of his numbers. The 
date of Fairfax's birtli is unknown, but was probably 
about 1.504. He was the natural son of Sir Thomas Fair- 
fax, and had a long and happy life amidst rural scenes, 
lie was living in 1631. The date of his death is not 
known. He wrote a work on " Demonology," which 
was not printed until 1859. 



RINALDO AT MOUNT OLIVET. 

It was the time when 'gaiust the breaking day 
Rebellious night yet strove, and still repined ; 
For in the east appeared the morning gray, 
.\nd yet some lamps in Jove's high palace shined, 
When to Mount Olivet he took his way. 
And saw, as round .about his eyes he twined, 
Night's shadows hence, from thence the nn)rning's 

shine. 
This bright, that dark; that earthly, this divine. 

Thus to himself he thought: How ni:uiy bright 
And 'si>b'udeut lamps shine in heaven's temple 

high ! 
Day bath his golden snu, her moon the night, 
Her lixed and wandering stars the azure sky: 
So frann^d all by their Creator's might. 
That still they live and .shine, and ne'er will die. 
Till in a moment, with the last day's brand, 
They burn, and with them burn sea, air, and land. 

Thus .as he mu.sdd, to the top he went. 
And there kneeled down with reverence and fear; 
His eyes upon heaven's ea.steni face he bent; 
His thoughts above all heavens uplifted were: — 
"The sins and errors which I now repent. 
Of my unbridled youth, O Father dear. 
Remember not, but let thy merey fall, 
And purge tay faults and my otfences all." 



Thus prayed he : with purple wings np-flew, 
lu golden weed, the morning's lusty queen, 
Begilding with the radiant beams she threw 
His helm, the harness, and the mountain green : 
Upon his breast and forehead gently blew 
The air, that balm and nardus breathed unseen ; 
And o'er bis head, let down from clearest skies, 
A cloud of pure and precious dew there tiies. 



lHUliam Sljiakspcarr. 

The Baptismal Register of Stratford-on-Avon contains 
the following entry: "April 26,1.564. Guliebnus, Alius 
Johannes Shakespeare." The house in which the poet 
was born stands, in a restored condition, in Henley 
Street; and the conjectured room of his birth is scrib- 
bled over — walls, ceiling, windows — with thousands of 
names. His father, a wool-comber, though not opulent, 
seems to have been in good circumstances, to have had 
property in land and houses, and to have held the high- 
est official dignities of the town. But probably a short 
course in the Stratford grammar-school was all the reg- 
ular education Shakspeare ever received. He married, 
at the age of eighteen, Anne Hathaway, seven or eight 
years older than himself. Two or three years afterward 
he removed to London, where he rapidly acquired a 
large property in more than one theatre. We do not 
know the order in which his plays were produced, but 
he soon vindicated the immense superiority of his gen- 
ius by universal popularity. He was the companion of 
the nobles and the wits of the time, and a favorite of 
Queen Elizabeth herself, at whose request some of his 
pieces were written. The wealth which he realized en- 
abled him, comparatively early in life, to retire from his 
professional career. There had been born to him a son 
and two daughters. He had purchased an estate in tlie 
vicinity of his native town, but he enjoyed it only four 
years. He died of fever in 1616, aged fifty-two. 

The works of Shakspeare consist of tliirty -seven plays, 
tragedies, comedies, and histories; the poems, "Venus 
and Adonis," and "Tarquin and Lucrece," with a collec- 
tion of sonnets, or, r.ather, fourteen -lined poems, of ex- 
quisite beauty .and variety, each consisting of three qua- 
trains of alternate rhyme and a closing couplet. His 
want of care in preserving and autlieuticating the pro- 
ductions of his genius before his death has been sup- 
posed to indicate either his indifference to fame or the 
absence of a knowledge of the magnitude of what he bad 
achieved; and yet there are expressions in his sonnets 
that seem to imply a sense of his intellectual superiority. 
The subject of his dramatic and poetical character is so 
vast that it would be idle here to attempt its analysis. 

His Sonnets represent him in the full maturity of man- 
hood, and at the height of his fame. They were probably 
written between the years 1595 and 1603, when he was 
livins at Stratford in dignified retirement. Of these 
sonnets Trench says: "They are so heavily laden with 
meaning, so double-shotted (if one m.ay so speak) with 
thought, so penetrated and pervaded with a repressed 



28 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BIIITISH JXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



pnssion, tliat, packed as all this is into narrowest limits, it 
sometimes imparts no little obscurity to tbem ; and they 
often require to be lieard or read, not once, but many 
times — in fact, to be studied — before they reveal to us all 
the treasures of thonilit and feelins;' which they contain." 

These remarkable and mysterious sonnets are one 
hundred and tifty-four in number, and, with the excep- 
tion uf twenty-eight, are addressed to some male person, 
to whom the poet refers in a style of alTection, love, and 
idolatry almost unnatural ; remarkable, even in the reifvn 
of Elizalieth, for morbid extravananee and enthusiasm. 
The sonnets were lirst printed in l(i09, by Thomas Thorpe, 
a ijublisher of the day, who prefixed to the volume the 
following enigmatical dedication : "To the only begetter 
of these ensuing sonnets, Mr. \V. H., all happiness and 
that eternity promised by our ever-living poet, wisheth 
the well-wishing adventurer in setting forth, T. T." The 
" W. H." alluded to by Thorpe has been conjectured to 
be W-'liam Herbert, alterward Earl of Pembroke, who, as 
ai>pcars from the folio of lOiS, was one of Shakspeare's 
jiatrons. This conjecture has received the assent of Mr. 
Hallam and others. Many theories, none satisfactory, 
have been broached to account for these exceptional 
productions. 

It has been truly remarked by an anonymous writer 
that no man of whom we have any knowledge in litera- 
ture ever had, like Shakspeare, "the faculty of pouring 
out on all occasions such a Hood of the richest and deep- 
est language; no man ever said such splendid extem- 
pore things on all subjects universally. That excessive 
liuency which astonished Ben Jonsou when he listened 
to Shakspeare in person astonishes the world yet. He 
was the greatest master of expression that literature has 
known. Indeed, by his powers of expression he has beg- 
gared and forestalled posterity. Such lightness and case 
in the manner, and such prodigious wcaltli and depth in 
the matter, are combined in no other writer." 



SILVIA. 

From "The Two Gentlemen of Verona." 

^Vho i.s Silvia ? What is she. 

That all our swains comiuend her f 

Holy, fair, and vise is she, 

The lieavcns sncli grace «Ud lend Iier, 

That she might adiiiii<5d bo. 

I.s .slio kind as she is fair. 

For beauty lives with kindness? 

Love doth to her eyes repair. 
To help liini of his blindness; 

And, being hel|ied, inhabits there. 

Tlien to Silvia let ns sing, 

That Silvia is excelling; 
She excels each mortal thing, 

Upon the dull eartli dwelling: 
To her let ns garlands bring. 



SIGH NO MORE. 

FR03I " JIucH .\D0 About Nothing." 

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more. 

Men w ere deceivers ever : 
One foot in sea, and one on f,liore, 
To one thing constant never: 
Then sigh not so, 
But let them go, 
Aud he yon blithe and bonny; 
Converting all your sonnds of woe 
Into hey nonny, nonny. 

Sing no more ditties, sing no mo. 

Of dumps so dull and heavy ; 

The fraud of men was ever so. 

Since snnnner first was leavy : 

Then sigh not so, 

15nt let them go, 

And be yon blithe and bonny; 

Converting all your sounds of woo 

Into hey nonny, uonuy. 



ARIEL'S SONG. 

From *' The Tempest." 

Where the bee sucks, there snck I ; 

In a cowslip's bell I lie ; 

There I conch when owls do cry , 

On the bat's back I do Hy 

After summer merrily : 

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now. 

Under the blossom that hangs on the bongli. 



MAN'S INGRATITUDE. 

From ".\s You Like It." 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 

Thou art. not so unkind 
As man's ingratitude ; 

Thy tooth is not so keen, 

Because thon art not seen, 
Although thy breath be rude. 
Heigh-ho ! sing, heigli-ho ! unto the green holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly 

Then lieigh-lio! the holly! 

This life is most jolly. 

Freeze, freeze, thon bitter sky, 
Thou dost not bite so nigh 
As benefits forgot : 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEAUK. 



£9 



TliDUgli thou the waters warp, 

Thy sting is not so sharp 
As friend remembered not. 
Hfi;;h-Iio ! slug, heigh-ho ! unto the green liolly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly! 

Then, heigh-ho! the holly! 

This life is most jolly. 



DIRGE OF IMOGEN. 

From "CVMBELINE." 

Fear no more the heat o' the sun. 
Nor the furious Tvinter's rages ; 

Thou thy worldly task hast done, 
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages : 

Golden lads and girls all ninst, 

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 

Fear no more the frown o' the great, 
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 

Care no more to clothe and eat ; 
To thee the reed is as the oak : 

The sceptre, learning, physic, must 

All follow this, and come to dust. 

Fear no more the lightning-flash, 
Nor the all-dreaded thuiidor-stoue ; 

Fear not slander, censure rash ; 
Thou hast finished joy and moan : 

All lovers young, all lovers must 

Cousigu to thee, and come to dust. 

No exorciscr harm thee ! 
Nor no witchcraft charm thee! 
Ghost unlaid forbear thee ! 
Nothing ill come near thee ! 

Quiet cousumraation have ; 

And renowndd be thy grave ! 



THE SONG OF WINTER. 

From *' Love's Labor Lost." 

When icicles hang by the wall, 

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail. 
And Tom bears logs into the hall, 

And milk comes frozen home iu pail. 
When blood is nipped, aud ways be foul, 
Then nightly sings the staring owl, 

To-who, 
To-whit, to-who, a merry note, 
While greasy Joan doth keel tlie pot. 



When all around the wind doth blow, 

And coughing drowns the parson's saw, 
And birds sit brooding iu the snow, 

And Marian's nose looks red and raw ; 
When roasted crabs hiss iu the bowl, 
Theu nightly sings the staring owl, 

To-who, 
To-whit, to-who, a merry note, 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 



CLOTEN'S SERENADE. 
From "CrsiBELisE." 

Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

Aud Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On chaliced flowers that lies; 
And winking Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
With everything that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet, arise ; 
Arise, arise! 



SONNETS. 



XVIIL 



Shall I compare thee to a summer's day f 
Thou art more lovely and more temperate : 
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, 
And summer's lease hath all too short a date. 
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines. 
And often is his gold complexion dinmied; 
And every fair from fair sometimes declines. 
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed : 
But thy eternal summer shall not fade, 
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; 
Nor shall Death brag thou wand'rest iu his shade, 
When iu eternal lines to time thou growest. 
So loug as men can breathe, or eyes can see, 
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 



AVhcn to the sessions of sweet silent thought 
I summon up remembrance of things past, 
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. 
And with old woes new wail my dear time's 

waste : 
Then can I drown an eye unused to flow, 
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, 
And weep afresh love's long-since cancelled woe, 
Aud moan th' expense of many a vanished sight. 



30 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEIilCAX rOETRY. 



Then can I grieve at grievances foregone 
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 
The sad account of fore-bemoau4d moan, 
Wliieli I new jiay as if not paid before : 
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, 
All losses are restored, and sorrows end. 

xxxm. 

Full many a glorious morning have I seen 
Flatter tlie mountain-tops witli sovereign eye, 
Kissing with golden face the meadows green. 
Gilding xiale streams with heavenly alchemy, — 
Auon permit the basest clouds to ride 
With ugly rack on his celestial face. 
And fiom the forlorn world his visage hide, 
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace. 
Even so my sun one early morn did sliine. 
With all-triumphant splendor on my brow ; 
But, out, alack! he was but one hour miue ; 
The region cloud hath masked him from me now. 
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth ; 
Suns of the world nniy stain, when heaven'.s sun 
staineth. 

i.iv. 

Oh, how mueh more doth beauty beauteous seem. 
By tlnit sweet ornament which truth doth gi ve ! 
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 
For that sweet odor which doth in it live. 
The canker-blooms' have full as deep a die, 
As the perfnuidd tincture of the roses ; 
Hang on such thorns, and l>lay as wautonly. 
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses; 
But, for their virtue only is their show. 
They live unwooed aiul unrespected fade ; 
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so ; 
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors made ; 
Aiul so of yon, beauteous and lovely youth, 
When that shall fade, my verse distils your truth. 

LV. 

Not marble, nor the gilded nionuuients 
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; 
But you shall shino more bright in these contents 
Than unwept stone, besmeared with sluttisli time. 
When wasteful war shall statues overturn. 
And broils root out the work of masonry, 
Nor Mars's sword nor war's quick fire sliall burn 
The living record of your memory. 
'Gainst death and all oblivious enmity 
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still lind 
room, 

' Cmiker-blnmiis ore fi-oni the canker-roses. 



Even in the eyes of all posterity. 
That wear this world out to the ending doom. 
So, till the judgment that yourself arise, 
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. 



Like as the waves make toward the iiebbled shore, 

So do our minutes hasten to their end ; 

Each clianging jdaee with that which goes before, 

la sequent toil all forwards do contend. 

Nativity once in the main of light, 

C'r.awls to m.aturity, wherewith being crowned, 

Crookdd eclipses 'gainst his glory tight. 

And time that gave doth now Lis gift confound. 

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youtli, 

And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, 

Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, 

And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow. 

And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand. 

Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. 



Then hate me when thou wilt ; if ever, now : 

Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross. 

Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow. 

And do not drop in for an after-loss. 

Ah! do not, when my heart hath 'scaped this sorrow, 

Come in the re.arward of a con(|uered woe; 

Give not a windy night a rainy morrow. 

To linger out a purposed overthrow. 

If thou wilt leave me, do uot leave me last, 

When other petty griefs have done their spite; 

But in the onset come: -.so shall I taste 

At first the very worst of fortune's might ; 

And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, 

C(uni>.ared with loss of thee, will not seem so. 

XCVIII. 
From you have I been absent in tlie spring, 
When proud-pied April, dressed in all liis trim. 
Hath jiut a .spirit of youth in everything, 
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him: 
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet .smell 
Of dirterent flowers in odor and in hue. 
Could make me any summer's story tell. 
Or from their proud lap iduck them where thiy 

grew : 
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, 
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; 
They were but sweet, but figures of dcliglit. 
Drawn after you ; you pattern o ' all those. 
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away, 
As with your sliailow I with these did [ilay : 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEAIiE. 



31 



Alas ! 'tis true I have gone liere and there, 

Anil made myself a motley to the view; 

Gored my own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear. 

Made old oft'onces of affections new : 

Most true it is that I have looked on truth 

Askance and strangely ; hut, hy all above. 

These blenches gave my heart another youth, 

And worse essays proved thee my best of love. 

Now all is done, save what shall have uo eud : 

Mine appetite I nevermoio will grind 

On newer proof, to try an older friend, 

A god in love, to whom I am couiinod. 

Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best. 

Even to thy pure and most, most loving breast. 



Oil, for my sake do you with Fortune chide, 
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds. 
That did uot better for my life provide, 
Thau public means, which public numners breeds. 
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand. 
And almost thence my nature is subdued 
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand. 
Pity me, then, and wish I were renewed. 
Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink 
Potions of eysell 'gainst my strong infection :' 
No bitterness that I will bitter think. 
Nor double penance, to correct correction. 
Pity me, then, dear friend ; and I assure ye. 
Even that your pity is enough to cure me. 

CXVI. 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 

Admit impediments: love is not love, 

Which alters when it alteration finds. 

Or bends with the remover to remove. 

Oil no ! it is an ever-fixdd mark. 

That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; 

It is the star to every wandering bark. 

Whose worth's unknown, altlio' his height be taken. 

Love's uot Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 

W^ithiu his bending sickle's compass come; 

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks. 

But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 

If this be error, and upon me proved, 

I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 



1 EifneU is ail old word for vinegar. Tliere .seems to be little 
tliMiln that ill tliis ami the preceding sonnet Shakspeare ex- 
presses some ofhis own honest feelings respecting hiniBelf and 
his orcnpation of player, in which he must have euconutered 
much that was humiliating, if uot demoralizing. 



Poor soul, the ceutre of my sinful earth. 
Fooled by those rebel powers that thee array. 
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth. 
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay ? 
Why so large cost, having so short a lease. 
Dost tlion upon thy fading mansion spend ? 
Sliall worms, inheritors of this excess, 
Eat up thy charge ? Is this thy body's end ? 
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's los.s. 
And let that pine to aggravate thy store. 
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; 
Within be fed, — without be rich no more. 
So slialt thou feed ou Deatli, that feeds on men ; 
And, Death once dead, there's no more dying then. 



The expense of spirit in a waste of shame 

Is hist in action; and till action, lust 

Is jjerjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame. 

Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust ; 

Enjoyed no sooner than despised straight ; 

Past reason hiiuted ; and no sooner had, 

Past reason hated; as a swallowed bait. 

On purpose laid to make the taker mad : 

Mad in pursuit, and in possession so ; 

Had, h.aviug, and in quest to have, extreme ; 

A bliss in proof — and proved, a very woe ; 

Before, a joy jiroposed ; behind, a dream : 

.\11 tliis the world well knows; yet none knows well 

To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. 



LTLYSSES'S ADVICE TO ACHILLES. 

From " Troilus and Cressida." 

Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back. 

Wherein he i>uts alms for oblivion, 

A great-sized monster of ingratitudes : 

Those scraps are good deeds past ; which are devoureil 

As fast as they are made, forgot as soon 

As done : Perseverance, dear my lord. 

Keeps honor blight : To have done is to hang 

Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail, 

lu monumental mockery. Take the instant way ; 

For honor travels in a strait so narrow, 

Where one but goes .abreast : keep, then, the path ; 

For emulation hath a thousand sons, 

That one by ouo pursue : If you give way. 

Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, 

Like to an entered tide, they all rush by. 

And leave von hindmost ; — 



32 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEBICAN POETIiT. 



Or, like ;i gallant horse fallen iu first rank, 
Lie there for pavement to the alijeet rear, 
Oerrnu and trampled on : Then what thcj' do in 

present. 
Though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours: 
For time is like a fashionable host. 
That slightly shakes his iiartiug guest by the hand. 
And with his arms outstretched, as he would fly, 
Grasps in the comer: Welcome ever smiles, 
And Farewell goes out sighing. Oh, let not virtue 

seek 
Remuneration for the thing it was; 
For beauty, wit. 

High birth, vigor of bone, desert in service. 
Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all 
To envious and calumniating time. 
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin, — 
That all, with one consent, praise new-born gawd.s, 
Though they are made and moulded of things past ; 
And give to dust that is a little gilt 
More laud than gilt o'erdusted. 
The present eye praises the present object; 
Then marvel not, thou great and complete man, 
That .all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax ; 
Since things in motion sooner catch the eye 
Than what not stirs. 



THE QUALITY OF MEKCY. 
FnoM '• The Mebcdant of Venice." 
The quality of mercy is not strained ; 
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath; it is twice blessed; 
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes: 
'Tis mightiest iu the mightiest; it becomes 
The throudd monarch better than his crown ; 
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power. 
The attribute to awe and majesty, 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; 
But mercy is above this sceptred sway, 
It is enthroned iu the hearts of kings. 
It is an attribute to God himself; 
And earthly power doth then show likest God's 
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
Though justice be thy plea, consider this, — • 
That iu the course of justice, none of ns 
Should see salvation : wo do pray for mercy. 
And that same prayer doth teach ns all to render 
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much 
To mitigate the justice of thy plea, 
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice 
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant 
there. 



MOONLIGHT AND MUSIC. 

From *' The Merchant of Venice." 

How sweet the moonliglit sleeps upon this bank ! 
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music 
Creep in our ears; .soft stillness, and the night 
Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
Sit, Jessica: look, how the floor of heaven 
Is thick inlaid with patens of bright gohl. 
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st 
But in his motion like an angel sings, 
Still quiring to the youug-eyed chernbims: 
Such harmony is in immortal sonls; 
But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. — 
Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hynni ; 
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress's ear. 
And draw her home with music. — 

" I am never merry when I liear sweet music." 
The reason is, your spirits are attentive : 
For do but note a wild and w;inton herd. 
Or race of youthful and nnhandled colts. 
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud. 
Which is the hot condition of their blood; 
If they bnt hear, perchauce, a trumpet sound. 
Or any air of music touch their ears. 
You shall perceive them make a mutn.al stand, 
Tlieir savage ej-es turned to a modest gaze. 
By the sweet jiower of music : therefore, the poet 
Did feign that Orjiheus drew trees, stones, and 

floods ; 
Since naught .so stockish, hard, and full of rage. 
But music for the time doth change his nature; 
The man that hath not music in himself. 
Nor is not moved with concord of sweet souuds, 
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; 
The motions of his spirit are dull as night, 
And his affections dark as Erebus: 
Let no such man be trusted. 



ENGLAND. 
From "Uicuard II." 
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle, 
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, 
This other Eden, demi-paradise ; 
This fortress, built by nature for herself, 
Against infection, and the hand of war; 
This happy breed of men, this little world, 
This precious stouo set in tlm silver sea. 
Which serves it iu the office of a wall. 
Or as a moat defensive to a house. 
Against the envy of less happier lands ; 



WILLIAM SEAKSPEARE. 



33 



This Ijlcsseil plot, tliis earth, this realm, tliis Eug- 

laiid. 
This dear, dear laud, 
Dear for her reimtation through the world. 



SONG FROM "TWELFTH NIGHT." 

O mistress miue! where are you roauiiug? 
O! stay and hear; your true love's coming, 

That can sing both high aud low: 
Trip no further, pretty sweeting ; 
Jourueys end in lovers' meeting. 

Every wise man's sou doth kuow. 

What is love? 'tis not hereafter: 
Present rairth hath present laughter ; 

What's to come is still unsure : 
In delay there lies no iileuty; 
Then come kiss me, sweet aud twenty, 

Youth's a stuff will not endure. 



HEXKY IV.'S SOLILOQUY ON SLEEP. 

How many thousands of my poorest subjects 
Are at this hour asleep! — O sleep! O gentle sleep! 
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, 
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, 
Aud steep my senses in forge (fulness? 
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs. 
Upon unea.sy pallets stretching thee. 
And hushed with buzzing uight-flies to thy slum- 
ber, 
Thau iu the perfumed chambers of the great, 
Uuder the canopies of costly state. 
And lulled with sound of sweetest melody? 
Oh, thou dull gud! why liest thou with the vile 
In loathsome beds, aud leav'st the kingly couch 
A wateh-case, or a common 'larum bell?' 
Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy mast, 
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains, 
In cradle of the rude imperious surge, 
Aud iu the visitation of the winds, 
Who take the ruffian billows by the top, 
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them 
With deaf'niug clamors iu the slippery clouds, 
That with the hurly death itself awakes? 
Can'st thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose 
To the wet sea-boy iu au hour so rude, 

' The alarm of danger was commnnicated by the watchman 
in garrisnn towns hy a bell. " He had a case oi- box to shelter 
him from the weather." 

3 



And, in the calmest and most stillest night, 
With all appliauces aud means to boot. 
Deny it to a king? — Then, happj- low, lie down I 
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. 



DETACHED PASSAGES FROM THE PLAYS. 

How far that little candle throws his beams! 
So shiues a good deed in a naughty world. 

Love all, trust a few. 
Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy 
Rather in power than use; aud keep thy friend 
Under thy own life's key: be checked for silence, 
Bnt never taxed for speech. 

The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
Y'ea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve; 
Aud, like this insubstantial iiageaut faded. 
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff 
As dreams are made on, and our little life 
Is rounded with a sleep. 

O world, thy slippery turns ! Friends now fast 

sworn, 
Whoso double bosoms seem to wear one heart. 
Whose hours, whose bed, whose meal, aud exercise, 
Are still together; who twin, as 'twere, iu love 
Unseparable, shall within this hour, 
On a dissension of a doit, break out 
To bitterest enmity: so, fellest foes. 
Whose passions and whose plots have broke their 

sleep. 
To take the one the other, by some chance, 
Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear 

friends, 
And interjoin their issues. 

So it falls out. 
That what we have we prize not to the wonli, 
Whiles we enjoy it; but being lacked and lost, 
Why then we rack the value ; then we find 
The virtue that possession would not show ns 
Whiles it was ours. 

Cowards die many times before their deaths ; 
The valiant never taste of death bnt once. 
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard. 
It seems to me most strange that men should fear ; 
Seeing that death, a necessary end, 
Will come when it will come. 



34 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRT. 



Our iudiscretion sometimes serves us well, 
WLieu our ileep plots do pall ; aud that should 

teach us, 
There's a diviuity that shapes our euds, 
Rougli-hew them how Tve will. 

There is some soul of gooduess in tbiugs evil, 
Would meu observingly distil it out. 
For our bad neighbor makes us early stirrers, 
Which is both healthful, aud good husbandry: 
Besides, they are our outward couscieuces, 
Aud preachers to us all; admouishiug, 
That we should dress us faiily for our end. 
Thus may we gather honey from the weed, 
Aud ni.ake a moral of the devil himself. 

O momentary grace of mortal men. 
Which we more hunt for than the grace of God! 
Who builds his hope in air of your good looks, 
Lives like a druuken sailor on a mast; 
Ready with every uod to tumble down 
Into the fatal bowels of the deep. 

Who sh.all go .about 
To cozen fortune, aud be honorable 
Witbout the stamp of merit? Let none presume 
To wear an undeserviSd dignity. 
Oil th.at estates, degrees, aud offices, 
Were not derived corruptly ! aud that clear honor 
Were purchased by the merit of the wearer! 
How many then should cover that stand bare ; 
How many bo commanded, that command; 
How nuicb low peasantry would then be gleaned 
From the true seed of honor; aud how much honor 
Picked from the cliaft" aud ruin of the times 
To be uew varnished! 



iJoljn lUcbstcr. 



Webster {circa 1570-1640) and Thomas Dckker were 
partners in writing plays. Webster also wrote for the 
stage independently, and ranks among the chief of the 
minor EUzabeth.'in tragic dramatists. Cliarles Lamb said 
of the following dirge from "The White Devil," that he 
knew nothing like it, except the ditty that reminds Fer- 
dinand of his drowned father, in "Tlie Tempest." "As 
that is of llie water watery, so this is of the earth earthy." 



A DIRGE. 

Call for the robin-redbreast aud the wren. 
Since o'er shady groves they hover, 



And with leaves and flowers do cover 

The friendless bodies of uuburied meu. 

Call uuto his funeral dole 

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, 

To rear Irim hillocks that shall keep him w.arm, 

And, when gay tombs are robbed, sustain no harm; 

But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to meu, 

For with his nails he'll dig them up agaiu. 



FROM "THE DUCHESS OF MALFI." 

This tragedy turns on the mortal offence which the duchess 
gives to her two pi-oud brothers by iudulgiug in a generous 
though infatuated passion fur Autouio, her steward. 

Cariola. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers! Alas! 
What will you do with my Lady? Call for help. 

Duchess. To whom ? to our uext ueighbors ? They 
are mad folks. 
Farewell, Cariola. 

I pray thee look thon giv'st my little boy 
Some sirup for his cold ; and let the girl 
Say her prayers ere she sleep. — Now what you 

please. 
What death ? 

Bosola. Strangling. Here are your executioners. 

Duch. I forgive them. 
The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' the lungs, 
Would do as much as they do. 

Dos. Doth not death fright you ? 

Duch. Who would be afraid ou't. 
Knowing to meet such excellent company 
In the other world. 

Bos. Yet, methiuks, 
The manner of your death should much atBict you : 
This cord should terrify you. 

Duch. Not a whit. 
What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut 
With diamonds ? or to be smothered 
With cassia ? or to be shot to death with pearls ? 
I know death hath ten thousand several doors 
For men to take their exits : aud 'tis found 
They go on such strange geometrical hinges. 
You may open them both ways : any way — for 

heaven sake — 
So I were out of your whispering. Tell my brothers 
That I peiceive death — now I'm well awake — 
Best gift is they can give or I can take. 
I would fain put off my last woman's fault ; 
I'd not be tedious to you. 

Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength 
Must jinll down heaven uiion me. 
Yet stay : heaven gates are not so highly arched 
As priuces' palaces ; they that enter there 



SIR ROBERT AYTOS.— ALEXANDER HUME. 



35 



Must go upon tLeir knees. Come, violeut death, 
Serve for mandragora to make me sleej). 
Go, tell my brothers : when I am laid out. 
They then may feed in quiet. 

[Tlui) strangle licr, IcuccVmg. 



Sir Uobcvt Canton. 



A Scottish courtier and poet, Ayton (1570-1638) en- 
joyetl, lilie Drummond, the advantages of foreign travel, 
and of acquaintance with English poets. He was born 
in Fifcshire. Ben Jonson seemed proud of liis friend- 
ship, for he told Drummond that Sir Robert loved him 
(Jonson) dearly. Au edition of Ayton's poems was pub- 
lished as late as 1871. 



ON WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. 

I loved thee once, I'll love no more ; 

Thine be the grief, as is the blame ; 
Thou art not what thou wast before : 
What reason I should be the same ? 
He that can love uuloved again 
Hath better store of love thau brain : 
God send me love my debts to pay. 
While uuthrifts fool their love away. 

Nothing could have my love o'erthrown. 

If thou badst still continued mine ; 
Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own, 
I might, perchance, have yet been thine. 
But thou thy freedom did recall. 
That if thou might elsewhere Intlirall ; 
And then how could I hut disdain 
A captive's ca^jtive to remain ? 

When new desires had conquered thee. 
And changed the object of thy will. 
It had been lethargy in me, 

Not constancy, to love thee still. 
Yea, it had been a sin to go 
And iirostitute affection so ; 
Since wo are taught no prayers to say 
To such as must to others pray. 

Yet do thou glory in thy choice. 

Thy choice of his good fortune boast ; 
I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice 
To see him gain what I have lost ; 
The height of my disdain shall bo 
To laugh at him, to blush for thee ; 
To love thee still, but go no more 



!vllcianbcr tjumc. 



Hume (circa 1560-1609) was a minister of the Scotch 
Kirk in the latter half of the seventeenth century. He 
published in Edinburgh, in 1599, a collection of " Hymns, 
or Sacred Songs," of which now only three copies are 
known to exist. The "Story of a Summer Day" has 
some precious passages, showing an original vein, but 
it is much too long. Campbell and Trench have both 
abridged it, and the same liberty has been taken iu tlie 
following version. Hume died in 1609. 



THE STORY OF A SUMMER DAY. 

O perfect Light, which shaid' away 

The darkne-ss from the light. 
And set a ruler o'er the day. 

Another o'er the night, — 
Thy glory, when the day forth flies. 

More ■\'ively doth appear 
Thau at mid-day tiuto our eyes 

The shining sun is clear! 

The shadow of the earth anon 

Removes and draw<5s by. 
While in the east, when it is gone. 

Appears a clearer sky ; 
Which soon perceive the little larks. 

The lapwing, and the snipe. 
And tune their songs, like Nature's clerks 

O'er meadow, moor, and stripe. 
****** 
The dew upon the tender crops, 

Like iiearl6s white and round, 
Or like to melted silver drops, 

Refreshes all the ground. 
The misty reek, iu clouds of rain, 

From tops of mountains scales ; 
Cle.ar are the highest hills and plain. 

The vapors take the vales. 

The ample heaven, of fabric sure. 

In cleanness doth surpass 
The crystal and the silver pure, 

Or clearest polished glass. 
The time so tranquil is and still. 

That nowhere shall ye find. 
Save on a high and barren hill. 

An air of pijiing wind. 



^ Perfect of the verb to sche(i, or shed; Gerai.in, acheideti, to 
part, or separate from one auotlier. 



36 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN FOETRT. 



Calm is the deep and imrple sea, 

Yea, smoother than tlie sand ; 
The waves, that weltering wont to be, 

Are stable like the land. 
So silent is the cessile' air, 

That every crj' and eall. 
The hills and dales and forest fair, 

Again repeats them all. 

The sun, most like a speedy post, 

With ardent course ascends ; 
The beauty of the heavenly host 

Up to our zenith tends. 
* # if * # » 

The herds beneath some leafy tree — 

Amidst the flowers they lie ; 
The stable ships upon the sea 

Tend \\\> their sails to dry. 

With gilded eyes and open wings, 

The eock his courage shows ; 
With claps of joy his breast he dings, 

And twenty times he crows. 
The dove with whistling wings so blue 

The winds can fast collect, — 
Her purple pens turn many a hue 

Against the sun direct. 

Xow noon is went ; gone is mid-day ; 

The heat doth slake at last ; 
The sun descends down west away, 

For three o'clock is past. 
The rayons of the siin we see 

Diminish in their strength, 
The shade of every tower and tree 

E.xteuded is in length. 

The gloaming comes, the day is spent, 

The suu goes out of sight, 
And painted is the Occident 

With purple sanguine bright. 
What pleasure were to walk and see, 

End-lang a river clear. 
The ]ierfect form of every tree 

Within the deei) appear! 

Oh, then it were a seemly thing, 

AVhile all is still and calm, 
The praise of God to play and sing 

AVith cornet and with shalm ! 



I An nmutliorized woril, probably tlip equivnlent oi cessihle, 
yieldiug, giviug way ; from the Latiu, cedo, cessurtu 



All laborers draw homo at even. 

And can to other say, 
" Thanks to the gracious God of heaven, 

Which sent this summer day!" 



(Lljoinas Cjcniuooi). 

The dates of tliis writer's birth and death are unknown. 
He is found writing for tlic stage in 159G, and he contin- 
ued to exercise liis ready pen down to the year 16-10. He 
lived in the reigns of Elizaljeth, James I., and Charles I. 
He had, as he informs his readers, " an entire hand, or at 
least a main finger," in two hundred and twenty plays. 
He wrote, also, several prose works, besides attending to 
his busiuesss as an actor. Of liis plays only twenty-three 
h.ave come down to us; and among the best is "The 
Woman killed with Kindness." He seems to have been 
a man of genius; and liis "Search after God" is a very 
noble poem, showing that, in his higher moods, the true 
spirit of poesy animated the humble playwright. 



FANTASIES OF DRUNKENNESS. 

From " Tue Englisu Tkaveller." 

This gentleman and I 

Passed but just now by your next neighbor's Louse, 
Where, as they say, dwells one yonug Lionel, 
Au nnthrift youth ; his father now at sea : 
And there, this night, was held a sumptuous feast. 
In the height of their carousing, all their brains 
Wanned with the heat of wine, discourse was of- 
fered 
Of ships and storms at sea ; when, suddenly. 
Out of his giddy wildness, one conceives 
The room wherein they quafl'ed to be a pinnace, 
Moving and floating, and the confused uoiso 
To be the murmuring winds, gusts, mariners ; 
That their unsteadfast footing did iiroceed 
From rocking of the vessel. This conceived. 
Each one begins to apprehend the danger. 
And to look out for safety. Fly, saith one. 
Up to the main-top, and discover. He 
Climbs by the bedpost to the tester, there 
Reports a turbulent sea and tempest towards. 
And wills them, if they'll save their ship and lives, 
To cast their lading overboard. At this, 
All fall to work, and hoist into the street. 
As to the sea, what nest came to their hand — 
Stools, tables, tressels, trenchers, bedsteads, cups. 
Pots, i)late, and glasses. Here a fellow whistles ; 
They take liiiu for the boatswain : one lies strug- 
aling 



THOMAS HEYWOOD. 



37 



Upon the floor, as if lio swam for life ; 

A third tates the hass-viol for the cock-boat, 

Sits in the liollow on't, labors, aud rows ; 

His oar, the stick witli which the fiddler played ; 

A fourth bestrides his fellow, thinking to escape, 

As did Arion, on the dolphin's back. 

Still fumbling on a gittern. The rude multitude, 

Watching without, and gaping for the spoil 

Cast from the windows, went by the ears about it. 

The constable is called to atone the broil ; 

Which done, and hearing such a noise within 

Of imminent shipwreck, enters the house, and finds 

them 
In this confusion ; they adore his staff. 
And think it Xeptuiie's trident ; and that ho 
Comes with his Tritons (so they called his watch) 
To calm the tempest, and appease the waves : 
And at this point _we left them. 



SONG: PACK CLOUDS AWAY. 

Pack clouds away, and welcome day, 

With night we banish sorrow : 
Sweet air, blow soft, mount, lark, aloft, 

To give my love good-morrow. 
Wings from the wind to please her mind. 

Notes from the lark I'll borrow ; 
Bird, prune thy wing ! nightingale, sing ! 

To give my love good-morrow. 

To give my love good-morrow, 
Notes from them all I'll borrow. 

AVake from thy nest, robin-redbreast ! 

Sing, birds, in every furrow; 
Aud from each bill let music shrill 

Give my fair love good-morrow ! 
Blackbird aud thrush, in every bush, 

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow, 
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves, 

Sing my fair love good-morrow. 
To give my love good-morrow, 
Sing, birds, in e^ery furrow. 



SEARCH AFTER GOD. 

I sought thee round about, O thou, my God ! 

In thine abode : 
I .said nuto the earth, " Speak, art thon he ?" 

She answered me, 
" I am not." I inquired of creatures all. 

In general, 



Contained therein : they with one voice proclaim 
That none amongst them challenged such a name. 

I asked the seas and all tbe deeps below. 

My God to know ; 
I asked the reptiles and whatever is 

lu the abyss : — ■ 
Even from the shrimp to the leviathan 

Inquiry ran ; 
But in those deserts which no line can sound, 
The God I sought for was not to be found. 

I asked the air if that were he ; but lo ! 

It told me " No." 
I from the towering eagle to the wren 

Demanded then, 
If any feathered fowl 'niongst them were such ; 

But they all, much 
Ofl'ended with my question, in full choir, 
Answered, "To find thy God thou must look higher." 

I asked the heavens, sun, moon, and stars; but they 

Said, " Wo obey 
The God thou seekest." I asked what eye or ear 

Could see or hear, — 
What in the world I might descry or know 

Above, below ; 
With an unanimous voice, all these things said, 
" We are not God, but we by him were made." 

I asked tlie world's great universal mass. 

If tliat God was ; 
Which with a mighty and strong voice replied. 

As stupefied, 
" I am not he, O man ! for know that I 

By him on high 
Was fashioned first of nothing ; thus instated 
And swayed by him by whom I was created." 

I sought the court; but smooth-tongued flattery 
there 

Deceived each ear ; 
In the thronged city there was selling, buying. 

Swearing and lying; 
In the country, craft in sinipleness arrayed ; 

And then I said, — 
" Vain is my search, although my pains be great : 
Where my God is tliere can be no deceit." 

A scrutiny within myself I then 

Even thus began : 
'• O man, what art thou ?" What more could I say 

Thau dust and clay, — 



33 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEEICAX rOETHY. 



Frail mortal, fading, a mere pufi", a blast, 

Tliat cannot last ; 
Enthroned to-day, to-morrow in an urn. 
Formed from that earth to which I umst return ? 

] asked myself what this great God might he 

That fashioned me ? 
I answered : The all-potent, sole, immense, — 

Snrpassiug sense ; 
I'uspeakable, inscrutable, eternal, 

Lord over all ; 
The only terrible, strong, just, and true. 
Who hath no end, and no beginning knew. 

He is the well of life, for he doth give 

To all that live 
Both breath and being ; he is the Creator 

Both of the water. 
Earth, air, and tire. Of all things that subsist 

Ho hath the list, — 
Of all the heavenly liost, or irhat earth claims. 
He keeps the scroll, and calls them by their 
names. 

And now, my God, by thine illumining grace. 

Thy glorious face 
(So far forth as it may discovered be) 

Methinks I see ; 
And though invisible and intinite 

To human sight, 
Thon, in thy mercy, justice, truth, appearest, 
lu whielj, to our weak sense, thou comest nearest. 

Oil, make us apt to seek, and quick to lind, 

Thou God, most kind ! 
Give ns love, hope, and faith, in thee to trust, 

Thou God, most just ! 
Remit all our offences, we entreat, 

Most good ! most great ! 
Grant that our \villing, though unworthy, quest 
May, through thy grace, admit us 'mongst the blest. 



King 3amcs 3. of Cnglanii. 

James VI. of Scotland and I. of England (1566-163.5), 
the only offspring of Jlary, queen of Scots, by her sec- 
ond husband, Henry Stuart (Lord Darnlcy), was a prolific 
author, and wrote both prose and verse. The following 
sonnet from his pen will compare not unfavorably with 
the verses of some cnnfcmporary poets of fame. It is 
noteworthy that Mary, her son James, and her grandson, 
Charles I., all wrote poetry. 



SONNET: TO PRINCE HENRY. 

God gives not kings the style of gods in vain. 
For on the throne liis sceptre do they sway; 
And as their subjects ought them to obey. 
So kings should fear and serve their God again. 
If, theu, yon would enjoy a happy reign, 
Observe the statutes of our heavenly King, 
Aud from his law make all your law to spring. 
If his lieutenant here you would remain. 
Reward the just; be steadfast, true, and plain ; 
Repress the iiroud, maintaining aye the right ; 
Walk always so as ever in His sight 
Who guards the godly, plaguing the profane ; 
And so shall yon in princely virtues shine. 
Resembling right yonr mighty King divine. 



(Ll)oinas ^'asl). 



Nash (circa 1.564-1600) wrote a comedy called "Sum- 
mer's Last Will and Testament," which was acted before 
Queen Elizabeth in 1593. He was also concerned with 
Marlowe in writing the tragedy of "Dido." He was 
the Churchill of his day, and filmed for his satires. He 
speaks of bis life as "spent in fantastical satirism, in 
whose veins heretofore I misspent my spirit, and prodi- 
gally conspired ag.iinst good hours." 



SPRING. 

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king : 
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring. 
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, 
Cuckoo, juff-jiKj, pii-tcc, to-u-ilt u-imo. 

The palm and May make country liou.ses gay. 
Lambs frisk and i)lay, the shepherds pipe all day, 
And wo hear aye birds tune this merry lay. 
Cuckoo, jiig-jitg, pu-wc, to-u'Ut a-woo. 

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet. 
Young lovers meet, old-wives a-snnuing sit, 
In every street these tunes our ears do greet. 
Cuckoo, jiKj-jiig, pn-we, to-xeitt a-ifoo. 
Spring, the sweet Spring ! 



THE COMING OF WINTER. 

Autumn hath all the summer's fruitful treasure : 
Gone is our sport, fled is our Croydon's pleasure ! 
Short days, sharp days, long nights, come on ajiace. 
Ah, who shall hide us from tho winter's face? 



SIK HEXUr WOTTOX. 



39 



Ci>l(l tlotU iuerease, the sickness will not cease, 
Anil here -we lie, God knows, with little ease. 
From winter, jtlague, and pestilence. 
Good Lord, deliver us ! 

London doth mourn, Lamheth is quite forlorn ! 
Trades cry, woe worth that ever they were born ! 
The want of term is town and city's harm : 
Close chambers we do want to keep us warm. 
Long banished must wo live now from our friends: 
This low-built house will bring us to our ends. 
From winter, plague, and pestilence, 
Good Lord, deliver us! 



THE DECAY OF SUMMER. 

Fair Summer droops, droop men and beasts, there- 
fore ; 
So fair a summer look for nevermore : 
All good things vanish less than in a day ; 
Peace, jileuty, pleasure, suddenly decay. 

Go not yet away, bright sonl of the sad year ; 

The earth is hell when thou leavest to ap- 
pear. 
What ! shall those flowers that decked thy garland 

erst 
Upon thy grave be wastefnlly dispersed ? 
O trees, consume your sap in sorrow's source! 
Streams, turn to tears your tributary course ! 

Go not yet hence, bright soul of the sad year ; 

The earth is hell when tlion leavest to appear. 



Sir C)cnrri lHotton. 

Wotton (1568-1639), a gentleman of Kent, was ambas- 
sador at Venice, under James I., and afterward Provost 
of Eton. He wrote a short poem " in praise of angling," 
and was the friend of Izaak Walton. As an early discov- 
erer of Mdton's transcendent genius, he showed his su- 
perior literary culture. Of the finnous little poem, " Tlie 
Happy Life," Trench tells us there are at least half a doz- 
en texts, with an infinite variety of readings, these being 
particularly numerous in the third stanza, which is, in- 
deed, somewhat obscure as it now stands. Tlie lieliqidw 
Wuttonianw, in wliieli the poem was first published, ap- 
peared in 1651, some twelve years after Wottou's death ; 
but much earlier MS. copies are in existence : thus one, 
in the handwriting of Edward AUeyn, apparently of date 
1616. In some versions the word accusers is changed to 
oppressors in the last line of the fourth stanza. A little 
reflection will show that the former is the preferable 
word. Both Trench and Palgrave so regard it, and adopt 
it as the more autheutic reading. 



ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA. 

Yon meaner beauties of the night. 
Which poorly satisfy our eyes. 

More by your number than your light, — 
Y(m conmion people of the skies. 
What are you when the Moou shall rise ? 

You violets that first appear. 

By your pure purple mantles knowu, 

Like the proud virgins of the year. 
As if the spring were all your own, — 
What are you when the Rose is blown ? 

You curious chanters of the wood. 

That warble forth D.ame Nature's lays, 

Thinking your passions understood 

By your weak accents, — what's your praise, 
When Philomel her voice doth raise f 

So when my Mistress shall be seen 
lu form and beauty of her miud. 

By virtue first, theu choice, a Queen, 
Tell me, if she were not designed 
The eclii)se and glory of her kind ? 



THE HAPPY LIFE. 

How happy is ho boru and taught 
That serveth not another's will ! 

Whose armor is his honest thought. 
And simple truth his utmost skill ! 

Whose passions not his masters are ; 

Whose soul is still prepared for death ; 
Not tied unto the world with care 

Of pnblic fame or private breath : 

Who envies none that chance doth raise, 
Or vice ; who never understood 

How deepest wounds are given by praise ; 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good : 

Who hath his life from rumors freed ; 

Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; 
Whose state can neither flatterers feed. 

Nor rniu make accusers great : 

Who God doth late and early pray 
More of his grace than gifts to lend, 

And entertains the harmless day 
With a religious book or friend ; — 



40 



CTCLOPJLDIA OF BUITISU ASD AMEIUCAX POETRY. 



This man ia freed from servile bauds 
Of liopc to rise, or fear to fall ; 

Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 
And having nothing, yet hath all. 



iJoljn Cillj). 



Lilly {circa 1551-1601 ) was a native of Kent. His i^rin- 
eipal work was a prose romance ealled " Euphues." The 
name of the book has passed, as an abstract term, into 
our lanijuage ; but the book itself is no longer read, and 
the cuphuislic method of expression is chiefly known to 
us in these days by caricatures. Lilly wrote nine plays, 
in which some songs occur. The following is from his 
play of " Campaspc," 1584. 



CUPID AND CAMPASPE. 

C'npid and my Canipaspe played 

At cards for kisses; Cnpid paid. 

He stakes his qniver, bow, and arrows, 

His mother's doves and team of sparrows ; 

Loses them too; then down ho throws 

Tlio coral of his lip, the rose 

Growing on his cheek, but none knows how 

With these the crystal of his brow, 

And then the dimple of his chin : — 

All these did my Campaspo win. 

At last ho set her both his eyes ; 

Sho won, and Cujiid blind did rise. 

O Love ! has she done this to thee ? 

Wliat shall, alas, become of me ! 



f)cuvii Olonstablc. 



Born about 1.5fi0, and educated at Oxford, Constable 
published, in 1584, "Diana, or the excellent conceitful 
sonnets of II. C." The volume w.as reprinted for the 
Roxburghc Club in 1818. The following is from "Eng- 
land's Helicon," first published in 1600. 



DIAPHENIA. 

Diaphcnia, like the dalTadowTidilly, 

White as tho sun, fair as the lily, 
H<'igh-ho, how I do love thee ! 

I do love thee as my Iambs 

Are belovM of their dams ; 
How blest were 1 if thou wonld'st prove me ! 

Diaphenia, like the siircading roses, 
That in thy sweets all sweets enclosec, 



Fair sweet, how I do love thee ! 
I do love thee as each flower 
Loves the snn's life-giving power; 

For dead, thy breath to life might move me. 

Diaiihenia, like to all things bless<!d, 
When all thy praises are expressed, 

Dear joy, how I do love thee ! 

As tho birds do love the spring. 
Or tho bees their carefnl king : 

Then in reqnite, sweet virgin, love mc ! 



iostplj tjall. 



Hall (1574^1656), bishop successively of Exeter in 1627, 
and of Norwich in 1641, is remembered chiefly for his 
prose theological works, written in the reigns of James 
and Charles. His only poems were a collection of Sat- 
ires, composed at Cambridge University before his twen- 
ty-third year. They were condemned to be burnt in 
1.599, by an order of Bishop Bancroft. Hall's satire on 
the amatory poets of his day, of which we give a speci- 
men, is coarse, but apt aud pithy. 



ANTHEM FOR THE CATHEDRAL OF EXETER. 

Lord, what am I ? A worm, dust, vajior, nothing ! 
Wliat is my life ? A dream, a daily dying ! 
What is my flesh? My soul's uneasy clothing! 
What is my time ? A miunte ever flying ! 

My time, my flesh, my life, and I — 

What are we, Lonl, but vanity ? 

Where am I, Lord ? Down in a vale of death ! 

What is my trade? Sin, my dear God oftending; 

My sport, sin too! my stay a pnff of breath! 

What end of .sin? Hell's horror never-ending! 
My way, my trade, sport, stay, and place 
Help to make np my doleful case. 

Lord, what art thou? Pure life, power, beauty, bliss! 

Where dwell'st thou? Up above in perfect liglit. 

Wlnit is thy Time? Eternity it is. 

What state? Attendance of each glorious spirit. 
Thyself, thy place, thy days, thy state 
Pass all the thoughts of powers create. 

How .shall I reach thee. Lord ? Oh, soar above, 

Ambitious soul! But which w.ay should I fly ? 

TIiou, Lord, art way and end. What wings have I? 

Aspiring thoughts, of faith, of hope, of love. 
Oh, let these wings that way alone 
Present mo to thy blissful throne! 



JOHK MAUSTON.—DH. JOHN DONNE. 



41 



ON LOVE POETRY. 
Satire III., Book II. 

Great is tUo folly of a feeble brain 

O'eiTuled with love aud tyrannous disdain : 

Por love, however in the basest breast 

It breeds high thoughts that feed the fancy best, 

Yet is he blind, aud leads poor fools awry. 

While they hang gazing on their mistress' eye. 

The love-sick poet, whose importune prayer 

Eepuls<5d is with resolute despair, 

Iliipeth to conquer his disdainful dame 

With public plaints of his conceiv<?d Unme. 

Then pours he forth in patched sonnetings 

His love, his lust, aud loathsome flatterings ; 

,Vs though the staring world hanged on his sleeve, 

When once he smiles to laugh, and when he sighs 

to grieve. 
C'arcth the world thou love, thou live, or die ? 
Careth the world how fair tliy i'air one be ? 
Fond wit-wal, that wonldst load thy witless head 
With timely horns before thy bridal bed! 
Then can he term his dirly, ill-faced bride 
Lady aud queen and virgin deified: 
Be she all sooty-bl.ack or berry-brown. 
She's white as morrow's milk or flakes new-blown : 
And though she be some dunghill drndge at home. 
Yet can he her resign some refuse room 
Amidst the well-known stars ; or if not there. 
Sure will he saint her in his Kalendere. 



lolju illavstou. 



Marston, a rough but vigorous satu'ist and dramatic 
writer, produced liis "Malcontent," a comedy, prior to 
leOO. Ho was educated at Oxford, became lecturer at 
tlie Middle Temple, aud died in 103.3. He wrote eight 
plays, and three books of Satires, called "The Scourge 
of Vilhiny." 



THE SCHOLAR AND HIS SPANIEL. 

I was a scholar : seven useful springs 
Did I deflower in quotations 
Of crossed opinions 'bout the soul of man ; 
The more I learnt, the more I learnt to doubt. 
Delight, my spaniel, slept, while I turned le.ave.s. 
Tossed o'er the dunces, pored on the old print 
Of titled words: aud still my spaniel slept; 
Whilst I w.asted lamp-oil, baited my flesh, 
Shrunk up my veins : and still my spaniel slept ; 
And still I held converse with Zabarell, 
Aquinas, Scotus, and the musty saw 



Of antick Donate : still my spaniel slept. 

Still on went I; first, «» sit anima ; 

Then, an it were mortal. Oh, hold, hold ! at that 

They're at brain buffets, fell by the ears amain 

Pell-mell together : still my spaniel slept. 

Then, whether 'twere corporeal, local, fixed. 

Ex traduce; but whether 't had free-will 

Or no ; hot philosophers 

Stood banding factiou.s, all so strongly propjjed, 

I staggered, knew not which was firmer part. 

But thought, quoted, read, observed, and pried, 

Stnti'ed noting-books : aud still my sp.auiel slept. 

At length he waked, and yawned ; and by yon sky. 

For aught I know, ho knew as much as I. 



TO DETRACTION I PRESENT MY POESIE. 

Foul canker of fair virtuous action, 

Vile blaster of the freshest blooms on earth. 

Envy's abhorred child, Detraction, 

I here expose to thy all-tainting breath 

The issne of my brain : snarl, rail, bark, bite; 

Know that my spirit scorns Detraction's spite. 

Know that the Genius which attendeth on 

And guides my powers intellectual, 

Holds in all vile repute Detraction. 

My soul — an essence metaphysical. 

That in the basest sort scorns critic's rage, 
Because he knows his sacred parentage, — 

My spirit is not imfl'cd up with fiit fume 
Of slimy ale, nor Bacchus' heating grape. 
My mind disdains the dungy, muddy scum 
Of abject thoughts aud Envy's raging hate. 
True judgment slight regards Opinion, 
A sprightly wit disdains Detraction. 

A partial praise shall never elevate 

My settled censure of my own esteem : 

A cankered verdict of malignant hate 

Shall ne'er provoke me worse mj-self to deem. 

Spite of despite and rancor's villauy, 

I am myself, so is my poesy. 



Dr. 3o[}n Poimc. 



Donne (1.573-1631) was born in London, aud as a child 
w.is a prodigy of learning. He became Chaplain in Ordi- 
nary to James I., and Dean of St. Paul's. Much against 
the wishes of his devoted wife, he accompanied Sir Rob- 
ert Drury on an embassy to Paris. While there, Donne 



42 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



had a isincnlar vision, wliich is often rcproducecl among 
stoi'ics of psychical or supersensual power. He saw (as 
Izaali Walton narrates) the apparition of his ■nife enter 
his room, bearing a dead child ; and shortly after he 
heard that his wife had been delivered of a still-born 
child at the very moment. The best known poetical 
writings of Donne are his "Satires," and "The Progress 
of the Soul." His poems are characterized by brilliant 
wit, depth of reflection, and terseness of language; but 
his versitication is generally rugged and uncoutli, and he 
is often so obscure as to task the closest attention. 



SONNET. 

Death, be not proud, though some have calldd thee 
Mighty and dreadful ; for thou art uot so : 
YoY those whom thou thiuk'st thou (lost overthrow 
Die uot, poor Death ; uor yet caust thou kill me. 
Prom rest and sleep, which but thy picture be, 
Much pleasure ; then from thee much more must 

flow. 
Aud soonest our best men with theo do go. 
Rest of their bones, aud soul's delivery! 
Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, hiug.s, aud desperate 

lueu. 
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell ; 
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well. 
Or better, than thy stroke : why swell'st thou then ? 
One short sleep past, we wake eternally, 
Aud Death shall be no more : Death, thou shalt die ! 



THE SOUL'S FLIGHT TO HEAVEN. 

Think in how poor a prison thou didst lie! 

* # ^ * # * 

But think that_ Death hath now enfranchised thee! 
Aud think tliis slow-paced Soul which late did 

cleave 
To a body, and went but by the body's leave. 
Twenty, perchance, or thirty miles a day, 
Desi)atches in a minute all the way 
'Twixt heaven aud earth ! She stays not in the air. 
To lo(dc what meteors there themselves pn^parc ; 
She carries no desire to know, nor sense, 
Whetlier the air's middle region is intense ; 
For the element of fire, she doth not know 
Whether she passed by such a place or no ; 
She baits not at the moon, nor cares to try 
Whether in that new world men live and die; 
Venus retards her not to iuquire how she 
Can, being one star, Hesper and Vesper bo. 
He that charmed Argus' eyes, sweet Mercury, 
Works uot on her who now is grown all eye; 



Who, if she meet the body of the Sun, 
Goes through, not stayiug till her course be run ; 
Who finds in Mars's camp no corps of guard ; 
Nor is by Jove, nor by his father, barred ; 
But, ere she can consider how she went, 
At once is at, and through, the firmament : 
Aud, as these stars were but so many beads 
Strung on oue string, speed undistinguished leads 
Her through those spheres, as through those bead;i 

a string. 
Whose quick succession makes it still oue thing : 
As doth the pith which, lest our bodies slack, 
Strings fast the little bones of neck aud back. 
So by the Soul doth Death string Heaven and 
Earth. 



ELEGY ON MISTEESS ELIZABETH DRUEY. 

She of whose soul, if we may say 'twas gold, 
Her body was the Electrum, aud did hold 
Many degrees of that — we understood 
Her by her sight : her pure aud eloquent blood 
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wi-ought, 
Tliat one might almost say her body thought. 
Slic, she, thus richly, largely housed, is goue. 
And chides us slow-jiaced snails who crawl upon 
Our prison's prison. Earth, uor think us well 
Louger than whilst we bear our little shell. 

— She whom we celebrate is goue before : 
She who had here so much essential joy, 
As no chance could distract, much less destroy ; 
Who with God's presence was acquainted .so 
(Hearing aud speaking to him) as to know 
His face in any natural stone or tree 
Better than when iu images they be ; 
Who kept, by diligent devotion, 
God's image in such reparation 
Within her heart, that what decay was grown 
Was her first Parent's fault, and not her own ; 
Who, being solicited to any act, 
Still heard God pleading his safe pre-contract ; 
Who by a faithful confidence was here 
Betrothed to God, and now is married there ; 
Whose twilights were more clear than our mid- 
day ; 
Who dreamed devoutlier than most use to pray: 
Who, being hero filled with grace, yet .strove to be 
Both where more grace aud more capacity 
At once is given. She to Heaven is goue, 
Who made this world iu some proportion 
A heaven, and here became unto us all 
Joy (as our joys admit) essential. 



BEX JOXSOX. 



43 



Ben iJouson. 

Jouson (157+-1G37) was thirty years old at the death 
of Queen Elizabeth. He was ten years young-er than 
Sliakspeare, and survived liim twenty -one years, livins; 
on ahnost to the troubled close of tlie reign of Charles I. 
Born in the North of England of humble parentage, Jon- 
son, after a period of soldier life in the Low Countries, 
where he fought bravely, settled in London, married, 
and took to literature and the stage as a. means of live- 
lihood. He tried his fortune as an aetor, but did not 
succeed. A duel with a brother actor, whom, unhapiii- 
ly, he killed, caused his confinement for a time in jail. 
While there, he was visited by a priest ; and his mind 
being turned to religious subjects, he became a Roman 
Catholic, and continued one for twelve years. After 
that, when at the height of his fame and prosperity, he 
once more professed himself a member of the Church 
of England. But an estimate of the quality of his relig- 
ious feeling may be formed from the fact that, on partak- 
ing of the Holy Communion for the first time after this 
event, he quafl'ed oB" the entire contents of the chalice! 
" He did everything lustily," says one of his recent biog- 
raphers, as a eorament on this incident. Whether "lust- 
ily" or through simple love of good liquor, and in uu- 
eoncern as to the proprieties, may remain a question. 
Probably it was done in the spirit of the reply of Theo- 
dore Hook, who, when asked by the College functionary 
if he could sign the Thirty-niue Articles, said, "Yes,j(^/-- 
l>/, if you wish it." 

On his release from prison, Jonson sprang at once into 
fame by his still-acted play of "Every Man in his Hu- 
mor," in the representation of which no less a person 
than Shakspeare took a part. Jonson's works consist 
mainly of dramas and masks, of which he produced, in 
all, more than fifty. Poverty cast a gloom over his last 
years ; he was obliged to solicit assistance from old 
friends; and so the bright life dimmed, and flickered, 
and went out. His mortal remains were buried in the 
north aisle of Westminster Abbey ; and Sir John Toung, 
a gentleman from Oxford, visiting the spot, gave eigli- 
teen-pence to a mason, to cut upon the flag-stone cover- 
ing the poet's clay this epitaph: " Jiare -Ben Jonsou .'" 
Such, at least, is the tradition. 



TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER, 

WILLLiM SHAKSPEARE, AND WHAT 

HE HATH LEFT US. 

To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name, 
Am I thu-s ample to thy book and fame ; 
While I confess thy writings to he such 
As neither man nor muse can praise too raiicb. 

I. therefore, will begin : Soul of the age ! 
The applause, delight, and wonder of our stage ! 
My Shakspeare, rise ! I will not lodge thee by 
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumout lie 



A little farther oft', to make thee room : 
Thou art a monument without a tomb, 
Anil art alive still, while thy book doth live, 
And we have wits to read, and praise to give. 

* * ;# if *^ * 
Triumph, my Britain! thou hast one to show 
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. 
Ho was not for an age, but for all time ; 
And all the muses still were in their jirime 
When, like Apollo, ho came forth to warm 
Our ears, or, like a Mercury, to charm. 
Nature herself was proud of his designs, 
And joj'ed to wear the dressiug of his lines. 

* if * * * # 
Sweet Swau of Avon, what a sight it were 
To see thee iu our water yet appear. 

And make those flights upon the banks of Thames 
That did so take Eliza and our James ! 
But stay! I see thee iu the hemisphere 
Advanced, and made a constellation there. 
Shine forth, thou star of poets! and with rage 
Or influence chide or cheer the drooping stage. 
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned 

like night, 
And despairs day but for thy volume's light. 



SEE THE CHARIOT AT HAND. 

From "A Celebration of Cuaris." 

See the chariot at band here of Love, 

Wherein my lady rideth ! 
Each that draws is a swan or a dove, 

And well the car Love guideth. 
As she goe? all hearts do duty 

Uuto her beauty ; 
And, enamored, do wish, so they might 

But enjoy such a siglit, 
That they still were to run by her side. 
Through swords, through seas, whither she would 
ride. 

Do bnt look ou her ej-es, they do light 

All that Love's world compriseth ! 
Do but look ou her hair, it is bright 

As Love's star when it riseth ! 
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother 

Thau w ords that soothe her ! 
And from her arched brows, such a grace 
Sheds itself through the face. 
As alone there triumphs to the life 
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. 



44 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Have you sceu but a brigbt lily grow, 
Before rnde hands have touched it ? 
Have you marked but the fall o' the snow 

Before the soil hath smutched it ? 
Have you felt the wool of beaver? 

Or svrau's-down ever ? 
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier ? 

Or the nard in the fire ? 
Or have tasted tlie bag of the bee? 
O so white ! so soft ! O so sweet is she ! 



THE SOXG OF HESPERUS. 

From "Cynthia's Revels." 

Qiieeu and huntress, chaste and fair, 
Now the sun is laid to sleep, 

Seated in thy silver chair. 

State iu wonted manner keep : 

Hesperus entreats thy light. 
Goddess excellently bright ! 

Earth, let not thy envious shade 

Dare itself to Interpose ; 
Cj'nthia's shining orb has made 

Heaven to clear when day did close : 
Bless us then with wished sight. 

Goddess excellently bright ! 

Lay thy bow of pearl apart, 

And thy crystal shining quiver; 

Give unto the flying hart 

Space to breathe, how short soever : 

Thon that raak'st a day of night, 
Goddess excellentiv bright! 



ON A PORTRAIT OF SHAKSPEARE." 

This figure that thou here seest put, 

It was for genlle Shakspeare cut, 

AVlierein the graver had a strife 

With nature, to outdo the life: 

Oh could he but have drawn liis wit. 

As well in brass, as he hath hit 

His face ; the print would then surpass 

All that was ever writ in brass : 

But since he cannot, reader, look 

Not on his picture, but his book. 



* The attestntinn of Ben Jonson to the first eugrraved portrnit 
of Shakspeare 6ccms to prove its fidelity as a likeness. The 
jioilrait corresponds with Ihe nioi]iunenlal effigy at Stratford. 



AN ODE: TO HIMSELF. 

Where dost thou careless lie ? 

Buried iu ease and sloth ? 
Kuowledge that sleeps doth die ; 
And this security 

It is the common moth 
That eats on wits and arts, and [so] destroys them 
both. 

Are all the Aoniau springs 

Dried up f lies Thespia waste ? 
Doth Clarius" harp want strings. 
That not a nymph now sings? 

Or droop they as disgraced, 
To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies 
defaced ? 

If heucc thj' silence be, 

As 'tis too just a cause. 
Let this thought quicken thee : 
Miuds that are great and free 

Should not on Fortune pause ; 
'Tis crown enough to Virtue still, — her own a^i- 
plause. 

What though the greedy fry 

Be taken with false baits 
Of worded balladry, 
And think it poesy ? 

They die with their conceits, 
And only piteous scorji upon their folly waits. 

Then tiikc in hand thy lyre. 

Strike in thy proper strain, 
With Japhet's" line, aspire 
Sol's chariot for new fire 

To give the world again : 
Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's brain. 

And, since our dainty age 

C'aunot endure reproof. 
Make not thyself a page 
To that strumpet the stage. 

But sing high and aloof. 
Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull as.s's 
hoof. 



^ A surname of Apollo, derived from liis famous temple at 
Claros, in Asia Minor. 

2 Prometheus, son of lapetu?, is here referred to; identified 
by Jonson with Japhet, tlie son of Noah. According to the le- 
gend, it was by the aid of Minerva, tlie "issue of Jove's brain," 
that Prometheus ascended to heaven, and there stole from the 
chariot of the Sun the fire which he broughi down to earth. 



BEX JOXSOX.SIR JO EX DAVIES. 



43 



EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. 

Uiulerneath this sable bearse 
Lies the snlijeet of all verse, 
Sydney's sister, Pembroke's mother. 
Death, ere thou bast slain another. 
Learned, and fair, and good as she, 
Time shall throw a dart at thee ! 



THE SWEET NEGLECT. 

Still to be neat, still to be drest, 

As you were going to a feast ; 

Still to be powdered, still perfumed ; 

Lady, it is to be jiresumed, 

Thongh art's bid causes are not found, 

All is not sweet, all is not sound. 

Give me a look, give me a face, 
That makes simplicity a grace; 
Eobes loosely flowiug, hair as free; 
Such sweet neglect more taketh me 
Than all the adulteries of art. 
That strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 



EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH, L. H. 

Wouklst thou bear what man can say 

lu a little ? Header, stay. 

tliulerneath this stone doth lie 

As much beauty as could die. 

Which in life did harbor give 

To more virtue than doth live. 

If at all she had a fault, 

Leave it buried in this vault. 

One name was Elizabeth ; 

The other, let it sleep with death: 

Fitter where it died to tell 

Thau that it lived at all. Farewell! 



SONG TO CELIA. 

Drink to me only with thine eyes. 

And I will jiledge with mine; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The tliirst that from the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine ; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup 

I would not cban™ for thine. 



I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 

Not so much honoring thee, 
As giving it a hope, that there 

It could not withered be. 
But thou thereon didst only breathe, 

And seut'st it back to me ; 
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear. 

Not of itself, but thee. 



GOOD LIFE, LONG LIFE. 

It is not growing like a tree 

In bulk, doth make men better be ; 
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, 
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere : 
A lily of a day 
Is fairer far iu May, 

Although it fall and die that night; 

It was the plant and flower of light. 
In small proportions we just beauties see ; 
And in short measures life may perfect be. 



Sir JJol)n Dauics. 

Davics (I.5T0-1626), an English barrister, was tlie au- 
thor of "Nosce Teipsum" (Know Tliysclf), a poem on 
the immortality of the soul. It bears the date of 1603, 
when Davics was about thirty-two years old. It was 
printed five times during his life. In 1.598 Davies was 
ejected from membership in the Society of the Middle 
Temple, for having thnislied a man within the sacred 
precincts of tliat Inn of Court. But he was an able law- 
yer; and having won the favor of King James, he rose 
from one legal distinction to .another, and was kniglited 
in 1007. 



THE SOUL'S ASPIRATIONS. 

Again, how can she but immort.al be. 

When with the motions of both will aud wit, 

She still aspireth to eternity, 

And never rests till she attain to it ? 

At first her mother earth she holdeth dear, 

Aud doth embrace the world and worldly things ; 

She flies close by the ground, aud hovers here, 
And mounts not up with her celestial wings. 

Yet uuder heaven she cannot light on aught 
That with her heavenly nature doth agree ; 

She cannot rest, she cannot fix her thought, 
She cannot iu this world contented be. 



46 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN ROETRY. 



For Viho ilid ever yet in bouor, wealth, 

Or pleasure of the sense, contentment find ? 

■\Vlio ever ceased to wisli, vrLeu he had health ; 
Or, having wisdom, was not vexed in mind ? 

Then, as a hee, which among weeds doth fall, 
Which seem sweet flowers, with lustre fresh aud 

She lights on that, aud this, and tasteth all. 
But, pleased with none, doth rise aud soar away. 

So, when the sonl finds here no true content, 
Aud, like Noah's dove, cau no sure footing take. 

She doth return from whence she first was sent, 
Aud flics to Him that first her wings did make. 



MYSELF. 
From " Nosce Teipsuji." 

I know my body's of so frail a kind. 

As force without, fevers within, can kill; 

I know the heavenly nature of my mind ; 
But 'tis corrupted both in wit aud will. 

I know my soul hath power to know all things, 
Yet is she blind aud ignorant in all ; 

I know I'm one of Nature's little kiugs. 
Yet to the least aud vilest thing am thrall. 

I know my life's a pain, aud but a span ; 

I know my sense is mocked in everything; 
And, to conclude, I know mjself a Mau ; 

Which is a proud aud yet a wretched thiug. 



Ucaumont anb Jlctrljcr. 

Francis Beaumont (1586-1616) and John Fletcher (1.576- 
1625) were intimate fileuds ; " the Orestes and Pylades 
of the poetical world." Both were of good descent. 
Bciiuniorit's father was a Judge of the Common Pleas ; 
Fletcher was the sou of the Bishop of London, and had 
for cousins Phineas and Giles Fletehcr, the one the au- 
thor of "The Purple Island," a tedious allegorical poem; 
the other the author of "Christ's Victory and Triumph," 
a work from which Milton is said to luive borrowed a 
feather or two. 

There was a difference of ten years between the ages 
of Beaumont and Fletcher. The latter, who was the 
elder, survived his friend nine years, continued to write, 
and died at the age of forty-nine. Beaumont died at 
thirty, in 1616, the same year as Shakspeare. Beaumont's 
poetical taste, it was said, controlled, in their joint work, 
Fletcher's luxuriuuce of wit and fancy. Their united 



works amount to about fifty dramas, and were very pop- 
ular in their day, even more so than those of Shakspeare 
and Jonson. As lyrical and descriptive poets they are 
entitled to high praise. Their diamas are sprightly, aud 
abound in poetical ornament, but are often censurable 
for looseness of plot, repulslveness of subject, and laxity 
of moral tone. 



MELANCHOLY." 

Fbom " Nice Valor ; or, The Passionate Madman." 

Hence, all yon vain delights. 
As short as are the nights 

Wherein you spend your folly ! 
There's naught in this life sweet, 
If mau were wise to see 't. 

But only melancholy : 

O sweetest melancholy ! 

Welcome, folded arms, and fix<5d eyes, 
A sigh that piercing mortifies, 
A look that's fastened to the ground, 
A tongue chained up without a sound! 

Fonutaiu-heads, aud pathless groves, 
Places which jiale jiassion loves. 
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
Are warmly housed, save bats aud owls ! 
A midnight bell, a parting groan. 
These are the souuds we feed upon ; 
Then stretch our bones iu a still gloomy valley : 
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy I 



CESAR'S LAMENTATION OVER POMPEYS 
HEAD. 

From "The Faise Onk." 

Oh thou conqueror, 
Thou glory of the world once, now the jjity ; 
Thou awe of natious, wherefore didst thou fall thus ? 
What poor fate followed thee, and plucked thee ou 
To trust tliy sacred life to an Egyptian ? — 
The life and light of Rome to a blind stranger, 
That honorable war ne'er taught a uohleuess, 
Nor worthy circumstance showed what a man 

was f — 
That never heard thy name sung but in banquets 
Aud loose lascivious plea.sures ? — to a boy 
That had no faith to comprehend thy greatness, 
No study of thy life to know thy gooduess ? — 

I Milton seems to have taken some hiut8 for his '* II Pease- 
roso" from this song. 



BEAUMOXT AXD FLETCHER. 



47 



Aud leave thy uatiou, nay, thy noble friend, 
Leave him distrusted, that in tears falls with thee — 
III soft relenting tears ? Hear me, great Pompey, 
If thy great spirit can hear, I must task thee, 
Thou hast most uuuobly robbed me of my victory, 
My love aud mercy. 

Egyptians, dare ye think your highest pyramids. 
Built to out-dure the sun, as you suppose, 
Where your unworthy kings lie raked in ashes, 
Are monuments fit for him ? No, brood of Nilns, 
Nothing can cover his high fame but heaven; 
No pyramids set off his memories, 
Biit the eternal substance of his greatness ; 
To which I leave him. 



SONG FROM " VALENTINIAN." 

Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes, 
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose 
On this aiilicted prince : fall like a cloud 
In gentle showers ; give nothing that is loud 
Or painful to his slumbers ; easy, sweet, 
And as a purling stream, thou sou of Night, 
Pass by his troubled senses ; siug his pain. 
Like hollow murmuring wind, or silver rain. 
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide, 
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride ! 



ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

Fbancis Beaumont. 

Mortality, behold aud fear ! 

What a change of flesh is here ! 

Think how many royal boues 

Sleep within these heaps of stones! 

Here they lie, had realms and lands, 

Who now want strength to stir their hands. 

Where from their pulpits, sealed with dust. 

They preach, "lu greatness is no trust." 

Here's an acre sown indeed 

With the richest, royalest seed 

That the earth did e'er suck in, 

Since the first man died for sin : 

Here the bones of birth have cried, 

" Though gods they were, as men they died." 

Here are sands, ignoble things, 

Dropt from the ruined sides of kings : 

IT, re's a W'.'.i.i of pomp and state 

Buried iu dust, ouce dead by fate. 



INVOCATION TO SLEEP. 

Come, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving 
Lock me iu delight awhile ; 
Let some ideasiug dreams beguilo 
All my fancies ; that from thence 
I may feel aii influence. 

All my powers of care bereaving ! 

Though bnt a shadow, but a sliding, 
Let me kuow some little joy ! 
We that suffer long auui>y 
Are contented with a thought. 
Through an idle fancy wrought : 

Oh, let my joys have some abiding ! 



SONG FROM "ROLLO, DUKE OF NORMANDY." 

Take, oh take those lips away. 
That so sweetly were forsworn, 

And those ej"es, the break of day. 
Lights that do mislead the mom ! 

But my kisses bring again, 

Seals of love, though sealed iu vain. 

Hide, oh hide those hills of snow. 
Which thy frozen bosom bears. 

On whose tops the pinks that grow 
Are of those that April wears : 

But first set my poor heart free. 

Bound in those icy chains by thee. 



FROM "THE HUMOROUS LIEUTENANT." 

Seleucus. Let no man fear to die : we love to 
sleep all. 
And death is but the sounder sleep : all ages. 
And all hours call us; 'tis so common, easy. 
That little children tread those paths before us. 
Wo are not sick, nor our souls pressed with sorrows. 
Nor go we out like tedious tales forgotten : 
High, high, we come, and hearty to our funerals ; 
Ami as the sun, that sets iu blood, let's fivll. 

Li/simachiis. 'Tis true they have us fast: we can- 
not 'scape 'em ; 
Nor keeps tlie brow of Fortune one smile for ns. 
Dishonorable ends we can escape, though, 
Aiul worse thau those, captivities : we can die ; 
And, dying nobly, though wo leave beliind us 
These clods of flesh, that are too massy burdens, 
Our living souls fly crowned with living conquests. 



48 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



FROM "THE MAID'S TRAGEDY." 

Lay a garland ou my liearse 

Of the tlisnial yew ; 
Maidens, willow branches bear ; 

Say, I died trne : 
My love was false, bnt I was firm 

From my hour of birth : 
Upon my buried body lie 

Lightly, geutle earth ! 



FROM "THE CUSTOM OF THE COUNTRY." 

What sacritice of thanks, what age of service. 
What danger of more dreadful look than death, 
What williug martyrdom to crowu me constant, 
May merit such a goodness, such a sweetness ? 
A love so uobly great no power can ruin : 
Most blessed maid, go on : the gods that gave 

this. 
This pure unspotted love, the Child of Heaven, 
In tlieir own goodness must preserve and save it, 
And raise jou a reward beyond our recompense. 



ipijilij] illassingcr. 



Mnssinscr (circa 1.584-1640) began to write plays in the 
reign of James I. Like many of his literary brethren, 
he was poor, and one morning was found dead in his bed 
at Southwark. No stone marks liis neglected resting- 
place, but ill tlic parish register appears this brief me- 
morial : "March 20, 1639-1640.— Buried Philip Massin- 
ger, a stranger." His sepulchre was like his life — ob- 
scure. Like the nightingale, he sang darkling— it is to 
be feared, like the nightingale of the fiible, with his 
breast against a thorn. Eighteen of his plays are in 
print; and one of these, "A New Way to Pay Old 
Debts," is still often played at our theatres. Sir Giles 
Overreach, a greedy, crafty money -getter, is the great 
character of this powerful drama. This part was among 
the best personations of Kean and Booth. 



W^AITENG FOR DEATH. 
From " The Emperoe of tue East." 

Why art thou slow, thou rest of trouble. Death, 

To stop a wretch's breath 
That calls on thee, and oilers her sad heart 

A prey unto thy dart ? 
I am nor young nor fair ; bo, therefore, bold. 

Sorrow hath made me old, 



Deformed, and wrinkled ; all that I can crave 

Is quiet in my grave. 
Such as live happy hold long life a jewel ; 

But to mo thou art cruel 
If thou end uot my tedious misery. 

And I soou cease to be. 
Strike, and strike home, then ; pity unto mc, 

In one short hour's delay, is tyranny. 



FROM "A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS." 

Mary. Your pleasure, sir ? 

Oreireaeh. Ha! this is a neat dressing! 
These orient pearls and diamonds -well placed too ! 
The gown affects me not : it should have heeu 
Embroidered o'er and o'er with flowers of gold ; 
Bnt these rich jewels and quaint fashion help it. 
And how below ? since oft the wanton eye, 
The face observed, descends uuto the foot, 
Which, being well-proportioned, as yours is. 
Invites as much as perfect white and red. 
Though without art. 
How like you your new woman. 
The Lady Downfallen ? 

Mary. Well for a companion, 
Not for a servant. * *• * I pity her fortune. 

Orer. Pity her? Trample on her! 

Mary. You know your own ways ; but for me, 
I blush 
When I command her, that was once attended 
With persons not iuferior to myself 
In birth. 

Orcr. In birth ? Why, art thou not my daugh- 
ter. 
The blest child of my industry and wealth ? 
Why, foolish girl, was 't not to make tliee great 
That I have run, and still pursue, tliose ways 
That hale down curses on me, which I mind not ? 
Part witli these humble thoughts, aud apt thyself 
To the noble state I labor to advance thee ; 
Or, by my hopes to see thee honorable, 
I will adopt a stranger to my heir, 
Aud throw thee from my care ! do not provoke me ! 



3oljn Jorb. 



Ford (15S6-1639), a Devonshire man, belonged to the 
brilliant dramatic brotherhood of his period. He united 
authorship with practice as a lawyei-. Hnllnm says that 
Ford has "the power over tears;" but his themes are 
often painful and eveu revolting. 



JOHN FORD— WILLIAM DEUMMOXD. 



49 



MUSICAL CONTEST WITH A NIGHTINGALE. 

From " The Loyee'3 Melancuoly." 

Mci)a2>ho)i. Passiug from Italy to Greece, the tales 
WbicU i)oets of an elder time Lave fciguecl 
To glorify tlieir Tempe bred in me 
Desire of visiting that Paradise. 
To Tliessaly I came : and living private, 
Without acqnaintanco of more sweet companions 
Thau the old inmates to my love, my thoughts, 
I day bj' day frequented silent groves 
And solitary walks. One morning early 
This accident encountered me : I heard 
Tlie sweetest and most ravishing contention 
Tliat art and natui'c ever were at strife in. 

Aimthiis. I cannot yet conceive what you infer 
By art and nature. 

Men. I sliall soon resolve you. 
A sound of music touched mine cars, or, ratlicr, 
Indeed, entranced my soul : as I stole nearer, 
Invited by the melody, I saw 
Tliis youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute, 
With strains of strange variety and harmony, 
Proclaiming, as it seemed, so bold a challenge 
To the clear choristers of the woods, the birds, 
Tlmt, as they flocked about liiin, all stood silent, 
Wondering at what they lieard. I wondered tOo. 

Amet. And so do I. Good! On — 

Men. A nightingale, 
Nature's best-skilled musician, undertakes 
The challenge ; and for every several strain 
The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her 

own. 
He could not run divisions with more art 
Upon his quaking instrument, than she, 
The nightingale, did, with her various notes, 
Reply to ; for a voice, and for a sound, 
Amethus, 'tis much easier to believe 
Tliat such they were than hope to hear again. 

Anwt. How did the rivals part? 

Men. You term them rightly ; 
For they were rivals, and their mistress, harmony. — 
Some time thu.s spent, the young man grew at last 
Into .a pretty anger that a bird, 
Wliom art had never taught cliti's, moods, or notes, 
Should vie with him for mastery, whose study 
Had busied many hours to perfect jiractice. 
To end the controversy, — in a rapture 
Upon his instrument he plays so swiftlv, 
So many voluntaries, and so quick, 
That there was curiosity and cunning. 
Concord in discord, lines of diflfering method 
Meeting in one full centre of delight. 
4 



Aynet. Now for the bird. 

Men. The bird, ordained to bo 
Music's first martyr, strove to imitate 
These several sounds ; which when her warbling 

throat 
Failed in, for grief down dropt she on his lute, 
And brake her heart. It was the quaintest sadness 
To see the conqueror upon her hearse 
To weep a funeral elegy of tears : 
That, trust me, my Amethus — I could chide 
Mine own unmanly weakness — that made me 
A fellow-mourner with him. 

Amet. I believe thee. 

Men. He looked upon the trophies of his art, 
Tlien sighed, then wiped his eyes ; then sighed and 

cried, 
"Alas! poor creature, I will soon revenge 
This cruelty upon the author of it. 
Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood, 
Sliall nevermore betray a harmless peace 
To an untimely end :" — and in that sorrow, 
As he was iiashing it against a tree, 
I suddenly stept iu.' 



lUilliam Pnimmoni). 

Drummond (1.58.5-161!)), "the first Scotch poet who 
wrote well iu English" (according to Soutliey), was 
horn at n;iwtlioniclen, near Edinburgli. His father, Sir 
John Drunimoiul, held a situation about the person of 
James VI. (atternard James I. of England). The poet 
studied law, but relinquished it, as his delight was in 
literature. Dr-iyton aiul Ben Jonson were among his 
friends ; and lie says of the latter, " He dissuaded me 
from poetry for tliat she had beggared him when he 
might have been a rich lawyer, physician, or merchant." 
Drummond reproduced the conventional Italian sounet 
with success. He died, it is said, of grief at the execu- 
tion of Charles I. 



THE UNIVERSE. 
Of this fair volume which we World do name, 
If we tlie leaves and sheets could turn with care, — 
Of Him who it corrects and did it frame 
We clear might read the art and wisdom rare. 
Find out His power, which wildest powers doth 

tame, 
His providence extending everywhere, 
His justice which jnond rebels doth not spare, 
In every 'page and period of the same. 

1 Crnshaw has versified this iiicident in bis "Music's Duel," 
which, like most iniitatioDs, is far iufcrior, iu simplicity aud 
point, to the original. 



50 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



But silly Avo, like foolish children, rest 
Well pleased -nith colored vellum, leaves of gold, 
Fair daugliiig ribauds, leaving what is best; 
On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking bold ; 
Or, if by chance wo stay our minds on aught. 
It is some picture ou the margin wrought. 



MAN'S STRANGE ENDS. 

A good that never satisfies the mind, 

A beauty fading like the April flowers, 

A sweet with floods of gall that runs combined, 

A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours, 

An honor that more fickle is than wind, 

A glory at opinion's frown that lowers, 

A treasury which bankrupt time devours, 

A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind, 

A vain delight our equals to command, 

A style of greatness, in effect a dream, 

A swelling thought of holding sea and land, 

A servile lot decked with a pompous name, — 

Are the strange ends we toil for here below, 

Till wisest death makes us our errors know. 



THE HUNT. 

This world a hunting is ; 

The prey, poor man ; the Nimrod fierce is Death ; 

His speedy greyhounds are, 

Lust, Sickness, Envy, Care, 

Strife that ne'er falls amiss. 

With all those ills which haunt us while we 

breathe. 
Now, if hy chance wo fly 
Of these the eager chase, 
Old Age with stealing pace 
Casts ou his nets, and there we, panting, die. 



(Pcorgc llUtljcr. 



Wither (1588-1667) was a nntive of Hampshire, mul a 
prolific writer in James's reign. In 1613 he was impris- 
oned in the Marshiilsea for having; written a satire called 
"Abuses Stript and Whipt." He was a Royalist uuder 
Charles I., but changed his politics, and, having sold his 
estate, raised a troop of horse for the Parliament. Taken 
prisoner by the Royalists in 1G43, he is said to have owed 
his life to Sir John Denham, wlio requested the king not 
to hang Witlier, because, while he lived, Denham woidd 
not be thought the worst poet in England. Wither has 
been highly praised by Campbell, Sir Egerton Brydges, 



Leigli Hunt, and Charles Lamb. He was styled by Philips 
(167.5) "a most profuse pourcr forth of English rhyme." 
A vein of honesty, or at least earnestness in present con- 
viction, seems to run through his inconsistencies. He 
died in misery and obscurity, at the age of seventy-nine. 



COMPANIONSHIP OF THE MUSE. 

While in the Marehalsea, Wither composed his poem of " The 
Shepherd's Ilniuinj;,'' from the Fourth Eclogue of which the 
following extract is made. In it Ro^et (Wither) exhorts hi.s 
frieud Willy (William Bro^vue, author of "Britanuia's Pasto 
rnls") not to give up poetry. The scene is supposed to be in 
prison, where Browne visits him. 



Aud, though for her sake I'm crost, 
Though my best hopes I have lost ; 
Aud knew she would make my trouble 
Ten times more than ten times double ; 
I should love aud keep her too, 
Spite of all the world could do. 
For, though banished from my flocks, 
Aud, confined within these rocks, 
Here I waste away the light. 
And consume the sullen night, 
She doth for my comfort stay, 
And keeps many cares awaj'. 

She doth tell me where to borrow 
Comfort in the midst of sorrow ; 
Makes the desolatest place 
To her presence be a grace ; 
Aud the blackest discontents 
Bo her fairest ornaments. 
In my former days of bliss, 
Her divine skill taught me this. 
That from everything I saw, 
I could some invention draw. 
And raise pleasure to her height. 
Through the meanest object's sight; 
By the murmur of a spring, 
Or the least bough's rustling. 
By a daisy, whose leaves spread, 
Shut when Titan goes to bed ; 
Or a shady bush or tree, 
She could more infuse iu me, 
Than all nature's beauties can 
In some other wiser man. 

By her help, I also now, 
Make this churlish place allow 
Some things that may sweeten gteduesa, 
In the very gall of sadness. 
The dull loueuess, the black shade. 
That these hanging vaults have made ; 



GEORGE WITHER. 



51 



The strange music of the waves, 
Beating ou tliese hollow caves ; 
This black dcu which rocks emljoss, 
Overgrown with eldest moss ; 
The rude portals that give light, 
More to terror than delight ; 
This my chainher of neglect, 
Walled abont with disrespect ; 
From all these, and this dull air, 
A fit oliject for despair. 
She hath taught mo by her might 
To draw comfort and delight. 

Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, 
I will cherish thee for this : 
Poesie, thou sweet'st content 
That e'er Heaven to mortals lent, 
Tliongh they as a trifle leave thee, 
Whose dull thoughts caunot couceive thee ; 
Though thou be to them a scorn, 
That to naught but earth are boru, — 
Let my life no longer be 
Than I am in love with thee! 
Though our wise ones call it madness. 
Let me never taste of gladness. 
If I love not thy maddest tits 
Above all their greatest wits. 
And though some, too seeming holy. 
Do account thy raptures folly. 
Thou dost teach me to contemu 
What makes knaves and fools of them. 



THE HEAVENLY FATHER AND HIS ERRING 
CHILD. 

Yet I confess in this my pilgrimage, 
I like some infant am, of teuder age. 
For as the child who from liis father hath 
Strayed in some grove thro' many a crooked path, — 
Is sometimes hopeful that he finds the way, 
And sometimes doubtful he runs more astray : 
Sometime with fair and easy paths doth meet, 
Sometime with rougher tracts that stay liis feet ; 
Here goes, there runs, and yon amazed stays, 
Tlieu cries, and straight forgets his care, and plays : 
Then, heariug where his loving father calls, 
Makes haste, but, thro' a zeal ill-guided, falls ; 
Or runs some other way, until that he 
(Whose love is more than his endeavors be) 
To seek the wanderer, forth himself doth come, 
And take him in his arms and bear him home: — 
So iu this life, this grove of ignorance. 
As to my homeward, I myself advance, 



Sometimes aright, and sometimes wrong I go, 
Sometimes my pace is siieedy, sometimes slow 
One while my ways are pleasaut utito mc, 
Another while as full of cares they be. 
I doubt and hope, and doubt and hope again, 
And many a change of passion I sustain. 
In this my journey, so that now and then 
I lost, perhaps, may seem to other men, — 
Yea, to myself, awhile, when sins impure 
Do my Redeemer's love from me obscure ! 
But whatsoe'er betide, I know full well 
My Father, who above the clouds doth dwell, 
Au eye upon his wandering cliild doth cast, 
Aud he will fetch me to my home at last. 



VANISHED BLESSINGS. 

• « * * j^ » 

The voice which I did more esteem 

Tlian music iu her sweetest key, 
Those eyes which unto me did seem 

More comfortable than the day — 
Those now by me, as they have been, 
Shall never more bo heard or seen ; 
But what I once enjoyed iu them 
Shall seem hereafter as a dream. 

All earthly comforts vanish thus ; 

So little hold of them have we, 
Tliat we from them, or they from us, 

Maj' in a moment ravished be. 
Yet we are neither just nor wise, 
If present mercies we despise ; 
Or mind not how there may be made 
A thankful use of what we Lad. 



I WILL SING AS I SHALL PLEASE. 

Pedants shall not tio my straius 
To onr antique poets' veins ; 
As if we in later days 
Know to love, but not to praise ; 
Being born as free as these, 
I will sing as I shall please, 
Vv'ho as well new paths may run. 
As the best before have done. 
I disdain to make my song 
For their pleasure short or long : 
If I please I'll end it here, 
If I list I'll sing this year. 



CrCLOPJ^DIA OF BUITISH AND AMEIUCAX rOETItY. 



Aiul, tliougU uone regard of it, 

By myself I iileased can sit, 

And witli that couteutraeut cheer me, 

As if half tlic world did Iiear me. 



SHALL I, WASTING IX DESPAIR. 

Shall I, wasting in despair, 

Die because a woman's fair ? 

Or make pale my cheek with care, 

'Cause another's rosy are ? 

Be she fairer than the day. 

Or the flowery meads in May, 
If she he not so to me, 
What care I how fair she be ! 

Should my foolish heart be pined 

'Cause I see a woman kind ? 

Or a well-disposed nature 

Join<Sd with a lovely feature ? 

Be she meeker, kinder, than 

Tnrtle-dove or pelican, 

If she be not so to me, 

What cai'e I how kind she be ! 

Shall a woman's virtues move 
lie to perish for her love ? 
Or, her merit's value known, 
Make mo quite forget my own ? 
Be she with that goodness blest 
Which may gaiu her name of iest, 
If she seem not such to me, 
What care I how good she be ! 

'Cause her fortune seems too high, 
Shall I play the fool and die ? 
Those that bear a noble mind, 
Where they want of riches find. 
Think what with them they would do 
Who, without them, dare to woo — 
And, unless that mind I sec, 
What care I how great she be ! 

Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 
I will ne'er the more despair: 
If she love me, this believe, 
I will die ere she shall grieve : 
If she slight mo when I woo, 
I can scorn and let her go : 
For, if slie be not for me. 
What care I for whom she be ! 



(Eljomas (Harctu. 



Carew (1589-1639), of an ancient Gloucestei-shire fam- 
ily, was one of the courtier [loets who clustered round 
the tin-one of Cliarles I. He produced some li^ht but 
eminently beautiful poems, and was one of the first who 
save grace and polish to English lyrical verse. Late in 
life he became very devout, and deplored the licentious- 
ness of some of his poems. 



DISDAIN EETURNED. 

He that loves a ro.sy cheek, 

Or a coral lip admires, 
Or from star-like eyes doth seek 

Fuel to maintain his fires ; 
As (dd Time makes these decay. 
So his flames must waste away. 

Bnt a smooth and steadfast mind. 
Gentle thoughts and cahn desires. 

Hearts with equal love combined, 
Kiudle never-dying fires. 

Where tliese are not, I despise 

Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. 

No tears, Celia, now shall win 
Jly resolved heart to return ; 

I have searched thy soul within. 

And find uanght but pride and scorn ; 

I have learned thy arts, and now 

Can disdain as much as thou. 

Some power, in my revenge, convey 

That love to her I cast away! 



ON RETURNING HER LETTERS. 

So grieves the adventurous nicrcliant, when he 

throws 
All the long-toiled-for treasure his ship stows 
Into the angry main to save from Avrack 
Himself and men, as I grieve to give back 
These letters : yet so powerful is your sway. 
As, if you bid me die, I must obey. 
Go then, blest papers ! You shall kiss tho.se 

hands 
That gave you freedom, but hold me in bands ; 
Which with a touch did give you life; but I, 
Because I may not touch those hands, must die. 

Tell her, no length of time, no change of air, 
No cruelty, disdain, absence, despair, 



THOMAS CAUEW. — WILLIAM BKOWXE. 



53 



Xo, nor lier steadfast coustaucy, can deter 
Jly vassal heart from ever honoring her. 
Thongh these he iiowerful arguments to prove 
I love in vain, yet I must ever love. 
Say, if she frown when you that word rehearse, 
Service in iirose is oft called love in verso : 
Then pray her, since I send hack on my part 
Her papers, she will send me hack my lieart. 



MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED. 

Give me more love, or more disdain, 
The torrid or the frozen zone 

Brings equal ease nnto my jiain ; 
The temperate affords me none ; 

Either extreme, of love or liate. 

Is sweeter than a calm estate. 

Give mo a storm ; if it he love, 

Like Danae in that golden shower, 
I swim in iileasure ; if it prove 

Disdain, that torrent will devour 
My vulture-hopes ; and he's possessed 
Of heaven that's hut from hell released : 
Then crown my joys, or cure my pain ; 
Give me more love, or more disdain.' 



SONG. 

Ask me no more, where Jove bestows. 
When Juno is past, the fading rose ; 
For in your heauties' orient deep. 
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 

Ask me no more, whither do stray 
The goldeu atoms of the day ; 
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare 
Those powders to enrich your liair. 

Ask me no more, wliither doth hasto 
The nightingale, when May is jiast ; 
For in your sweet dividing throat 
She winters, and keeps warm her note. 

Ask me no more, where tliose stars light. 
That downward fall in dead of niglit ; 
Fov ■■■■ ^-nur eyes they sit, and there 
e, as in their siihere. 



1 Tne idea may be foniul iu an old French paying, qnoled by 
Lovelace: "Drune moi phis do pitie ini plus de creaiilte, car 
sans ce je ne [juis pas vivrc, no njorir." 



Ask me no more, if east or west. 
The phoenix huilds her spicy nest ; 
For unto you at last she flies, 
And in your fragrant hosom dies. 



lllilliam Broinnc. 

Born in Devonshire (1590-1645), Browue w.-ts educated 
at Oxford. He wrote " Britannia's Pastorals," " The 
Shepherd's Pipe," "The Inner Temple Masque," ami 
other poems. Those were popular iu his own day, but 
fell afterward into neglect. The best of them were writ- 
ten before he was twenty years of age, and he published 
none after thirty. "The Siren's Song" is one of the 
most precious felicities of genius. It is rare in literary 
history that so much promise is found so inexplicably 
stunted and silenced by time. George "Wither seems to 
have had a high estimate of Browne's gifts, and wrote : 

" Thou art youni^, yet snch a liiy 
Never graced the mouth of May, 
As (if they provoke thy skill) 
Thou canst tit unto tlie quill." 



SHALL I TELL YOU WHOM I LOVE? 

Shall I tell you whom I love ? 

Hearken then awhile to me ; 
And if such a woman move 

As I now shall versifie. 
Be assured 'tis she, or none, 
That I love, and love aloue. 

Nature did her so much right. 
As she scorns the help of art ; 

In as many virtues dight 

As ne'er yet emhraced .a heart : 

So much good, so truly tried, — 

Some for less were deified. 

Wit she hath, without desire 

To malce known how mucli she hath : 
And her anger flames no higher 

Thau may fitly sweeten wrath : 
Full of pity as may he, 
Thongh, perhaps, not so to me. 

Reason masters every sen.sc, 

And her virtues grace her hirth ; 

Lovely as all excelleuce, 

Modest iu her most of mirth ; 

Likelihood enough to prove 

Only worth could kindle love. 



CrCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Such she is ; aud if you know 
Such a one as I have sung, 

Be she brown, or fair, or so, 

That she be but somewhile youug ; 

Be assured 'tis she, or none, 

Tliat I love, aud love alone. 



THE SIREN'S SONG. 

From "The Innee Temple JUsqce." 

Steer, hither steer your -n-ingdd pines. 

All beaten mariners ! 
Here lie Love's undiscovered mines, 

A prey to passengers, — 
Perfumes far sweeter than tlie best 
Wliich make the i>h(Enix' urn and nest. 

Fear uot your ships ; 

Nor any to oppose you, save our lips ; 
Pint come on shore. 
Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more. 

Fur swelling waves, — our panting breasts, 

Wliere never storms arise, — 
Exchange, and be a while our guests ; 

For stars, gaze on our eyes ; 
The compass, Love shall hourly sing ; 
And, as he goes about the ring. 

We will not miss 

To tell each poiut he uameth with a kiss. 
Then come on shore, 
Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more. 



Uobcrt Cjcrrick. 



Herrick (1591-1074) was the son of a goldsmith of Lon- 
ilou. He was educated for the Church, and obtained from 
Charles I. the living of Dean Prior, in Devonshire. From 
this he was ejected during the civil wars. His works con- 
sist chiefly of religious and Anacreontic poems in strange 
association ; and his i-ank among the lyric writers of his 
day is with the highest. He seems to have repented of 
tlie impure character of some of his verse, for he writes -. 

*' For those my unbaptizt'd rhymes, 
Writ in my wild unhallowed limes — 
For every sentence, clause, and word 
That's uot inlaid with thee, O Lord! 
For<j:ive me, God, and blot eacli line 
Out of my book that is uot thiue." 

Herrick's vein of poetry is of a high quality when he is 
at his best; but sometimes he sinks to mere doggerel. 
His verses to flowers, for whicli he seems to have had a 
genuine love, are masterpieces of tenderness and grace. 



TO DAFFODILS. 

Fair daffodils, we weep to see 

You haste away so soon ; 
As yet the early rising sun 
Has uot attained his noon. 
Stay, stay, 
Until the hasting day 

Has run 
But to the even-song ; 
And, having prayed together, we 
Will go with you along. 

We have short time to stay as you. 

We have as short a spring. 
As quick a growth to meet decay 
As you or anything : 
We die 
As your hours do, aud dry 

Away, 
Like to the summei^'s rain, 
Or as the pearls of morning dev\-, 
Ne'er to be found agaiu. 



NOT A PROPHET EVERY DAY. 

'Tis not every day that I 
Fitted am to prophesy : 
No, but when the spirit fills 
The fantastic pannicles ; 
Full of fire, then I write 
As the Godhead doth indite. 
Thus enraged, my lines are hurled, 
Like the Sibyl's, through the world : 
Look how next the holy fire 
Either slakes or doth retire ; 
So tlie fancy cools, till when 
That brave spirit comes again. 



ODE TO BEN JONSON. 

Ah, Ben ! 
Say, how or wlieu 
Shall we, thy guests, 
Meet at those lyric feasts 

Made at the Sun, 
The Dog, the Triple Tun ; 
Where we such clusters had 
As made us nobly wild, uot mcd, 
Aud yet each ver.sn of tliiuc 
Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine 1 



liOBEUT HEEUICE. 



My Ben! 

Or come agaiu, 

Or send to ns 
Thy wit's great overplus ; 

But teach us yet 
Wisely to luisbaiul it, 
Lest we tLat talent spend ; 
And having once brought to an end 

Tliat iirccions stock, the store 
Of such a wit, the world should have no more. 



LITANY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT. 

In the hour of my distress, 
When temptations me oppress. 
And when I my sins confess. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort mo ! 

When I lie within my bod, 
Sick in heart, and sick in head, 
And with doubts discomforted, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort mo '. 

When the house doth sigh and weep, 
And the world is drowned in sleep, 
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort mo ! 

When the artless doctor sees 
No one hojie but of his fees. 
And his skill runs on the lees. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me! 

Wlien his potion and his pill 
Has or none or little skill, 
Meet for nothing but to kill. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort mo! 

When the passiiig-bi il doth toll, 
And t!i'i Furies in a shoal 
Come to figlit 11 parting soul, 

Sweot Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the tapers nov. burn blue, 

And the comforters are few. 

And that number more than true. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

WI becom priest his last hath prayed, 

T i iljt«« to wliat is said, 
'Cause my spoec'i is now decayed. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort mo! 



When God knows I'm tossed about 
Either with despair or doubt, 
Yet, before the glass be out. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the Tempter mo pursu'th 
With the sins of all my youth. 
And half damns mo with untruth, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort ;iue ! 

When the flames and hellish cries 
Fright miue ears, and fright mine eyes, 
And all terrors mo surprise. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the judgment is revealed, 
And that opened which was sealed, — 
When to thee I have appealed. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 



NIGHT-PIECE TO JULIA. 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee. 
The shooting-stars attend thee ; 

And the elves, also. 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee ! 

No will-o'-the-wisp mislight thee. 
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee ! 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay. 
Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 

Let not the dark thee cumber; 

What though tlie moon does slumber ? 
T!ie stars of the night 
Will loud thee their light, 

Like tapers clear without number. 

Tlieu, Julia, let me woo thee 
Thus, thus to come unto me ; 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet. 
My soul I'll pour into thee. 



TO BLOSSOMS. 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 
Why do ye fall so fast ? 
Your date is not so past 



56 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN FOETRT. 



But you may stay yet here a while 
To blusli and gently smile, 
Ami go at last. 

What ! were ye bom to bo 
An hour or half's dfliglit, 
And so to bid good-night ? 

'Twas iiity Nature brought ye forth 
Merely to show your worth 
And lose you quite. 

But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things liave 
Their end, though ne'er so brave : 

And after they have shown their pride, 
Like you, a while, they glide 
Into the grave. 



the 



TO CORINNA, TO GO A-MAYING. 

Get up, get up! for shame! the blooming morn 
Uiiou her wings presents the god unshorn. 
See how Aurora throws her fair 
Fresh-qnilted colors tluough the air! 
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see 
The dew bespangling herb and tree. 
Each flower has wept, and bowed toward 

east, 
Above au hour since ; yet yon not drest — • 
Nay, not so much as ont of bed ? 
When all the birds have matins said, 
And sung tlieir thankful hynms, 'tis sin, 
Nay, profanation, to keep iu, 
When as a thousaud virgins on this day 
Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. 



Rise, and put on yonr foliage, and bo seen 
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and 
green, 
And sweet as Flora. Take no care 
For jewels for your gown or Iiair; 
Fear not, the leaves will strew 
Gems in abundance upon you ; 
Besides, the childhood of tlie day has kept 
Against you come some orient pearls unwept : 
Come, and receive them while the light 
Hangs ou the dew-locks of the night. 
And Titan on the eastern hill 
Retires himself, or else stands still 
Til! you come forth. Wasli, dress, be brief in pray- 
ing: 
Few beads are best when once wO go a-Maving. 



Come, my Corinna, come, and coming, mark 
How each field turns .a street, each street a park, 
Made green, and trimmed with trees ; see liow 
Devotion gives eacli house a bough 
Or branch ; each porch, each door, ere tliis 
An ark, a tabernacle is, 
Made np of white thorn neatly interwove, 
As if here were those cooler shades of love. 
Can such delights be in the street 
And open fields, and we not see't ? 
Come, we'll abroad, and let's obey 
The proclamation made for May, 
Ami sin no more, as we have done, by staying; 
But, my Corinua, come, let's go a-Maying. 

There's not a biulding boy or girl this day 
But is got up and gone to bring in May. 
A deal of youth, ere this, is come 
Back, and with white thorn laden, home ; 
Some have despatched tlieir cakes and cream 
Before that we have left to dream ; 
And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted trotli, 
And chose their priest, ere wo can cast oft' sloth ; 
Many a green gown has been given ; 
Many a kiss, both odd and even ; 
Many a glance, too, has been sent 
From out the eye, love's firmament ; 
Many a jest told of the keys' betraying 
This night, and locks picked ; yet we're imt a-May- 



Come, let ns go, while wo are in our prime, 
And take the harndess folly of the time. 

We shall grow old apace, and die. 

Before we know our liberty. 

Our life is short, and our days run 

As fast away as does the sun ; 
And as a vapor, or a drop of rain, 
Once lost, can ne'er bo found again, 

So when or you or I are made 

A fable, song, or fleeting shade. 

All love, all" likinf,', all doliglit. 

Lies drowned with us in endless night. 
Tlien while time serves, and we are but decaying, 
Come, my Corinna, . i. :'■• :'•■ a-Mayiug. 



TO DIANEME. 

Sweet, be not preiul of those two eyes 
Which, starlike, sparkle in tlieir skies ; 
Nor be you prom' tlial yon can see 
All hearts your captives — yours yet free; 



Fli'ANCIS Q CARLES. 



57 



I!c yuu not proud of tliat rich liair 
Wliicli waiitous with tlio lovesick air; 
Wlieu as that ruby wliicli you wear, 
Sunk froui the tip of your soft ear, 
Will last to be a precious stone 
When all your world of beauty's gone. 



PRAYER TO BEN JOXSON. 

When I a verse shall make, 
Know I have prayed thee, 

For old religion's sake, 
Saiut Ben, to aid uie. 

Make the way smooth for me. 
When I, tliy Herrick, 

Honoring thee ou my kuce, 
Oiler my lyric. 

Candles I'll give to thee. 

And a new altar ; 
And thou. Saint Ben, shalt be 

Writ in mv Psalter. 



THE PRIMROSE. 

Ask mo why I send you here 
This sweet Infanta of the year? 

Ask mo why I send to you 
This Primrose, thus bepearled with dew ? 

I will whisper to your cars, 
The sweets of love are mixed with tears. 

Ask me why this flower does show 
So yollow-green, and sickly too ? 

Ask me why the stalk is weak 
And bending, yet it doth not break ? 

I will answer, Tliese discover 
What fainting hopes are iu a lover. 



Jraiuis (Duarlcs. 

Quarles (1.5!13-1044), tbougli quaint and fantastic in las 
style, is the autlior of some genuine poetical utterances. 
He seems to have disobeyed the advice ho gave to oth- 
ers— "Clothe not tliy language either witli obscurity or 
affectation." He was extravagantly landed iu his day. 
Pldllips (107.5) calls him "the darling of our plebeian 
juilgmunts." Anotlier admirer styles lum "tliat sweet 
seraph of our nation, Quarles." Numerous editions of 
las "Emblems" have appeared even during this centu- 



ry. His poetry is strongly tinctured with religious feel- 
ing. Tins does not seem to liave saved bini from Puritan 
prosecution. Ho liad his heart brokeu by the destrue- 
tiou of his property, and especially of his rare library. 
He had, by the lirst of his two wives, eightceu children, 
and died, much troubled, in 1C44. Jolin Quarles, his sou, 
who died of the plague iu IKtlo, inherited much of his fa- 
ther's poetical ability. 



THE VANITY OF THE WORLD. 

False world, thou liest : thou canst not lend 

The least delight ; 
Thy favors cannot gain a, friend, 

Tliey are so slight ; 
Thy morning pleasures make an end 

To please at night : 
Poor are the wants that thou snppliest, 
And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou viest 
With heaven. Fcuid earth, thou boast'st ; false 
world, thou liest. 

Thy baljbling tougue tells golden tales 

Of endless treasure ; 
Tliy bounty offers easy sales 

Of hasting jileasure ; 
Tlion ask'st tlie conscience what she ails. 

And s\vear"st to ease her: 
Tliere's none cau want where thou suppliest. 
There's none can give where thou deniest. 
Alas! fond world, thou boast'st; false world, thou 
liest. 

What well-advised ear regards 

What cartli can say? 
Thy words .are gold, but thy rew.ards 

Are painted clay : 
Thy cunuiug can but pack the cards. 

Thou canst not play: 
Thy game at weakest still thou viest ; 
If seen, and then revied, deniest : 
Thou art not what thou seem'st ; false world, thou 
liest. 

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint 

Of new-coined treasure ; 
A paradise that has no stint. 

No change, no measure ; 
.A painted cask, birt nothing in't, 

Nor wealth, uor pleasure. 
Vain cartel! that falsely thus compliest 
With man I Vain man ! that thou rcliest 
On earth ! Vain man, thou dot'st ; vain earth, thou 
liest. 



58 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



What mean, dull souls ! iu this high measure 

To haberdash 
In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure 

Is dross and trash! 
The height of whose enchanting pleasure 

Is but a flash ! 
Are these the goods that thou supplicst 
Us mortals with ? Are these the high'st ? 
Can these briug cordial iieace ? False world, thou 
liest ! 



DELIGHT IN GOD ONLY. 

I love (and have some cause to love) the earth : 
She is my Maker's creature — therefore good ; 
She is my mother, for she gave me birth ; 
She is my tender nurse — she gives me food. 

But what's a creature, Lord, compared with thee? 

Or what's my mother or my nurse to me ? 

I love the air : her dainty sweets refresh 

My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me ; 

Her shrill -mouthed quire sustain me with their 
flesh. 

And with their polyphonian notes delight me : 
But what's the air, or all the sweets that she 
Can bless my soul withal, compared to thee ? 

I love the sea : she is my fellow-creature, 

My careful purveyor ; she provides me store ; 

She walls mo round ; she makes my diet greater ; 

She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore : 
But, Lord of oceans, wheu compared with thee. 
What is the ocean or her wealth to me ? 

To heaven's high city I direct my journey, 
Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye ; 
Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney, 
Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky : 

But what is heaven, great God, compared to thee? 

Without thy presence, heaven's no heaven to me. 

Without thy iiresence earth gives no refection ; 

Without thy presence sea affords no treasure ; 

Without thy presence air's a rank infection ; 

Without th}' presence heaven itself no pleasure: 
If not jiossessed, if not enjoyed in thee. 
What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me 1 

The highest honors that the world can Ijoast 
Are subjects far too low for my desire ; 
The briglitfst beams of glory are at most 
But dying sparkles of thy living fire ; 



The loudest flames that eartli can kindle be 
But nightly glow-worms, if compared to thee. 

Without thy presence wealth is bags of cares ; 

Wisdom but folly ; joy disquiet, sadness ; 

Friendship is treason, and delights are snares; 

Pleasures but pains, and mirth but pleasing mad- 
ness : 
Without thee. Lord, things be not what they be, 
Nor have they being, when compared with thee. 

In having all things, and not thee, what have I ? 

Not having thee, what have my labors got? 

Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I ? 

And having thee alone, what have I not ? 
I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be 
Possessed of heaven, heaven unpossessed of thee. 



£)cnrji King. 



King, bishop of Cliichcstci- (1591-1C69), was the .Tuthor 
of poems, elegies, and sonnets. His raouody on his wife, 
wlio died before lier twenty-fifth year, is beautiful and 
tender, containing the germ of some famous passages by 
modern poets. 



FROM THE EXEQUY ON HIS WIFE. 

Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint. 

Instead of dirges this eomiilaint ; 

And for sweet flowers to crown thj- hearse. 

Receive a strew of weeping verse 

From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st see 

Quite melted into tears for thee. 

Dear lo.ss ! since thy untimely fate. 
My task has been to meditate 
On thee, on thee : thou art the book, 
The library, whereon I look. 
Though almost blind. For thee, loved clay, 
I languish out, not live, the day. 
Using no other exercise 
But what I practise with mine eyes, 
By which wet glasses I find out 
How lazily time creeps about 
To one that mourns ; this, only this, 
My exercise and business is : 
So I compute the weary hours 
With sighs dissolved into showers. 

Sleep on, my Love, iu thy cold bed. 
Never to bo disquieted ! 
My last good-night ! Thou wilt not wako 
Till I thy fate shall overtake ; 



HEyBF EiyO.—BJKTEX HO LTD AT. 



59 



Till age, or grief, or sickness must 

Marry my body to that dust 

It so much loves, and fill the room 

My heart keeps empty iu thy tomb. 

Stay for me there : I "will not fail 

To meet thee in that hollow vale. 

And think not much of my delay ; 

I am already on the way. 

And follow thee with all the speed 

Desire can make or sorrows breed. 

Each minute is a short degree, 

And every hour a step toward thee. 

At night when I betake to rest. 

Next morn I rise nearer my west 

Of life almost by eight hours' sail 

Than when sleej) breathed his drowsy gale. 

Thus from the sun my bottom steers, 

And my day's compass downward bears. 

Nor labor I to stem the tide 

Through which to thee I swiftly glide. 

'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield, 
Thou, like the vau, first took'st the field, 
And gotten hast the victory, 
In thus adventuring to die 
Before me, whose more years might crave 
A just precedence in the grave. 
But hark ! my pulse, like a soft drum, 
Beats my apjiroach, tells thee I come ; 
And slow howe'er my marches be, 
I shall at last sit down by thee. 

The thought of this bids me go on, 
Aud wait my dissolution 
With hope aud comfort. Dear (forgive 
The crime !), I am content to live 
Divided, with but half a heart. 
Till we shall meet aud never part. 



SIC VITA. 

Like to the falliug of a star. 
Or as the flights of eagles are ; 
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, 
Or silver drops of morning dew : 
Or like a wind that chafes the flood. 
Or bubbles which on water stood — 
Even such is man, whose borrowed light 
Is straight called iu and paid to-night. 
The wind blows out ; the bubble dies ; 
The spriug entombed iu autumn lies ; 
The dew dries up ; the star is shot ; 
The flight is past — and man forgot ! 



Bartcn i;)olj)i)aij. 



A native of Oxford (1593-1661), Holyday became chap- 
lain to Charles I., and Archdeacon of Oxford. He trans- 
lated Juvenal, and wrote a " Survey of the World," a 
poem coutainuig a thousand distiehs, from which we cuU 
the following specimens, taken from Trench's collection. 
They will repay study. 



DISTICHS. 

River is time in water ; as it came. 
Still so it flows, yet never is the same. 

I wake, and so new live : a night's iirotectiou 
Is a new wonder whiles a resurrection. 

The sun's up, yet myself and God most bright 
I can't see ; I'm too dark, aud he's too light. 

Clay, sand, and rock seem of a different birth ; 
So men : some stiff, some loose, some firm' — all 
earth ! 

By red, green, blue, which sometimes paiut the air. 
Guilt, pardon, heaven, the rainbow does declare. 

The world's a prison ; no man can get out : 

Lot the atheist storm then ; Heaven is round about. 

Tlie rose is but the flower of a brier; 
The good man has an Adam to his sire. 

The dying mole, some say, opeus his eyes : 
The rich, till 'tis too late, wiU not be wise. 

Pride cannot see itself by mid-day light ; 
The peacock's tail is farthest from his sight. 

The swallow's a swift arrow, that may show 
With what an instant swiftness life doth flow. 

The nightingale's a quire — no single note. 
Oh, various power of God in one small throat ! 

The silkworm's its own wonder : without loom 
It does provide itself a silken room. 

Herodotus is history's fresh youth ; 
Thucydides is judgment, age, aud truth. 

In sadness, Machiavel, thou didst not well 
To help the world to faster run to hell. 



GO 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEBWAX POETRT. 



Down, pickaxe ! to tlie tleptlis for gold let's go ; 
We'll umlerraiiie Peru. Isn't heaven below ? 

Wlio gripes too mncU casts all upon tlio ground; 
Too great a greatness greatness dotli confound. 

All things are wonder since the woi'ld began : 
The world's a riddle, and the meaning's man. 

Father of gifts, who to the dust didst give 
Life, sav to these niv meditations, Live ! 



3ainc5 SljirlcTi- 



Sliirlcy (159C-1CGC), born in London, was the last of the 
Elizabethan dramatists. Intlicatious of the true poet 
Hasli out in many passages of bis plays. But his narrow 
circumstances probably prevented him from giving bis 
genius fair scope. He wrote lor bread, and lived on into 
the reign of Charles IL The great tire of 1666 burnt 
him out of lionse and home ; and a little after, in one of 
the suburbs of London, his wife and lie died on the same 
day. Shirley took orders in the English Church, but left 
his living on being converted to the Church of Kome. 
"Gentle, modest, and full of sensibility," s-ays his biog 
rapher, "he seems to have conciliated the affection of all 
his associates." 



DEATH'S C0N(3UESTS. 

This fiimons little poem appears in Shiiley's ono-act drama 
nf "The Conlention of Aj.nx and Uiyj^se:'," and is supposed to 
be recited or snnj; by Calchas before Ihe dead body of Aj;ix. 
Oldys refers to it as " the line soni^ which old Bowmau used to 
sing to King Charles II., and which he has ofleu sinig to lue." 

Tlie glories of our blood and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things; 
There is no armor against fate ; 
Death lays his ley litinds on kings. 
Sceptre and crown 
Must tumble down, 
And in the dust bo equal made 
With the poor crooked seytlie and spado. 

Some men witli swords may reap tlio field, 
And plant fresh hinrels where they kill ; 
But their strong nerves at hist must yield ; 
They ttime but one another still. 
Early or late, 
Tliey stoop to fate. 
And must give up their munnnring breath, 
When they, pale captives, creep to death. 

The garlands wither on your brow, 

Tlieu boast no more your mighty deeds : 



Upon Death's purple altar now. 
See where the victor-victim bleeds. 

Your heads must come 

To the cold tomb ; 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. 



(!3coi-!jc Herbert. 

Herbert (1.593-1033) was the brother of Lord Herbert 
of Cherbury, the deistic mystic. Disappointed in court 
advancement by the death of James I., George took holy 
orders, and earned the appellation of " Holy " by his ex- 
emplary discharge of his sacred office. His style, like 
that of so many of his brother poets, is founded on the 
maimer of his friend Donne. The volume of his poems, 
still often republished, is entitled "The Temple." He 
died at the early age of thirty-nine. 



MAN. 



My God! I heard this day 
That none doth build a stately habifatimi 
But he thiit means to dwell tlierein. 
What house more stately hath there be<ii. 
Or can be, than is Man, to whoso creation 
All things are in decay 1 

For Man is everything. 
And more : ho is a tree, yet bears no fruit ; 
A beast, yet is, or should be, more : 
Reason and speech we only bring. 
Piivrots may thank ns, if they are not mute, 
They go upon the score. 

Man is all symmetry. 
Full of proportions, one limb to aimlher, 
Aiul all to all the world besides : 
Each jiart m.ay call the farthest brother ; 
For head with foot hath private amity. 
And both witli moons and tides. 

Nothing has got so far 
But Man hath caught and kept it as his prey. 
Ilis eyes dismount the highest star; 
He is in little all the spliere ; 
Herbs gladly cure his flesh, because that they 
Find their acquaintance there. 

For ns the wiinls do blow, 
Tlie earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains 
llow : 



GEORGE HERBEUT. — WILLIAM STRODE. 



61 



Notbiug we see but means our good, 
As our delight or as our treasure : 
The whole is either our cupboard of food, 
Or cabiuet of pleasure. 

The stars have us to bed ; 
Night draws the curtaiu which the sun withdraws; 
Music and light atteud our head ; 
xVlI things unto our llesh are kind 
In their descent aud being ; — to our mind, 
lu their ascent and cause. 

Each thing is full of duty: 
Waters, united, are our navigatiou ; 
Distinguished, our habitation ; 
Below, our drink ; above, our meat ; 
Both arc onr cleanliness. Hath one such beauty? 
Then how are all things ueat! 

More servants wait on Man 
Tlian he"ll take notice of; in every path 

He treads down that which doth befriend him 

When sickness makes him iialc and wan. 
O mighty Love ! Man is one world, aud hath 

Another to attend him. 

Since, then, my God, thou hast 
So brave a palace built, oh, dwell in it, 

That it may dwell with thee at last! 

Till then afford us so much wit, 
That, as the world serves us, we may servo thee, 

Aud both thj' servants be. 



THE ELIXIR. 

Teach me, my God and King, 
In all things thee to see ; 

And what I do in anything, 
To do it as for thee : 

Not rudely, as a beast. 

To run into an action ; 
But still to make thee prepossessed. 

And give it his perfection. 

A man that looks on glass, 

On it may stay his eye ; 
Or, if he pleaseth, through it pass, 

Aud then the heaven espy. 

All may of thee partake ; 
Nothing can bo so mean 



Which with his tincture, for thy sake, 
Will not grow bright and clean. 

A servant, with this clause. 

Makes drudgery divine : 
Who sweeps a room as for thy laws 

Makes that and the action fine. 

This is the famous stone ' 

That turneth all to gold ; 
For that which God doth touch and own 

Cannot for less be told. 



SWEET DAY. 

Sweet day ! so cool, so calm, so bright ! 
The bridal of the earth and sky! 
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night, 
For thou must die. 

Sweet Eose ! whose hue, angry and brave, 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye ; 
Thy root is ever iu its grave. 
And thou must die. 

Sweet Spring! full of sweet days and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie ! 
My music shows ye have your closes ; 
And all must die. 

Oidy a sweet and virtuous soul. 
Like seasoned timber, never gives ; 
But, though the whole world turn to coal, 
Then chiefly lives. 



lUilliam Btrobc. 

This accomplished divine was born in Devonshire 
about 1.59S; died 1644. His scattered iroetictil pieces 
liave never been collected into a volume. He was in- 
stalled Canon of Christchurch in 163S. 



MUSIC. 



When whispering strains with creeping 'wind 
Distil soft passions through the heart ; 
Aud when at every touch we find 
Our pulses beat aud bear a part ; 

Wheu threads can make 

A heartstring ache, 



02 



CTCLOP^DIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Philosophy 

Cau scarce deny 

Our souls are mado of harmony. 

When unto heavenly joys Tve faiue 
Whate'er the soul attecteth most, 
Which only thus we cau explain 
By music of the heavenly host, 

Whose lays, we think, 

Make stars to wink ; 

Philosophy 

Cau scarce deny 

Our souls consist of harmony. 

Oh, lull mc, lull rae, charming air ! 
My seuses rock with wonder sweet! 
Like snow on wool thy fallings are ; 
Soft like a spirit's are thy feet ! 

Grief who needs fear 

TUat hath an ear ! 

Down let him lie. 

And slumbering die, 

And change his soul for harmony. 



:;^nonMmous ani) illtsrEllancous Joeing 
of tlje 15tlj anb 16tl) (Etnturtcs. 



CHEVY CHASE. 

Anonymods. 

A "chevanchee" (coriupted into Chevy Chase) is the French 
word for a mid over the enemy's border. It represented such 
attacks as were often made by the Scots against England. The 
famous battle of Otterbarn, in 138S, came of a "chevnuchee." 
The corrupted name was translated into the " Hunting of the 
Cheviot," a confusion easily made, since there are Cheviot Uills 
in Northumberland as well as in Otterbnru. lu the oldest ex- 
tant version of "Chevy Chase,"' the name means *'the Cheviot 
hnnting-gronnd." It is claimed that the old ballad of " The 
Hunting of the Cheviot" has priority over this, which is proba- 
bly not older than the time of James I. It is the version of 
which Addison said, "The old song of Chevy Chase is the fa- 
vorite ballad of the common people of England : and Ben Jon- 
eon used to say he had rather been the author of it than of all 
his works." 

God prosper long our noble king, 

Our lives and safeties all ! 
A woeful hunting once there did 

In Chevy Chase befall. 

To drive the deer with hound and horn 
Earl Piercy took his way : 



The child may rue that was uuborn 
The hunting of that day! 

The stont Earl of Northumberland 

A vow to God did make. 
His pleasure in the Scottish woods 

Three summer days to take, 

The chiefest harts in Chevy Chase 

To kill and bear away. 
These tidings to Earl Douglas came, 

In Scotland where he lay, 

Who sent Earl Piercy present word 

He would prevent the sport. 
Tbe English Earl, not fearing him, 

Did to the woods resort, 

With fifteen hundred bowmen bold, 

All chosen men of might, 
Who kuew full well in time of need 

To aim their shafts aright. 

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran 

To chase the fallow-deer; 
On Monday they began to hunt, 

Wheu daylight did appear ; 

And long before high noon they had 

A hundred fat bucks slain. 
Then, having dined, the drivers went 

To rouse the deer again. 

The bowmen mustered on the hills. 

Well able to endure ; 
And all their rear with special care 

That day was guarded sure. 

The hounds ran swiftly through the wood.s 

The nimble deer to take, 
And with their cries the hills and dales 

An echo shrill did make. 

Earl Piercy to the quarry wont 

To view the tender deer ; 
Quoth he, " Earl Douglas promised once 

This day to meet me here ; 

" But if I thought he would not come, 

No longer would I stay." 
With that a bravo young gentleman 

Thus to the Earl did say : 



AXOXTMOUS AXD MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



&i 



" Lo, youtler dotU Earl Douglas come, 

His men iu armor bright, 
Full twenty huiiclrecl Scottisli spears 

All marching iu our sight ; 

"All men of pleasant Tividale, 

Fast by the river Tvreetl." 
" Oh, cease your sports," Earl Picrcy said, 

"Aud take your bows with speed; 

"And now with rae, my countrymen. 

Your courage forth advance ; 
For there was never champion yet, 

In Scotland nor in France, 

"That ever did on horseback come. 

But, if my hap it were, 
I durst encounter man for man, 

With him to break a spear." 

Earl Douglas, on a milk-white steed, 

Most like a baron bold, 
Rode foremost of his corapauy, 

Whose armor shone like gold. 

" Show me," said he, " whose men yon be 

That hunt so boldly here ; 
That without my consent do chase 

Aud kill my fallow-deer." 

The first man that did answer make 

Was noble Piercy, he, — 
Who said, " We list not to declare 

Nor show whose men we be ; 

" Yet will wo spend our dearest blood 

The chiefest harts to slay." 
Then Douglas swore a solemn oath, 

Aud thus in rage did say : 

" Ere thus I will outbravM be 

One of us two shall die ! 
I know thee well! an earl thou art, 

Lord Piercy! So am I. 

" Bat trust me, Piercy, pity it were. 

And great olicnce, to kill 
Any of these our harmless men. 

For they have done no ill. 

"Let thou and I the battle try, 

Aud set our men aside." 
"Accurst be he," Lord Piercy said, 

" By whom this is denied." 



Then stepped a gallant squire forth, — 
Witherington was his name, — 

Who said, " I would not have it told 
To Heury our king, for shame, 

"That e'er my captain fought on foot, 

Aud I stand looking on : 
You two be Earls," said Witheriugton, 

"Aud I a Squire alone. 

" I'll do the best that do I may, 
While I have power to staud ! 

While I have jjower to wield my sword, 
I'll tight with heart aud hand !" 

Our English archers bent their bows — 
Their hearts were good and true, — 

At the first flight of arrows sent 
Full fourscore Scots they slew. 

To drive the deer with hound and horn 

Douglas bade on the bent ; 
Two captains moved with mickle might— 

Their spears iu shivers went. 

They closed full fast on every side. 
No slackness there was found, 

But mauy a gallant gentleman 
Lay gasping on the ground. 

O Christ ! it was great grief to see 
How each man chose his spear, 

Aud how the blood out of their breasts 
Did gush like water clear ! 

At last these two stout Earls did meet. 
Like captaius of great might ; 

Like lious moved, they laid ou load. 
They made a cruel fight. 

They fought until they both did sweat 
With swords of tempered steel. 

Till blood upon their cheeks, like rain. 
They trickling down did feel. 

" Oh, yield thee, Piercy !" Douglas said, 
"And in faith I will thee bring 

Where thou shall high advanced be 
By James, our Scottish kiug. 

" Thy ransom I will freely give. 

And this report of thee : 
Thou art the most courageous knight 

That ever I did see." 



64 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEllICAN I'OETIIT. 



"No, Douglas!" qnotli Lord Piercy then, 

" Thy proffer I do scorn ; 
I ■uiU not yield to any Scot 

Tli;it ever yet was born !'' 

With that tliere came an arrow keen 

Out of an English bow, 
AVhich struck Earl Douglas to the heart 

A deep and deadly blow ; 

Who never spake more words than these ; 

" Fight on, my merry men all ! 
For why ? my life is at an end ; 

Lord Piercy sees my fall." 

Then, leaving strife, Earl Piercy took 

The dead man by the hand. 
And said, "Earl Donglas ! for thy life 
• Would I had lost my land ! 

"O Christ! my very lieart doth bleed 

AVitli sorrow for thy sake ! 
For sure a more rcnown<5d knight 

Mischance did never take !" 

A knight amougst the Scots there was, 

Wlio saw Earl Donglas die, 
WIio straight in wrath did vow revenge 

Upon the Lord Piercy. 

Sir Hugh Montgomery he was called, 
Who, with a spear full bright. 

Well mounted on a gallant steed, 
Ran iiercely through the fight : 

He passed the English archers all 

Witliont a dread or fear, 
And through Earl Piercy's body then 

He thrust bis hateful spear. 

With such a vehement force and might 

His body he did gore, 
The staff ran through the other side 

A large cloth-yard and more. 

So thus did both those nobles die, 
Whose courage none could stain. 

An English archer then perceived 
The noble Earl was slain : 

He had a bow bent in his hand 

Made of a trusty tree ; 
An arrow of a cloth-yard long 

Unto the head drew he : 



Against Sir Hngh Montgomery, 

So right the sliaft he set. 
The gray goose-wing that was thereon 

In his heart-blood was wet. 

This fight did last from break of day 

Till setting of the sun. 
For wlieu tliey rung tlie evening bell 

Tlie battle scarce was done. 

With stout Earl Piercy there were slain 

Sir John of Ogerton, 
Sir Robert Ratcliffe and Sir John, 

Sir James, that bold baron ; 

And with Sir George and stout Sir James, 
Both knights of good account. 

Good Sir Ralph Raby thero was slain. 
Whose iirowess did surmount. 

For Witheiington needs must I wail. 

As one in doleful dumps ; 
For when his legs were smitten off. 

He fought upon his stumps. 

And witli Earl Douglas thero were slain 

Sir Hugh Montgomery ; 
Sir Charles Carrel, that from the field 

One foot would never fly ; 

Sir Cliarles Murray of Ratcliffe too, — 

His sister's son was he, — 
Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed, 

Yet saved he could not be. 

And the Lord Maxwell, in like case. 

Did witli Earl Douglas die ; 
Of twenty hundred Scottish spears 

Scarce fifty-five did lly. 

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen 

Went honie but fifty-throe ; 
The rest were slain in Clievy Chase, 

Under tlie greenwood tree. 

Next day did many widows come, 

Their husb.ands to bewail ; 
They washed their wounds in brinish tears. 

But all would not prevail. 

Tlu'ir bodies, bathed in purple blood. 

They bore with them away; 
They kissed them dead a thousand times 

When they were clad in claj'. 



ANONYMOUS AND MISCELLANEOUS FOE MS. 



G5 



Tills news was brought to Ediuburgb, 
Wbere ScotlaucVs king did reigu, 

That brave Earl Douglas suddeuly 
Was with au arrow slaiu. 

"Oh, heavy news!'' King James did say; 

" Scotland can witness be 
I have not any captain more 

Of such account as ho!" 

Like tidings to King Ileurj' came 

AVitbiu as short a space, 
That Pierey of Northumberland 

Was slaiu in Chevy Chase. 

"Now God bo with him!" said our king, 

"Sith 'twill no better be; 
I trust I have within my realui 

Five hundred good as he! 

" Yet shall not Scot nor Scotland say 

But I will vengeance take. 
And be revenged on them all 

For brave Lord Piercy's sake." 

This vow full well the kiug performed 

After on Humble Down ; 
In one day fifty knights were slaiu, 

With lords of great renown ; 

And of the rest, of suuill account, 

Did many hundreds die : 
Thus ended the huuting in Chevy Chase 

Made liy the Earl Pierey. 

God save the King, and bless the land 

In plenty, joy, and peace ! 
And grant heuceforth that foul debate 

Twist noblemen may cease ! 



SIR PATPJCK SPENS. 

Anonymous. 

There has been much digpnte as to the historical grounds for 
lliis ballad, styled l)y Coleridge "the grand old ballad of Sir 
Patrick Spens." The weight of testimony is in favor of its re- 
ferring to the fate of an espcditiou which in 1'2S1 carried one 
Lady Margaret to Norway, as the bride of King Eric. Mr. 
Robert Chambers translates from Fordoun this account of the 
incident: "In I2S1, Margaret, daughter of Alexander III., was 
married to the King of Norway; leaving Scotland on the hist 
day of July, she was conveyed thither in noble style, in com- 
pany with many knights and nobles. In returning home, after 
the celebration of her nuptials, the Abbot of Daluieriuock, Ber- 
nard of ISIonte-Alto, and many other persons were drowned." 
But why, if the exiiedition sailed "the last day of July," should 



Sir Patrick object to "the time of the year?" Perhaps the 
best answer will be. We must not hold ballad-makers to too 
strict an account. Percy's version differs considerably from 
the following, which will be found to conform pretty closely to 
Walter Scott's edition, "made up fi-om two MS. copies, collated 
with several verses recited by a friend." The versions given 
by Scott, Jamieson, Buchan, Motherwell, Allinghani, and Rob- 
erts all seem to differ. 

The kiug sits in Dunfermline towu, 
Drinking the blude-red ■wine: ' 

"Oh where will I get a skeely skipper,' 
To sail this new ship o' luiue?" 

Then up and spake an elderit knight. 

Sat at the king's right knee : 
" Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor 

Th.at ever sailed the sen." 

The king has written a l)ruid letter, 

And sealed it wi' his hand. 
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, 

Was walking ou the strand. 

" To Norown.^', to Norowtiy, 

To Noroway o'er the faem ; 
The king's daughter of Noroway, 

'Tis thou maun bring her hame." 

The first line that Sir Patrick read, 

A lottd laugh laugh(id he ; 
The neist line that Sir Patrick read, 

The tear blindit his e'e. 

"Oil wha is this has done this deed, 

Has tauld the king o' me. 
To send us out at this time o' the year 

To sail upon the sea? 

"Be 't wind or weet, be 't hail or sleet, 

Our ship maun sail the faem; 
The king's daughter of Noroway, 

'Tis we maun fetch her hame." 

They hoysed their sails on Moneiiday morn, 

Wi' a' the speed they may ; 
And they lia'o landed iu Noroway 

Upon a Wodensday. 

They hadna been a week, a week. 

In Noroway but twae, 
When that the lords o' Noroway 

Began aloud to say : 

' A skilful captain. 



G6 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



"Ye Scottishmeu speuiT a' our king's gowd, 

Aud a' our queenis fee." 
" Ye lee, ye lee, ye leears loud ! 

Fu' loud I hear ye lee ! 

" For I brouglit as raucli o' tbe uliite mouie 

As gaue' uiy ineu and me, 
xVnd a half-fou'' o' tbe gude red gowd, 

Out o'er the sea with uie. 

" Mali' ready, mat' ready, luy merry men a' ! 

Our gude ship sails tlie morn." 
" Now, ever alake ! my master dear, 

I fear a deadly storm. 

" I saw the new moon, late yestreen, 

Wi' the auld moou in her arm ; 
And if we gang to sea, master, 

I fear we'll come to harm !" 

They hadua sailed a league, a league, 

A league, hut barely three, 
When the lift grew dark, aud the wiud blew 
loud, 

Aud gurly grew the sea. 

Tlie ankers brak, and the top-masts lap, 

It was sic a deadly storm ; 
And tbe waves cam' o'er the broken sliip. 

Till a' her sides were torn. 

" Oh where will I get a gude sailor 

Will tak' the helm in hand. 
Till I gae >ip to the tall top-mast, 

To see if I can spy land ?" 

" Oh here am I, a sailor gude. 

To tak' tbe helm in hand. 
Till you gae up to the tall top-mast — 

But I fear you'll ne'er spy laud."' 

He hadna gaue a step, a step, 

A step but barely aue. 
When a bolt flew out o' the gude ship's side. 

And the saut sea it cam' in. 

"Gae fetch a web o' the silken elaith, 

Auither o' the twine, 
Aud wap them into our gude ship's side. 

And let na the sea come in." 



^ Served, sufficed. 

' The eiglilh of a peck. 



They fetched a web o' tbe silken claitb, 

Anither o' the twine. 
And they wapiied them into the gude ship's side. 

But aye the sea cam' in. 

Ob laith, laith were our Scots lords' sous 

To weet their milk-white hands ; 
But lang ere a' the play ■\\as o'er, 

They wat their gowden bands. 

Oh laith, laith «ere our Scots lords' sous 

To weet their cork-heeled shoon ; 
But lang ere a' the jday was jilayed. 

They wat their hats aboon. 

And mony was the feather-bed 

That floated ou tbe faem, 
And mony was the gude lord's son 

That never mair cam' bame. 

The ladyes wraug their fingers white, — 

The maidens tore their hair; 
A' for the sake of their true loves,- 

For them they'll see nae mair. 

Ob lang, lang may the ladies sit, 

Wi' their fans into their band, 
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens 

Come sailing to tbe strand ! 

And lang, lang may the maidens sit, 
Wi' the gowd kaims in their hair, 

A' waiting for their ain dear loves, — 
For them they'll see nae mair. 

Half o'er, half o'er to Aberdour, 

It's fifty fathom deep. 
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Siccus, 

Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. 



GIVE PLACE, YOU LADYES ALL. 

Ballad of 1566. 

Give place, you ladyes all, 

Unto my mistresso faire, 
For none of you, or great or small, 

Can with my love compare. 

If you would knowo her well, 
Y'ou shall her nowe beholdc, 



.iX0yT2I0US AXD MISCELLANEOUS POEils. 



If any touge at all may tell 
Her beauties niaiiyfolde. 

She is not high lie lowe, 

But just the perfect height, 
Below my head, above my hart, 

And than a wand more straight. 

She is not full ue spare, 

But just as she shoUle bee. 
An armfull for a god, I swearc ; 

And more — she loveth mee. 

Her shape Lath noe defect. 

Or none that I can tinde, 
Such as intleede you might expect 

From so well formde a minde. 

Her skin not blacke, nc white, 

But of a lovelie hew, 
As if created for delight ; 

Yet she is niortall too. 

Her haire is not too darke, 

No, nor I weene too light ; 
It is what it shoMe be ; and marke — 

It pleaseth me outright. 

Her eies nor greene, nor gray, 

Xor like the heavens above ; 
And more of them what needes I say. 

But that they looke and love 1 

Her foote not short ne long. 

And what may more surprise. 
Though some, perchance, may thinke nie wrong, 

'Tis just the fitting size. 

Her bande, yea, then, her bande, 

With fingers large or fine, 
It is enough, you understand, 

I like it — and 'tis mine. 

In briefe, I am content 

To take her as she is. 
And holde that she by heaven was sent 

To make compleate my blissc. 

Then, ladles, all give place 

Unto my mistresse faire. 
For now you knowe so well her grace. 

You needes must all dispaire. 



TAK' YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT YE. 

.\S0NYMOl-S. 

The following is printed by Eoljeits as it nppe.irs iu the 
'* Te-i-table Miscellany," with the atlditiou of the secoud stan- 
za from I'ercy's versiou, which is undoubtedly genuiue, and is 
required if the gtideman is to answer his wife stanza for stan- 
za. The ballad must have beeu common to both countries at 
an early period, as Shakspeiu-e makes Othello quote a stanza 
of it. The simidicity is marked. 

In winter, when the rain rained cauld. 

And frost and suaw on ilka hill, 
And Boreas wi' his blasts sae bauld 

Was threatening a' our kye to kill ; 
Then Boll my wife, wha loves na strife. 

She said to me right hastily, 
" Get up, gudeman, save C'rumniie's life, 

And tak' your auld cloak about ye." 

" O Bell, why dost thou flyte and. scorn ? 

Thou ken'st my cloak is very thin ; 
It is so bare and over worn, 

A crick he thereon cauna rin. 
Then I'll uae laiiger borrow nor lend; 

For aues I'll new appareled be ; 
To-morrow I'll to town and spend, 

I'll ha'e a new cloak about me.' 

"Jly Crummie is .a usefu' cow. 

And she is come o' a gude kine; 
Aft hath she wet the bairuies' mou', 

And I am laith that she should tyne. 
Get up, gudeman, it is fti' time, 

The sun shines in the lift sae hie ; 
Sloth never made a gracious end, 

Gae tak' your atild cloak about ye." 

" My cloak was aues a gude grey cloak. 

When it was fitting for my wear; 
Btit now it's scantly worth a groat. 

For I ha'e worn't this thirty year. 
Let's spend the gear that we ha'e won. 

We little ken the day we'll dee ; 
Then I'll be proud, since I have sworn 

To ha'e a new cloak about me." 

" In days when gude King Robert rang. 
His trews they cost but half a crown : 

He said they were a groat owre dear, 
And ca'd the tailor thief and loun. 

He was the king, that wore a crown. 
And thon'rt a man o' laigh degree ; 



C-- 



CYCLOfJiDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



'Tis prule puts a' the country down, 
Sae tak' yonr anld cloak abont ye." 

"Every laud Las its aiu laugh, 

Ilk kind o' corn it has its liool ; 
I think the warld is a' run wrang. 

When ilka wife her man wad rule. 
Do ye not see Rob, Jock, and Hab, 

As they are girded gallantly, 
While I sit hnrklin" in the ase ? 

I'll ha'e a now cloidc abont nic." 

"Gndenian, I wat 'tis thirty year 

Since we did ane anither ken ; 
And we ba'e liad atween us twa 

Of lads and bonny lasses ten : 
Now they are women grown an<l men ; 

I wish and pray weel may they be ! 
Ami if yon'd prove a good hnsbiind, 

E'en tak' your anld cloak about ye." 

Bell my wife she loves na strife, 

But she wad guide me, if she can ; 
And to maintain an ea.sy life, 

I aft raauu yield, tho'. I'm gmleman. 
Nought's to be won at woman's band, 

Uidess ye gie her a' the plea : 
Then I'll leave off where I began. 

And tak' my anld cloak about me. 



THE HEIR OF LINNE. 

ANONYMOirs. 

This ball.id.wUh three or four slight v.^riatinns that appear 
in other versioup, is from Percy's "Keliqnes." There is a 
Scotch version of it: but it cliflers nuicti from the following, 
aud is far iufcrior. 

PART FIKST. 

Lithe" and listen, gentlemen ; 

To sing a song I will begin : 
It is of a lord of fair Scotland, 

Which was the unthrifty heir of Liniic. 

His father was a right good lord. 
His mother a lady of liigh degree; 

But they, alas! were dead him fro, 
And be loved keeping companie. 

To spend tho day with merry cheer, 
To drink and revel every night, 



Crouching. 



' Wait, stay. 



To card and dice from eve to mom, 
It was, I ween, his heart's delight. 

To ride, to run, to rant, to roar; 

To alway spend and never spare : 
I wot an' he were the king liimsel'. 

Of gold aud fee he mote be bare. 

So fares the unthrifty heir of Linne, 
Till all his gold is gone aud spent ; 

And he maun sell his lanns so broad — ■ 
His house, and lands, .and all his rent. 

His father h.ad a keen stewiird. 
And John o' Scales was callM he ; 

But John is become a gentleman, 

And Johu has got baith gold and fee. 

Says, "Welcome, welcome. Lord of Linne! 

Let nought disturb thy merry cheer ; 
If thou wilt sell thy lands so broad. 

Good store of gold I'll give thee here." 

" My gold is gone, my money is spent ; 

My laud now take it unto thee ; 
Give nie the gold, good John o' Scales, 

And tliine for aye my land shall be." 

Then John he did him to record draw, 
Aud .Jobn lie gave him a god's-penuie ;' 

But for every pound that John agreed. 
The land, I wis, was well worth three. 

He told liiin the gold upon the board; 

He was right glad tho land to win : 
"The land is mine, tho gold is thine. 

And now I'll be the Lord of Liune." 

Thus he hath sold his laiul so broad. 
Both hill and holt, and moor and fen ; 

All but a poor and lonesome lodge. 
That stood far oil' in a lonely glen. 

For so he to his father higbt: 

" My son, when I am gone," said he, 

"Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad. 
And thou wilt spend thy gold so free : 

"But swear to me now upon tho rood, 
Tliat lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend ; 

' Earueft-moucy. 



ANONYMOUS AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



60 



Tor wlicii all tlio -world dotli I'rowu on tliee, 
Thou there sbalt fiml a faitlifiil frieud." 

The Iicir of Liuue is full of gold : 

And, "C'omo with me, my friends," said he: 
"Let's drinic, and rant, and merry make, 

And he that spares ne'er mote he tliri'e.'" 

Tlicy ranted, drank, and merry made. 
Till all his gold it waxcSd thin ; 

And then his friends they slunk away, 
They left the unthrifty heir of Limie. 

Ho had never a penny left in his purse, 

Xever a penny left but three; 
And ono was brass, another was lead. 

And t'other it was wliitc monie. 

'■Now w(;ll-a-day !'■ said the heir of Linnc; 

"Now well-a-day, and woe is nie ! 
For when I was the Lord of Linne, 

I never wanted gold nor fee. 

"But many a trusty friend have I, 
And why should I feel dule or eare ? 

I'll borrow of tlioni all by turns. 
So need I not be ever bare." 

But one, I wis, was not at home, 
Another had paid his gold away; 

Another called him thriftli^ss loon, 

And sharply bade him wend his way. 

"Now wcll-a-day!" said the lieir of Linne, 
"Now well-a-day, and woe is me! 

For when I had my land so broad, 
Ou me they lived riglit nierrilie. 

" To beg my bread from door to door, 
I wis, it were a burning shame ; 

To rob and steal, it were a sin; 
To work my limbs I cannot frame. 

"Now I'll away to the lonesome lodge, 
For there my father bade mo wend ; 

When all tlie world should frown on me, 
I there should lind a trusty friend." 

I'.MtT SECOND. 
Away then hied the heir of Linnc, 
O'er hill and holt, and moor and feu, 

1 Thrive. 



Until he came to the lonesome lodge. 
That stood so low in a lonely glen. 

He lookiJd up, ho look(^d down, 
In hoiie some comfort for to win ; 

But bare and lothely were the walls : 

" Here's sorry cheer !" quoth the heir of 
Linne. 

The little window, dim and dark. 
Was hung with ivy, brier, and yew ; 

No shimmering sun here ever shone. 
No halesonie breeze here ever blew. 

No chair, no table he mote spy, 

No cheerful hearth, no welcome bed ; 

Nought save a rope with a running noose. 
That dangling hung up o'er his head. 

And over it, in broad lettdrs. 

These words were written so plain to see : 
"Ah, graceless wretch! hast spent thy all. 

And brought thyself to pennric ? 

"All this my boding mind misgave; 

I therefore left this trusty friend: 
Now let it shield thy foul disgrace, 

And all thy shame .and sorrows end." 

Sorely shent' with this rebuke, 

Sorely shout was the heir of Linne ; 

His heart, I wis, was near to burst. 
With guilt and sorrow, shame and sin. 

Never a word spak' the heir of Linne, 
Never a word he sjiak' but three : 

"This is a trusty friend indeed. 
And is right welcome unto me." 

Then round his neck the cord he drew, 

And sprang aloft with his bodie ; 
When lo ! the ceiling burst in twain. 

And to the ground came tumbling he. 

Astonied lay the heir of Linne, 

Nor knew if he were live or dead : 

At length he looked and saw a bill, 
And in it a key of gold so red. 

He took the bill, and looked it on ; 
Straight good comfort found he there ; 

' Shamed, mortifled. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



It told liim of a bole in the ■n-all 

lu wLicli tliere stood tbree chests ia-fere.' 

Two were full of the beateu gold, 
The third was full of white monie ; 

Aud over them, iu broad letters. 

These words were writteu so plaiu to see: — 

'• Once more, my sou, I set thee clear ; 

Amend thy life and follies past ; 
Tor but thou amend thee of thy life. 

That rope must be thy end at last." 

•And let it be," said the heir of Liuue ; 

"And let be, but if I amend: 
Tor here I will make mine avow, 

This rede' shall guide me to the end." 

Away then went tlio heir of Linue, 
Away ho went with merry cheer; 

I wis, he neither stint uor staid, 

Till John o' the Scales' house he cam' uear. 

And when lie cam' to John o' the Scales, 
Up at the speere' then looked he : 

There sat three lords at the board's end, 
Were drinking of the wine so free. 

Thcu lip bespak' the heir of Liuiie, 
To John o' the Scales then spak' he : 

■I pray thee now, good John o' the Sciiles, 
One forty pcuce to lend to me." 

"Away, away, thou thriftless loon! 

Away, away ! this may not be ; 
For a curse be on my head," he said, 

" If ever I lend thee one penuie !" 

Tlieii bespak' the heir of Linue. 

To .lohn o' the Scales' wife then spak' he : 
■■ Madam, some alms on me bestow, 

I pray, for sweet Sainto Charitle." 

"Away, away, tliou thriftless loon I 
I swear thou gettest no alius of me ; 

For if wo siild hang any losel here, 
The first we would begin with thee." 

Then tip bospak' a good fellow, 

Which sat at John o' the Scales his boai'd ; 

' Ti.gether. 
- .\rlvicc'. 

3 All apei-tiu'e in the \v,iU ; n f hot whitlow. 



Said, "Turn again, thou heir of Liunc ; 
Some time thou wast a right good lord: 

" Some time .1 good fellow thou hast been. 
And sparedst not thy gold and fee ; 

Therefore I'll lend thee forty pence, 
And other forty, if need be. 

"And ever I pray tliee, John o' the Scales, 

To let him sit in thy compauie ; 
For well I wot tliou hadst his land, 

Aud a good bargaiu it was to thee." 

Then up bespak' him John o' the Scales, 
All wud' lie answered him again : 

" Now a curse be on my head," he said, 
"But I did lose by that bargain." 

"And here I proffer thee, heir of Linue, 
Before these lords so fair and free. 

Thou shalt have 't back again better cheap, 
By a luindred merks, than I had it of thee.'' 

" I draw you to record, lords," he said : 
With that he gave him a god's-pennie. 

"Now, by my fay," said the heir of Liuue, 
"And here, good John, is thy monie." 

And lie pulled forth the bags of gold, 
Aud laid them douu upon the board : 

All woe-begone was John o' the Scales, 
So sheut he could say never a word. 

He told him forth the good red gold. 
He told it forth witli luicklo din : 

"The gold is thine, the land is mine; 
And now I'm again the Lord of Linue!" 

Says, "Have thou here, thou good fellow ! 

Forty pence thou didst lend me ; 
Now I'm again the Loi'd of Linue, 

Aud forty pounds I will give theo." 

"Now well-a-day !'' qiioth Joan o' the Scales; 

"Now well-a-day, aud woe is my life! 
Yesterday I was Lady of Linue, 

Now I'm but Joan o' the Scales his wife." 

"Now faro theo well," said the heir of Liuue, 
"Farewell, good John o' the Scales," said he; 

" When next I want to sell my land. 

Good John o' the Scales, I'll come to thee.'' 
1 Furious. 



JKONYMOUS AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



71 



THE NUT-BROWN JIAIDE. 

Anonymous. 

Tliis fiimoiis old balliul nppenrs in "Arnold's Chronicle," 
primed nbont 1502. On it Prior founded his versified story of 
"Henry and Enimn," much inferior to this in simplicity and 
I'.iice. We have adhered quite closely to the old spellincr, in- 
usmuch as it could hardly be dissevered from the style without 
in.iury to the latter. The "banislied man" and the "nut-brown 
maid" are well contrasted. 

Be it light or -nroiig', tliesc men among 

Oil women do complaiiie ; 
Affirinyng this, how thiat it is 

A hihoiir spent in vaiiio 
To love them wele, for never a dele 

They love a iiiftu agayne ; 
For lete a man tlo what lie can 

Their favour to attayno, 
Yet, yf a newe do them iiursue, 

Their first trew lover than 
LalioiiretU for nonglit ; for from her thought 

He is a hanysslied man. 

I say not nay, but tlitit all day 

It is both writ and sayde 
That woman's fayth i.s, as who sayth, 

All utterly decayed ; 
But, nevertheless, riglit good witiids 

In this case might be layd : 
That they love trew, and contynew, 

Eccord the Nut-browno Maide, 
Whiehe from her love, whan her to prove 

Ho cam to make his moue, 
Wolde not departe ; for in lier liarte 

She lovyd but bym allone. 

Then bctweeue us lete ns discusso 

What was all the mauer 
Betwene them too ; we wyl also 

Tell all the peyne and fere 
That she was in. Nowe I bogyune. 

So that }-e mo answ^re ; 
Wherefore, all ye that present bo, 

I pray you, geve an care. 
I am the knyght ; I cum bo nyght, 

As secret as I can, 
Saying, "Alas ! thus stondytli the case — 

I am a banysshed man." 

SHE. 
And I your wylle for to fulfylle 
In this wyl not refuse ; 



Trusting to shewe, iu wordis fewe, 

That men liave au llle use 
(To (heir owno shame) -wymen to blame, 

And canseles them accuse : 
Therefore to you I answere now, 

Alle ■wymeu to excuse, — 
Mine owne Lerte dere, with yon what chiere? 

I pray you, tell auoon ; 
For, lu my myude, of all niankynde 

I love but you allon. 



It stoudeth so : a deed is do 

Whereof moche liarme shal growe ; 
My desteny is for to dye 

A shamful detho, I troxve, 
Or ellis to flee : the one must be : — 

None other wey I kuowe 
Bnt to withdrawe as au outlaw, 

And take me to mj' bowe. 
Wherefore, adieu, my own hert trewe 

None other red I can ; 
For I muste to the grene wodo go, 

Alone, a banysshed niau. 



Lorde, what is this worldis blisse, 
That chaungeth as the mone f 

My somer's day iu lusty May 
Is derked before the none. 

1 here you say farewel : Nay, nay, 
We departe not so soue. 

Why say ye so ? wheder wyll ye go f 
Alas ! what have ye done ? 

Alle my welfare to sorrow and care 
Shulde chaunge, yf ye were gon ; 

For, iu my mynde, of all maukynde 
I love but you alone. 



I can beleve it slial you greve, 

Aud somewhat you di.strayne; 
But aftyrwardo j'our payncs harde 

Within a day or twcj-no 
Shall sonc aslakc, and ye shal take 

Comfort to you agayne. 
Why sliuld ye nought? for, to make thought, 

Your labour were in vayiie. 
And thus I do, aud pray you too. 

As hertely as I can ; 
For I must to the greene wode go, 

Alone, a banysshed mau. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POEIRV. 



SHE. 

Now, sytli that ye have shewed to mo 

The secret of jour niyiiile, 
I shall he playiie to yon agayue, 

Lykc as ye shal nie fymle. 
Syth it is so, that ye wyll go, 

I wole not leve hehynde ; 
Shal never he sayd the Nut-hrowue Mayil 

Was to her love nukiucl : 
Make you redy, for so ana I, 

Although it were anoon ; 
For, iu my inynde, of all niaukymle 

I love hut you alone. 



Yet I you rede to take good hede, 

What men wyl think and say : 
Of youge and olde it shal he told 

That ye ho gone away, 
Your wanton wylle for to fnlfylle. 

In greene woode you to play ; 
And that yo myght from your delyte 

No lenger make delay. 
Eathor than yo sliuld thus for me 

Be called an ill woman, 
Y'et wolde I to the greeue woode go, 

Alone, a hanysshed man. 

SUE. 
Though it he sunge of old and yonge 

That I shuld he to hlarae, 
Theirs be the charge that speke so large 

In hurting of my name ; 
For I wyl prove that feythful love 

It is devoyd of shame ; 
In your distresse and heaviiiesso 

To parte wyth you, the same : 
And sure all tho' that do not so, 

Trewo lovers ar they none ; 
For, in my mynde, of all mankyndo 

I love hut you alone. 



I counsel you, rcmcmhre how 
It is no mayden's lawe 

Nothing to doubt, hut to renne out 
To wood witli an outhiwe ; 

For yo must there in your hande here 
A bowe, to here and drawe ; 

And, as a tlicef, thus must yon lyeve, 
Ever in drede and awe; 



Whereby to you gret harme meghte grow : 

Yet had I lever than 
That I had to the greene woode go. 

Alone, a hanysshed man. 



I thinke not nay, hut as j-o saye. 

It is no mayden's lore ; 
But love may make me for your sake. 

As ye have said before, 
To com on fote, to hunte, and sholc. 

To gete us mete and store ; 
For so that I your company 

May have, I aske no more : 
From which to parte it makith my herte 

As colde as ony ston ; 
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 

I love but you alone. 



For an outhiwe this is the lawe, 

Tliat men hym take and liindc. 
Without pitee haug(5d to bee, 

And waver with tlie wyude. 
If I had neede (as God forbcdel). 

What rescue coude ye linde ? 
For sothe, I trow, ye and your bowe 

Shuld drawe for feie behyndo ; 
And no merveyle, for lytel avayle 

Were in your conncel thau : 
Wherefore I to the woode will go, 

Alone, a hanysshed man. 



Ful wel kuowe ye that wymcn bee 

But febyl for to fyght ; 
No womanhed is it, indeede. 

To bee bolde as a knight : 
Yet, iu such fere yf that ye wore 

Among euemys day and nyglit, 
I wolde wythstonde with bowe in liande, 

To greevethem as I myght, 
And you to save — .as wymcn have 

From deth men many one : 
For, in my mynde, of all mankyndo 

I love but you alone. 



Yet take good hede ; for ever I drede 

Tliat ye coude not susteiu 
The thoruey wayes, the deep valleys, 

The snowo, tho frost, tho reyn, 



AyoXYMOUS JND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The coUle, the hetc : for, drye or wete, 

We must lodge ou the iiliiyn ; 
And lis aboove none other roof 

But a brake biissh or twiiyne; 
Whiche sone slmld greve you, I beleve, 

Aud yo wnlde gladly than 
That I had to the greene \voode go, 

Alone, a banysshed man. 



Syth I have here been partynero 

With you of joy and blysse, 
I must als6 iiarto of your woe 

Endure, as reason is : 
Yet am I sure of one pleasure ; 

And, sbortlj', it is tliis; 
That where ye bee, me semeth, perde,' 

I colde not fare aniysse. 
Wythout more speche, I you besecho 

That we were soon agone ; 
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 

I love but you alone. 



Yf ye go thyder, ye must consider, 

Whan ye have Inst to dine, 
Ther shel no mete be fore to gete, 

Nor drinke, bere, ale, nor wine. 
No slietis clene to lye betwenc, 

Made of thred and twyne ; 
None other house but levys and bowes 

To kever your bed and myn : 
So, myne herte swete, this evil diete 

Shuld make you pale and wan ; 
Wherefore I will to the greene woode go. 

Alone, a banysshed man. 



Amouge the wylde derc, such an archcrc 

As men say that yo bee 
Ne may not fayle of good vitayle. 

Where is so grete pleute. 
And watir cleere of the ryv&e 

Shal be fill swete to me ; 
Wyth whiche in hele'' I shal right welo 

Eudure, as ye shall see ; 
And, or we go, a bed or too 

I can provide auone ; 
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 

I love but you alone. 



^ Par diet!. 



Lo, yet before ye must do more, 

Yf yo wyl go with me : 
As cutte your here up by your ere,' 

Your kirtle by the knee ; 
Wyth bowe in hande, for to withstoude 

Your eumys, yf nede be ; 
And this same nyght, before daylight, 

To woodward wyl I flee. 
And yf ye wyl all this fnlfyllc. 

Do it shortly as ye cau ; 
Ellis wyl I to the greene woode go 

Alone, a banysshed man. 

SHE. 

I shal as uow do more for you 

Thair 'lougeth to womanhede ; 
To short my here, a bowe to bere. 

To shote in tyme of nede. 
O my swete moder! before all other 

For you have I most drede ! 
But uow adiew! I must ensue 

Wher fortune doth me lede. 
All this make ye: Now lete us flee; 

The day cums fast upon ; 
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 

I love but you alone. 



Nay, nay, not so ; ye shal not go, 

And I shal telle you whyc, — 
Your appetyte is to be lyght 

Of love, I welo aspie. 
For like as ye have sayd to nie. 

In lyke wyse hardely 
Yo wolde ans\v<!re whosoever it were, 

In way of company. 
It is sayde of olde, Sone bote, soue colde ; 

And so is a woman. 
Wherefore I to the wode wyl go, 

Aloue, a banysshed man. 

SHE. 
Yf yo take hede, it is no nede 

Snche wordis to say be mee ; 
For oft yo preyd, and long assayed. 

Or I you lovid, perd6 : 
And thongli that I of auncestry 

A baron's doiigliter be, 



' As cui yo'jr liuir up liy 3"n;n' ear. 



74 



CTCLOFJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEBIC AX POETRY. 



Yet Lave you proved liow I you loved, 

A squyer of lowe degree — 
And ever sUal, whatso Ijefalle ; 

To dey' therefore auoue ; 
For, in my myude, of all maukyude 

I love but you alone. 



A baron's cliilde to be begyled ! 

It were a cussed dede ! 
To be felow with an outlawe! 

Aliuyghty God forbede ! 
Yon bettyr were the jiouer squydr 

Aloue to forest ycdc,' 
Than ye shnldo saye another day 

That be my ■wykiJd dede 
Ye were betrayed : Wherefore, good maide. 

The best rede that I can 
Is that I to the greene woodo go, 

Alone, a banysshed man. 



Wliafsoever befalle, I never shal 

Of this thing you upbraid; 
But yf ye go, and leve me so, 

Tlian have ye me betraied. 
Renienibre you wele how that ye dele ; 

For yf ye, as ye sayde. 
Be so uukyude, to levc behyndo 

Your love, the Nut-brown Maide, 
Trust me truly that I shall dey 

Sono after ye bo goue ; 
For, in my mynde, of all maukynde 

I love but you aloue. 



Yf that ye went ye shnldo repente. 

For in the forest now 
I have purveid me of a maide 

Whom I love more than you ; 
Another fayrdr than ever ye were, 

I dare it wel avowe ; 
And of you bothe eche shnlde be wrothe 

With other, as I trowe. 
It were niyu ease to lyve in pease; 

So wyll I, yf I can ; 
Wherefore I to the woode wyl go. 

Alone, a banysshed man. 



1 To die. 



» Went. 



SHE. 
Though in the wode I uuderstode 

Ye had a iiaramour, 
All this may nought remove my thought 

But that I will be your : 
And she shall fynd me softc and kynde, 

And courteis every our ; 
Glad to fulfylle all that she wylle 

Commaunde me to my power : 
For had ye, lo, au hundred mo. 

Yet wolde I bo that ouc ; 
For, iu my myude, of all maukynde 

I love but you aloue. 



Mine ounne dear love, I see the prove 

That ye be kynde and trcue ; 
Of mayde and wyf iu all my lyf 

The best that ever I knewe. 
Be mery and glad, be no more sad, 

The case is chauug^d newe ; 
For it were rutho that for your truthe 

You shnlde have cause to rewe. 
Be not dismayed whatsoever I sayd 

To you whau I began ; 
I will not to the greene woode go, 

I am uo banysshed man. 



Theis tidingis be more glad to me 

Thau to bo made a queen, 
Yf I were sure they shuld endure ; 

But it is often seen, 
Wlien men wil broke promyse, they speke 

The wordis on the spleue.' 
Yo shape some wyle me to begyle, 

And stele fro me, I wene : 
Then were the case wurs than it was, 

Aud I more wo-begone ; 
For, iu my niyude, of all maukynde 

I love but vou aloue. 



Ye shal not nede further to drede ; 

I wyl not disparage 
You (God defeude !), sith you desceude 

Of so grct a lineage. 
Non understonde : to Westmerlande, 

Which is mine herytage, 



' Ou a suddeu. 



AxoyTiiors and miscellaneous poems. 



I wyl you biiiige ; and wj tU a ryiig, 

Be wey of marjiige, 
I wyl you take, and lady make, 

As shortly as I can : 
Tliiis liave ye wone an eric's son, 

And not a bauyssbed man. 



Here may ye see that wynien be 

In love, meke, kiude, and stable ; 
Let never man repreve them tbau, 

Or calle tbem variable; 
Bnt rather prey God that we may 

To them be comfortable ; 
Which somtyme provycth suche as he loveth, 

Yf tliey be cliaritable. 
For sitli men wohle that wymeu sholdo 

Be meke to tlicm eche one ; 
Much more ought they to God obey, 

And serve but Hvm alone. 



SIR JOHN BARLEYCORN. 

Anontjiods. 

This favorite old ballad, often attribated to Burus because of 
hi? alteration of some of the lines, is an auouynioiis production, 
aud believed to be auterior lo 164G. 

There came three men out of the West, 

Their victory to try ; 
And they have taken a solemn oath 

Poor Barleycorn should die. 
Tliey took a plough and ploughed him in, 

Aud harrowed clods on his head ; 
And then they took a solemn oath 

Poor Barleycorn was dead. 
There he lay sleeping in the ground 

Till rain from the sky did fall ; 
Then Barleycorn sprung up his head, 

And so amazed them all. 

There he remained till midsummer, 

Aud looked both pale and wan ; 
Then Barleycorn ho got a beard, 

Aud so became a man. 
Then they sent men with scythes so sharp,' 

To cut him off at knee ; 
And then poor little Barleycorn 

They served him barbarously : 
Then they sent men with pitchforks strong, 

To pierce him through the heart ; 
And, like a dreadful tragedy. 

They bound him to a cart. 



And then they brought him to a barn, 

A prisoner, to endure ; 
And so they fetched Iiim out again. 

And laid him on tlio floor: 
Then they set meu with holly clubs 

To beat the flesh from his bones ; 
But the miller ho served him worse than that. 

For he ground him betwixt two stones. 
Oh, Barlejcorn is the choicest grain^ 

That ever was sown on land ! 
It will do more than any grain 

By the turning of your hand. 

It will make a boy into a man. 

And a man into an ass ; 
It will change your gold into silver. 

And your silver into brass : 
It will make the huntsman hunt the fox 

That never wound his horn ; 
It will bring the tinker to the stocks. 

That people may him scorn : 
It will put sack into a glass, 

And claret in the can ; 
And it will cause a man to drink 

Till he neither can go nor stan'. 



TRUTH'S INTEGRITY. 



ASONYMOL'S. 



The following is from a black-letter copy, reprinted in Ev- 
ans's "Old Ballads," Loudon, 1777. 

FIRST PAItT. 

Over the mountains. 

And under the waves ; 
Over the fountains. 

And under the graves ; 
Under floods which are deepest, 

Which do Neptune obey ; 
Over rocks which are steeliest, 

Love will find out the way. 

Where there is no place 

For the glowworm to lie ; 
Where there is no place 

For the receipt of a fly ; 
Where the gnat dares not venture, 

Lest herself fast she lay ; 
Bnt if Love come, he will enter, 

Aud tind out the way. 

Y'on may esteem him 
A child of his force. 



76 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BlilTISR AND AMEUICAX FOETST. 



Or you may deem him 

A coward, wbich is worse ; 

But if he whom Love dotli houor 
He concealed from the day, 

Set a thousand guards upon him, 
Love will tind out the way. 

Some thiuk to lose him, 

Which is too unkind ; 
And some do suppose him. 

Poor heart, to be blind : 
But if he were hidden, 

Do the best you may, 
Blind Love (if yon so call him) 

Will find out the way. 

Well may the eagle 

Stoop down to the list. 
Or you may iuveiglo 

The Phonnix of the East : 
With fear the tiger's moved 

To give over liis prey. 
But never stop a lover — 

He will find out the way. 

From Dover to Berwick, 

And nations thereabout. 
Brave Guy, Earl of Warwick, 

That chauipiou so stout. 
With his Avarlike behavior 

Through the world he did stray, 
To win his Phillis' favor : 

Love will iiinl out the way. 

In order next enters 

Bevis so brave. 
After adventures 

And policy brave, 
To see whom ho desired. 

His Josian so gay, 
For whom his heart was fired : 

Love will find out the way. 

SECOND r.\i!T. 

The Gordlan kuot 

Which true-lovers knit. 
Undo it you cannot, 

Nor yet break it : 
JIako use of your inventions 

Their fancies to betray, 
To frustrate their intentions ; 

Love will find out the way. 



From court to the cottage. 

In bower and in hall, 
From the king unto the beggar. 

Love conquers all. 
Though ne'er so stout and lordly, 

Strive or do what you may ; 
Yet, be you ne'ei' so hardy, 

Love will find out the waj'. 

Love hath power over jirinces 

And greatest emperors; 
In any provinces 

.Such is Love's power. 
There is no resisting 

But him to obey ; 
In spite of .all contesting. 

Love will find out the way. 

If that he were hidden, 

And all men that are 
Were strictly forbidden 

That place to declare ; 
Winds, that have no abidings. 

Pitying their delay. 
Would C(uue and bring him tidings, 

And direct him the way. 

If the earth should part him. 

He would gallop it o'er; 
If the seas should o'erthwart him. 

Ho would swim to the shore. 
Should his love become a swallow, 

Through the air to stray, 
Love will lend wings to follow, 

And will find out the way. 

There is no striving 

To cross his intent, 
There is no coutriviug 

His plots to prevent ; 
But if ouco the message greet him 

That Ins true love doth stay. 
If death should come and meet him, 

Love will linil out the way. 



THE TWA SISTERS O' BINNOEIE. 

ANOSYSrOCS. 

This bnlind was popular hi Eii^laiul before 1G56. There .are 
several versious of it. Jiiniiesnii i;ives one takeu down from 
the recitation of a Mrs. Brown, " who had it from an old wom- 
an;" but he interpolates it with several stanzas of his own. 
There nre uumerous jiurodies of the piece. Both Scott and 



AXoxyMOis Axn miscellaxeucs poems. 



77 



Janiiesoii adopted the "Biiinoiie " burden without saying dis- 
tinctly where it came from. We have selected tlie version in 
Allingham'8 collection as the best and probably the most au- 
thentic. Opinions difler as to tlie pri>nunciation of Dinnorie. 
Lockhart and Aytoun say the accent should be on the lirst syl- 
lable ; other and equally good authorities say Dinno'rle. 

Tlipro were twa sistera sat in a liow'r: 

(ISiiiiioiie, O Biiiiiorie I) 
A kniglit cam' there, a noble ■wooer, 

By tlio bouiiy mill-clam.s o' Biiiuoric. 

He courted tlie eldest wi' glove and riug, 

(Biuiiorie, O Binnorie!) 
But lie lo'ed tlie youngest aboou a' tbing, 

By tbe bouny niill-dains o' Biuuorie. 

The eldest she Tvas vex6d sail', 

(Biunorie, O Binnorie!) 
And sair envied her sister fair, 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Biunorie. 

Upon a morning i'uir .and clear 

(Biuuorie, O Binnorie!) 
She cried upon her sister dear. 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Biunorie. 

" sister, sister, talc' my hand," 

(Biuuorie, O Binnorie!) 
"Aud let's go down to the river-strand, 

By the bunny mill-dams o' Binnorie." 

She's ta'eii her by the lily hand, 

(Biuuorie, O Binnorie!) 
Aud down they went to the river-strand, 

Bj' the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 

The j'ouugest stood upon a stane, 

(Binuorie, O Biunorie !) 
The eldest cam' and pushed her in,' 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Biunorie. 

"O sister, sister, reach your hand!" 

(Binnorie, O Biuuorie !) 
"And ye sail be heir o' half luy land" — 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Biunorie. 

" O sister, reaeli me but your glove !" 

(Biunorie, O Biuuorie!) 
"And sweet William sail be your love" — 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Biuuorie. 

Sometimes she sank, sometimes she swam, 

(Biuuorie, O Biuuorie!) 
Till she cam' to the mouth o' you mill-dam, 

By the bouny mill-dams o' Binuorie. 



Out then cam' the miller's sou 

(Binuorie, O Biuuorie!) 
And saw the fair maid sounmiiu' in. 

By the bonny mill-datus o' Binuorie. 

"O father, father, draw your dam I" 

(Biunoi'ie, O Biuuorie!) 
"There's either a mermaid or a swan," 

By the bouny mill-dams o' Biunori,e. 

^ 

The miller quiehly drew the dam, 

(Biunorie, O Binnorie!) 
And there he found a drowned woman, 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Biunorie. 

Round about her middle sma' 

(Binuorie, O Binuorie!) 
There went a gowdeu girdle bra'. 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Biunorie. 

All amaiig her yellow hair 

(Biunorie, O Binnorie!) 
A string o' jiearls was twisted rare. 

By the bouny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 

On her fingers, lily-white, 

(Binnorie, O Binnorie !) 
The jewel-rings were shining bright. 

By the bouny miU-dauis o' Binnorie. 

And by there cam' a harper fine, 

(Biuuorie, O Binnorie!) 
Harpdd to nobles when they dine. 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Biunorie. 

Aud when he looked that lady on, 

(Binnorie, O Binnorie !) 
He sighed and made a heavy moan. 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Biunorie. 

He's ta'en three locks o' her yellow hair, 

(Binuorie, O Biuu(uic!) 
Aud wi' them strung his harp sae rare, 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Biunorie. 

He went into her father's hall, 

(Binuorie, O Biuuorie!) 
And played his harp before them all, 

By the bouny niill-daius o' Biunorie. 

Aud sune tlie harp sang loud and clear, 

(Binnorii", O Binnorie!) 
" Fareweel, my father aud mither dear!" 

By the bouny mill-dams o' Biuuorie. 



CYCLOPJiDIA OF BlUTISH AXD AIIEIUCAX POETRY. 



And ueist wheu the harp began to sing, 

(Binnorie, O Binuoriel) 
"Twas "Farewcel, sweetheart!" said the string, 

Bj' the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 

And then, as plain as plain could be, 

(Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
"There sits mj' sister who drowned me!" 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 



DOWIE DENS O' YARROW. 

Anonymous. 

or tliis ball.id there are various versions. We have ctiosen 
tliat collated by Mr. Alliugliani. It is supposed to be founded 
OH fact, but there is liltle except loose tradition by which to 
verily it. The river Yarrow, much famed iu song, runs through 
a wide vale in Selkirkshire, between lofty green hills, and joins 
the Tweed above the t(pwu of Selkirk. The "Teunies" is a 
farm below tlie Yarrow Kirk. 

Lato at e'en, drinking the ■wine. 
And ere they paid the lawing,' 

They set a combat them between, 
To fijiht it iu the dawing. 



"What thongh ye be my sister's lord? 

We'll cross onr swords to-morrow." 
" What though my wife yonr sister be ? 

I'll meet ye then on Yarrow." 

"Oh, stay at hame, my aiu gude lord! 

Oh, stay, ray aiu dear marrow !- 
5Iy cruel brother will you betray 

On the dowie^ banks o' Yarrow." 

"Oh, fare ye weel, my lady dear! 

xVnd put aside your .sorrow ; 
For if I gae, I'll snue return 

Frae the bouuy banks o' Yarrow." 

She kissed his cheek, she kainied his hair, 

As oft she'd done before, O ; 
She belted him wi' his gude brand. 

And he's awa' to Yarrow. 

When ho gaed np the Teunies bank, 

As he gaed many a morrow. 
Nine armi5d men lay iu a den. 

On the dowie braes o' Yarrow. 



' Heckoniuf];. 

5 Married; husband or wife. 

8 Doleful. 



" Oh, como ye here to bnut or hawk 

The bonny Forest thorough ? 
Or come ye here to wield your brand 

Upon the banks o' Yarrow ?" 

"I come not here to hunt or hawk, 

As oft I've duue before, O ; 
But I come here to wield my brand 

Upon the bauks o' Yarrow." 

"If ye attack me nine to ane. 
That God may send ye sorrow ! — 

Yet will I fight while stand I may, 
On the bonny banks o' Yarrow." 

Two has lie hurt, and three has slaiu. 
On the bloody braes o' Yarrow ; 

But the stubborn knight crept in behind. 
And pierced his body thorough. 

"Gae hame, gae haine, you brither John, 
And tell your sister sorrow, — 

To come and lift her leafu' lord 
On the dowie bauks o' Yarrow." 

Her brither John gaed o'er yon hill. 

As oft he'd done before, O ; 
There ho met his sister dear. 

Cam' rinuiu' fast to Yarrow. 

"I dreamt a dream last night," she says; 

" I wish it binna sorrow ; 
I dreamt I pu'd the heather green 

Wi' my true love on Yarrow." 

" I'll read your dream, sister," he says ; 

"I'll read it into sorrow: 
Ye're bidden go take up your love ; 

He's sleeping sound on Yarrow." 

She"s torn the ribbons frae her head 
That were baith braid and narrow ; 

She's kilted up her lang claithing, 
And she's awa' to Yarrow. 

She's ta'en him in her amies twa, 
And gi'en him kisses thorough ; 

She Ronght to bind his many wounds, 
But ho lay dead on Yarrow. 

" Oh, hand yonr tongue," her father says, 

"Aud let bo a' yonr sorrow; 
I'll wed you to a better lord 

Than him ye lost on Yarrow." 



AyONYMOUS AND illSCELLAXEOVS POEMS. 



" Ob, Laud your tougue, father," she says ; 

" Far ^varse ye mak' my sorrow : 
A better lord could never be 

Thau him that lies ou Yarrow." 

She kissed his lips, she kaimed his hair, 

As aft she'd doue before, O ; 
Auil there wi' grief her heart did break, 

Upou the banks o' Yarrow. 



ROBIN HOOD'S RESCUE OF WILL STUTLY. 

Anonymous. 

This is but one of the uumemus Robin Ilood brillads, i)opn. 
Inr in England early in the 15th century, perhaps earlier. It 
is from an old black-letter copy in the collection of Anthony 
Wood. Robin Hood was born abont IIGO, in the rei^u of 
Heuiy II. 

When Robin Ilood in the gvecuwood lived, 
Deriij, dcn-y, down, 
Under the greenwood-tree. 
Tidings there came to him with speed. 
Tidings for certainty, 

Htif down, dcrrij, derry, doicn. 

That Will Stutly surprised was. 

And eke in prison lay ; 
Three varlets that the sheriff had hired. 

Did likely him betray : 

I, and to-morrow hanged must be, 

To-morrow as soon as it is day ; 
Before they could this victory get, 

Two of them did Stutly slay. 

When Robin Hood he heard this news. 

Lord ! he was grievdd sore ; 
And to his merry men he did say 

(Who altogether swore). 

That Will Stutly should rescued he. 

And be brought back again ; 
Or else should many a gallant wight 

For his sake there be slain. 

He clothed himself in scarlet red. 

His men were all in green ; 
A liner show, throughout the world. 

In no place could be seen. 

Good Lord ! it was a gallant sight 

To see them all on a row ; 
With every man a good broad sword, 

And eke a good yew bow. 



Forth of the greenwood are they gone. 

Yea, all courageously. 
Resolving to bring Stutly home. 

Or every man to die. 

And when they came the castle near, 

AVhereas Will Stutly l.ay, 
" I hold it good," saith Robin Hood, 

" We here in ambush stay, 

"And send one forth some news to hear. 

To yonder palmer fair. 
That stands under the castle wall, 

Some news he may declare." 

With that steps forth a brave young man. 

Which was of courage bold, 
Thus did he speak to the old man : 

" I pray thee, palmer old, 

"Tell me, if that thou rightly ken. 

When must Will Stutly die. 
Who is one of bold Roljiu's men. 

And here doth prisoner lie V 

"Alack! alas!" the palmer said, 

"And forever wo is me ! 
Will Stutly hanged must be this day, 

Ou yonder gallows-tree. 

" Oh, had his noble in,aster known. 

He would some succor send ; 
A few of his bold yeomandrio 

Full soon would fetch him hence." 

" I, that is true," the young man s.aid ; 

" I, that is true," said he. 
" Or, if they were near to this place. 

They soon would set him free. 

" But fare thee well, then good old man, 

Farewell, and thanks to thee ; 
If Stutly hanged be this day. 

Revenged his death will be." 

He was no sooner from the palmer gone, 
But the g.ates were opened wide. 

And out of the castle Will Stutly came. 
Guarded ou every side. 

Wlien he was forth of the castle come. 

And s.aw no help was nigh. 
Thus he did say to the sheriff, 

'J'hus he said gallautly : 



80 



CTCLOrJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AilEEICAN POETRY. 



" Now seeing that I needs must die, 

Grant lue one boon," said he, 
" For my noble master iie'er had a man. 

That hanged \vas on the tree : 

" Give me a sword all in ray hand. 

And let me be unbound. 
And with thee and thy men I'll fight, 

'Till I lie dead ou the ground." 

But his desire he would not grant. 

His wishes were in vain ; 
For the sheriff had sworn ho hanged should bo, 

And not by the sword be slain. 

"Do but nnbiud my hands," he says; 

" I will no weapons crave ; 
And if I hang(5d be this day. 

Damnation let me have." 

" Oh no, oh no," the sheriff said, 

" Thou shalt ou the gallows die, 
I, and so shall thy master too. 

If ever in me it lie." 

" Oh. dastai'd coward !" Stntly cries, 

"Thou faint-heart peasant slave! 
If ever my master do thee meet, 

Thou shalt thy payment have. 

" My noble master doth thee scorn, 

And all thy coward crew ; 
Such silly imps unable are 

Bold Kobin to subdue." 

But when lie was to the gallows come. 

And I'eady to bid adieu. 
Out of a bush leaps Little John, 

And conies Will Stutly to : 

" I pray thee. Will, before thou die. 

Of thy dear friends take leave ; 
I needs must borrow him for a while, 

How say you, master shrieve ?" 

"Now, as I live," the slicriff he said, 

" That varlet well I know ; 
Some sturdy rebel is that same, 

Therefore let him not go." 

Tlicn Little .)ohn most hastily 

Away cut Stutly's bauds, 
And from one of the sheriff's men 

A sword twitcht from his hands. 



" Here, Will, take thou this same, my lad. 

Thou canst it better sway ; 
And here defend thyself awhile. 

For aid will come straightway." 

And there they turned them back to back. 

In the middle of them that day. 
Till Robin Hood approached near. 

With man}- an archer gay. 

With that an arrow by them flew, 

I wist from Eobiii Hood. 
" Make haste, make haste," the sheriff he said, 

" Make haste, for it is good." 

The sheriff is gone, his doughty men 

Thought it no boot to stay. 
But .as their master had them taught, 

They ran full fast away. 

"Oh stay, oh stay," Will Stutly said; 

" Take leave ere you depart ; 
Y(ni ne'er will catch bold Kobin Hood, 

Unless you dare Lim meet." 

" Oh ill betide you," quoth Robin Hood, 

" That you so soon are gone ; 
My sword may in the scabbard rest, 

For here our work is done." 

" I little thought," Will Stutly said, 

" When I came to this place, 
For to have met with Little John, 

Or seen my master's face." 

Thus Stutly was at liberty set, 

And safe brought from his foe : 
" Oh thanks, oh thanks to my mast-dr. 

Since hero it was not so. 

"And ouco again, my fellows all. 
We shall in the gi-een woods meet. 

Where we will make our bow-striugs twang, 
SInsio for us most sweet." 



BEGONE, DULL CARE. 

AxosTMors (liefore 1689). 

Begone, dull care ! 

1 prithee begone from me; 
Begone, dull cai'o ! 

Thou and I can never agree. 



JNOy^YMOUS AXD MlSCELLAXEOl'S POEMS. 



81 



Luii;^ wliile thou hast been tarrying hero, 
Ami fain thovi woiildst me kill ; 

But i' faith, dull care. 

Thou never shalt have thy will. 

Tiio niucli care 

Will make a, young man gray; 
Too much care 

Will turn an old niau to clay. 
My Tvife shall dauce, and I will sing. 

So merrily pass the day; 
For I hold it is the wisest thing 

To drive dull care away. 

Hence, dull care ! 

I'll none of thy company ; 
Hence, dull care ! 

Thou art uo pair for me. 
We'll hunt the wild boar through the wold, 

So merrily iiass the day ; 
And theii at night, o'er a cheerful bow). 

We'll drive dull care away. 



MAN'S MORTALITY. 
Simon Wastell (1560-1630), 

Like as the damask rose you see. 

Or like the blossom on the tree. 

Or like the dainty flower in May, 

Or like the morning of the day. 

Or like the sun, or like the shade, 

Or like the gourd wliich Jonas had; — 

Even such is man, who.se thread is spun, 

Drawn out and cut, and so is done. 

The rose withers, the blossom blasteth ; 

The flower fades, tlie morning hasteth ; 

The sun sets, the shadow flies; 

The gourd consumes, and man lie dies. 

Like to the grass that's newly sprung. 
Or like a tale that's new begun, 
Or like the bird that's here to-day. 
Or like the pearl(5d dew of May, 
Or like an hour, or like a span. 
Or like the singing of a swan ; 
Even such is man, who lives by breath. 
Is here, now there, in life and death. 

The grass withers, the t.ale is ended : 

The bird is flown, the dew's ascended ; 

The hour is short, the span not long ; 

The swan near death ; man's life is done. 



EOBIN HOOD AND ALLIN-A-DALE. 

Anonymous. 

Come, listen to me, you gallants so free. 

All you that love mirth for to hear, 
And I will tell you of a bold outlaw 

That lived in Nottinghamshire. 
As Robin Hood in the forest stood. 

All under the greenwood tree. 
There he was aware of a brave young man, 

As fine as fine might be. 
The youngster was clothed in scarlet red, 

In scarlet fine and gay ; 
And he did frisk it over the plain. 

And chanted a roundelay. 

As Robin Hood next morning stood 

Amongst the leaves so gay, 
There did he espy the same young man 

Come drooping along the way. 
The scarlet he wore the day before 

It was clean cast away ; 
And at every step he fetched a sigh — 

"Alack, and a well-a-day !" 
Then stepp(5d forth brave Little John, 

And Midge, the miller's son, 
Which made the young man bend his bow, 

When as he saw them come. 

"Stand off, stand otf !'' the young man said; 

" What is your will vsMth me ?" 
"You must come before our master straight. 

Under yon greenwood tree." 
And when he came bold Robin before, 

Robin asked hira courteously, 
"Oh, hast thou any money to spare 

For my merry men and me ?" 
"I have no money," the young man said, 

" But five sliillings and a ring ; 
And that I have kept this seven long years. 

To have it at my wedding. 

" Yesterday I should have married a maid, 

But she soon from me was ta'eu, 
And chosen to be an old knight's delight. 

Whereby my poor heart is slain." 
"What is thy name ?" then said Robin Hood; 

" Come, tell me without any fail." 
" By the faith of my body," then said the young 
man, 

" My name it is Allin-a-Dale." 
"What wilt thou give me," said Robin Hood, 

" In ready gold or fee, 



82 



CXCLUrJEDIA OF BRiriSIl AXD AMERICAN I'OETRY. 



To help thee to thy true love agniu, 
And deliver her uuto thee?" 

" I have iio money," then quoth the youug man, 

"No ready gold nor fee ; 
But I will swear upon a hook 

Thy true servaut for to he." 
"How many miles is it to thy true love? 

Come, tell me without guile." 
"By the faith of my hody," tlieii said the youn^ 
man, 

"It i.s but five little mile." 
Theu Kobin he hasted over the plain, 

He did neither stiut uor bin. 
Until he came unto the church 

AVhere AUin should keep his wedding, 

"What hast tliou here?" the bishop then said; 

"I prithee now tell unto me." 
"I am a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood, 

"And the best iu the north couutree." 
" O welcome, O welcome !" the bishop he said, 

"That music best pleaseth me." 
"You shall have no music," quoth Robin Hood, 

"Till the bride and the bridegroom I see." 
With tliat came in a wealthy knight. 

Which was both grave and old; 
And after him a finikin lass 



"Tliis is not a fit match," quoth bold Robin Hood, 

" That you do seem to make here ; 
For siuce we are come into the church, 

Tlie bride shall choose her owu dear." 
Then Eobiu Hood put his horn to his mouth, 

And blow blasts two or three, 
Wheu four-aud-tweuty bowmen bold 

Came leaping o'er the lea. 
And when they came into the church-yard, 

Marching all in a row. 
The very first man was Allin-a-Dale 

To give bold Eobiu his bow. 

"This is thy true love," Robin he said, 

"Young Allin, as I hear say; 
And you shall be married at this same time, 

Before we depart away." 
"That shall not be," the bishop he said, 

" For thy word shall not stand ; 
They shall be three times asked in the churcli, 

As the law is of our land." 
Eobiu Hood pulled off the bishop's coat. 

And put it on Little John : 



" By the faith of my body," theu Eobiu said, 
" This cloth doth make thee a man." 

When Little John went into the quire 

The peoi)le began to laugh ; 
He asked them seven times iu the church, 

Lest three times should not bo enough. 
"Who gives mc this maid?" said Little John. 

Quoth Robin Hood, "That do I; 
And he that takes her from Allin-a-Dale, 

Full dearly he shall her buy." 
And thus having end of this merry wedding. 

The bride looked like a queen ; 
And so they returned to the merry greenwood, 

Amongst the leaves so green. 



WALY, WALY. 

Anonymous. 

Fu'St published as an old song in Allan R.inis.ay's "Ten-Table 
Miscellany," in 1T24. Part of it (by Koliei t Chambers all of it) 
has been pieced into a later ballad on the Jlarchioness of 
Duiislass; married IGTO, and deserted by her husband. 

Oil waly, waly,' up the bank, 

Oil waly, waly, douu the brae," 
And waly, waly, you burn-side," 

Where I and my love were wont to gae ! 
I leaned my back unto an aik, 

I thoclit it was a trustie tree, 
But first it bowed, and syne it brak', — 

And sao did my fause love to me. 

OU waly, waly, but love bo bonuie 

A little time while it is new! 
But when it's auld it waxeth cauld, 

And fadoth awa' like the morning dew. 
Oh, wherefore should I busk* my lieid. 

Or wherefore should I kame my hair f 
For my true love has mo forsook, 

And says he'll never lo'e me mair. 

Noo Arthur's- Seat sail be my bed. 

The sheets sail ne'er be pressed by me ; 
Saint Anton's Well' sail bo my drink; 

Since ray true love's forsaken me. 
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw. 

And sbake the green leaves off the tree ? 
Oh gentle death, when wilt thou come 1 

For of my life I am weario. 

1 An exclamation of sorrow, the root and the pronuuciatiou 
of wliich are preserved in cati'riraitl, 

2 Hill-side. » Brook. •! Adorn. 

6 Saint Anton's Well was at the foot of Arthur's Seat, by 
Edinburgh. 



ANONYMOUS AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



'Tis not the frost tliat freezes fell, 

Nor blawiiig siiaw's iticlemeucie, 
'Tis not sic cauld that makes nie cry ; 

But my love's heart grown caulil to me. 
When we cam' in by Glas-gow toun, 

AVe were a comely sicht to see ; 
My love was clad in the black velvet, 

An' I niysel' in craniasie.' 

Bnt had I wist, before I kissed, 

That love had been so ill to win, 
I'd locked my heart in a case o' goiul. 

And pinned it wi' a siller pin. 
Oh, oh! if my yonng babe were born, 

And set upon the nurse's knee ; 
And I mysel' were deid and gone, 

Aud the green grass growing over me ! 



EDWARD. 

Anonymous. 

This remarkable little dramatic ballad was first printed in 
Percy's "Reliques," from a mauuscript transmitted by Lord 
Ilailes. Tliere are several versious; and a good German trans- 
lation of it by Herder. 

"Why does yonr brand sac drap wi' blade, 

Edward, Edward ? 
Why does your brand sae drap wi' blnde, 

And why sae sad gang ye, ?" 
■' Oh, I lia'e killed my hawk sae gnde, 

Mitlier, niither : 
Oh, I ha'e killed my hawk sae glide, 

Aud I ha'e nae mair but he, 0." 

" Yonr hawk's blnde was never sae red, 

Edward, Edward : 
Your hawk's blnde was never sae red, 

My dear sou, I tell thee, O." 
"Oh, I ha'e killed my red-roan steed, 

Mither, mither : 
Oh, I ha'e killed my red-roan steed, 

That was sae fair and free, O." 

"Y''Bur steed was anhl, .and ye've plenty mair, 

Edward, Edward : 
Your steed was anhl, aud ye've plenty mair ; 

Some i titer dnle ye dree,' 0." 
"Oh, I ha'e killed my father de.ar, 

Mither, mither: 
Oh, I lia'e killed my father de.ar ! 
Alas ! and wae is me, O !" 

' Crimson. = S^me other grief yoa suffer. 



"What penauce will ye dree for thtit, 
Edward, Edward f 
What penance will ye dree for that ? 
My dear son, now tell me, O." 
"I'll set my feet in yonder boat, 

Mither, mither : 
I'll set my feet in yonder boat. 

And ril fare o'er the sea, O." 

V 

"And what will ye do wi' your towers and ha', 

Edward, Edward ? 
Aud what will ye do wi' your towers and ha'. 

That were sae fair to see, O ?" 
"I'll let them stand till they donu fa', 

Mither, mither : 
I'll let them stand till they donu fa'; 
For here I maunna be, O." 

"And what will ye leave to your bairns aud wife, 

Edward, Edward ? 
And what will ye leave to your bairns aud wife, 

Wheit ye gang o'er the sea, O ?" 
" TIio warld's room : let them beg through life, 

Mither, mither: 
The warld's room : let tlieni beg through life ; 
For them I ne'er matiu see, O." 

"And what will ye leave to your mither dear, 

Edward, Edward ? 
And what will ye leave to your mither dear ? 

My dear son, now tell me, O." 
"The curse of hell frae me sail ye bear, 

Mither, mither : 
The curse of hell frae me sail ye bear, — ■ 
Sic conusels ye gied me, !" 



LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. 

Anonymous (1570). 

Love me little, love me long. 
Is the burden of my song. 
Love that is too hot aud strong 

Biirneth soon to waste. 
Still I wotilil not have thee cold, 
Not too backward or too bold ; 
Love that lasteth till 'tis old 

Fadeth uot iu haste. 



If thou lovest me too much, 
'Twill not prove as true as touch ; 
Love me little, more than such. 
For I fear the cud. 



)-i 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BBiriSH AND AMERICAN POEIET. 



I'm with little well content, 
And a little from tbeo sent 
Is enough, with true intent. 
To be steadl'ast friend. 

Say thou loy'st me while thou live, 
I to thee my love will give, 
I^evcr dreaming to deceive 

While tliat life endures : 
Nay, and after death, in sootb, 
I to thee will keep my truth 
As now. In my May of youth, 

Tbis my love assures. 

Constant love is moder.ate ever. 
And it will through life pers6ver; 
Give me that, with true endeavor 

I will it restore ; 
A snic of durance let it be 
For all weathers ; that for me, 
For tlio land or for the sea, 

Lasting evermore. 

Winter's cold or Summer's heat, 
Antumu's tempests on it beat. 
It cau never know defeat. 

Never can rebel : 
Such the love that I would gain, 
Such the love, I tell thee jilain, 
Thou must give, or woo in vain — 

So to thee farewell ! 



TRUE LOVELINESS. 

ANONYMors. 

It is not beauty I demand, 

A crystal brow, the moon's despair. 
Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand. 

Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair : 
# # # ^ # j» 

Give me, instead of beauty's bust, 

A tender heart, a loyal mind, 
Which with temptation I wonld trust. 

Yet never linked with error find, — 
One iu whose gentle bosom I 

Could pour my secret heart of woes, 
Like the eare-bnrdeued honey-lly. 

That hides bis nuirmnrs in tbo rose, — 
My earthly comforter! whose lovo 

So indefeasible might be. 
That when my spirit wouned above. 

Hers could not stay for sympathy. 



LINES WRITTEN BY ONE IN THE TOWER, 
BEING YOUNG, AND CONDEMNED TO DIE. 

ClIIDIOCK TycHBOHN. 

Chidiock Tychhorn, the niUhor of these line?, shared in Bab- 
in^tou's consijiracy, and was executed with him in 1586. For 
move about him, see an article in D'Israeli's "Curiosities of 
Literature." 

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares ; 

My feast of joy is but a dish of pain ; 
My crop of corn is but a field of tares ; 

And all my good is but vaiu hope of gain : 
The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun ; 
And now I live, and now my life is done. 

The spring is jiast, and yet it hath not sprung ; 

The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green ; 
My youth is go)ie, and yet I am but young ; 

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen : 
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun ; 
And now I live, and now my life is done. 

I sought my death, and found it iu the womb; 

I looked at life, and saw it was a shade ; 
I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb ; 

And now I die, and now I am but made : 
The glass is full, and now my glass is run ; 
And now I live, and now my life is done. 



BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL. 

AN0NY3I0US. 

Mr. Motherwell supposes that this ballad is probably a La- 
ment for one of the adherents of the hotise of Argyle, who fell 
in the battle of Qlenlivat, October, 1094. 

Hie upon Hielands, and low upon Tay, 
Boiuiic George Campbell rade out on a day. 
Saddled and bridled and gallant rade be ; 
Hamo cam' his horse, but never cam' he ! 

Out cam' bis aiild niither, greeting fii' sair ; 
Aud out cam' bis bonuie bride, riving her hair. 
Saddled and bridled and booted rade he ; 
Toom' hame cam' the saddle, but never cam' he ! 

" My meadow lies green, aud my corn is unshorn ; 
My barn is to Ijigg,^ and my babie's imborn." 
Saddled and bridled and booted rade ho; 
Toom cam' the saddle, bnt never cam' he! 



Empty. 



= Build. 



AXONTMOCS AKD 2IISCELLAXE0US POEMS. 



So 



SILENT MUSIC. 

The following is found in "ObFeivatinns on the Art of Eng- 
lish Poesy " (London, 1002), by Tliom.is Campion. The purpose 
of the book is mainly to prove that rhyme is altogether an un- 
necessary appendage to English verse. The lines are so grace- 
ful, it is a wonder that we have nothing more from the same 
pen. 

Rose-cbeekcil Laiirn, come ! 
Sing tlioii smoothly -nitli tbj' bcattty's 
Silent music, either other 
Sweetlj- gracing. 

Lovely forms tlo flow 
From concent divinely framed ; 
Heaven is music, and thy beauty's 

Birth is heavenly. 

These dull notes we sing, 
Discords need for helps to grace them ; 
Only beauty ptirely loving 

Knows DO discord ; 

Bnt still moves delight, 
Like clear springs renewed by flowing. 
Ever perfect, ever in thcm- 

Selves eternal. 



THE HEAVENLY JERUS.\LEM. 

AKOSTMorS. 

This old poem, which was altered and enlarged by David 
Dickson, a Scotch clergyman CT5S3-16C'2), seems to have been by 
no means improved by the enlargement; and we give it here in 
its earlier form. Probably the hymn has received contributions 
from various hands, and it would seem to be partly derived 
from translations from the Latin. 

Jernsalem, my happy home, 

When shall I come to thee? 
When shall my sorrows have au end ? 

Tliy joys when shall I see ? 
happy harbor of the saints! 

O sweet and pleasant soil ! 
In thee no sorrow may be found, 

No grief, no care, no toil. 

In thee no sickness may be seen. 

Nor hurt, nor ache, nor sore ; 
Tliere is no death, nor ugly dole, 

Bnt Life for evermore. 
Tliere lust and Incre cannot dwell, 

There envy bears no sway; 
There is no hunger, heat, nor cold. 

But pleasure every way. 



Thy walls are made of precious stones. 

Thy bulwarks diamonds square ; 
Thj' gates are of right orient pearl, 

Exceeding rich and ran;. 
Thy turrets and thy pinnacles 

With carbuncles do shine ; 
Thy very streets are pavetl with gold. 

Surpassing clear and fine. 

Thy houses are of ivory. 

Thy windows crjstal clear ; 
Thy tiles are made of beaten gold ; — 

O God, that I were there ! 
Ah, my sweet home, Jerusalem ! 

Would God I were iu thee! 
Would God my woes were at au end. 

Thy joys that I might see ! 

Thy saints are crowned with glorj- great; 

They see God face to face ; 
They triumph still, they still rejoice ; 

Most hapjiy is their case. 
We that are here in banishment 

Continually do moan ; 
We sigh and sob, wo wccji ami wail, 

Perpetually we groan. 

Our sweet is mixed with bitter gall. 

Our pleasure is but pain ; 
Our joys scarce last the looking on, 

Onr sorrows still remain. 
But there they live in such delight, 

Snch pleasure, and such play. 
As that to them a thousand years 

Doth seem as yesterday. 

Thy gardens and thy gallant walks 

Continually are green ; 
There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers 

As nowhere else are seen. 
Quite through the streets, with silver sound. 

The flood of Life doth flow ; 
Upon whose banks on every side 

The wood of Life doth grow. 

There trees for evermore bear fruit, 

And evermore do spring; 
There evermore the angels sit, 

And evermore do sing. 
Jerusalem, my happy home. 

Would God I were iu thee ! 
Would God my woes were at an end. 

Thy joys that I might see ! 



8i) 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AilERICAX POETRY. 



HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL. 

ANONTMOrS. 

Helen Irving, daughter of the liiiril of Kirkconuell, in Dum- 
friesshire, was beloved by two gentlemen. The name of tiie 
one suitor was Adam Fleming; that of the other has escaped 
tradition. The addresses of the latter were, however, favored 
by the lady, and the lovers were obliged to meet iu the church- 
yard of Kirkconuell. During one of these iuterviews, the jeal- 
ous and despised lover suddenly appeared on the ojiposite bank 
of the stream, aud levelled his carbine at the breast of his rival. 
Helen threw herself before her lover, received ir. her bosom the 
bullet, and died iu his arms. A desperate and mortal combat 
ensued between the rivals, iu which Fleming was cut to pieces. 
The graves of the lovers are still shown in the church-yard of 
Kirkconuell. 

I wish I Tivere where Helen lies! 
Xiglit and (lay on me she cries. 
Oh th.at I were where Helen lies, 
On f:iir Kirlcconnell loa ! 

Cnrst bo the heart that thought the thought, 
Ami curst the haml tliat tired the sliot, 
When in my arms Inird' Helen dropt, 
And died to stteeor me ! 

Oil, think ye na my lieart was sair. 
When my love dropt down and .spaUc iiae ui:iir ? 
There did she swoon wi' meilile care, 
On fair Kirlcconnell lea. 

As I went down the water-side, 
None hut uiy foe to he my guide, 
None hut my foe to be my guide, 
Ou fair Kirkcouiiell lea, — 

I lighted down, my sword did draw ; 
I hache'd him in pieces sma', 
I liach(5d him in pieces sma'. 
For her salce tliat died for me. 

O Helen fair, beyond compare ! 
I'll weave a garland of thy hair 
Shall bind my heart for eveniiair, 
Until tlie day I dec ! 

Oil that I were where Helen lies! 
Night and day on me slie cries ; 
Out of my beil ,slie bi<ls me rise. 
Says, " Haste, and come to me !" 

O Helen fair! O Helen cliaste ! 
Were I with thee I would be blest, 

' Maid. 



Where tliou lies low and takes thy rest, 
On fair Kirkconuell lea. 

I wish my grave were growing green, 
A wiudiug-shcet drawn o'er my een, 
And I iu Helen's arms lying, 
On fair Kirkconuell lea. 

I wish I were where Helen lies! 
Night and day on me she cries, 
Aud I am weary of the skies. 
For her sake that died for me. 



luiiij iCljavlts 3. 



Cliarlcs I., King of England, grandson of Mary, Queen 
of Scots, was born at Dunfermline, in Scotland, iu IBOtl, 
and executed in London, January SOtli, 1049. Tlic poem 
from which the following twelve triplets arc taken con- 
sists of tweuty-four, most of them quite inferior to the 
following. Archbishop Trench does "not doubt that 
tliese lines are what they profess to be, the composition 
of King Charles; their autlienticity is stamped on every 
line." They are creditable to his literary culture, and 
show that he inherited some of the poetical faculty of 
his grandmollier. 



A EOYAL LAMENTATION. 

Great Monarch of (he winld, from whose power 

springs 
The potency and power of kings. 
Record the royal woe my snfi'ering sings. 

Nature and law by Tliy divine decree 
(The only root of righteous royalty),- 
Willi Ihis dim diadem invested me. 

With it the sacred sceptre, pnrple robe, 
The holy unction, .and the royal globe ; 
Yet am I levelled with the life of ,Tob. 

* # * * * 

The hereest furies, that do daily frcid 
Upon my grief, my gray disei-owndd head. 
Are they that owe my bounty for their bread. 

Great Britain's heir i.s fore(?d into France, 
Whilst on his father's lie.ad his foes advance : 
Poor child I he weeps at his inheritance. 

With my own power my majesty they wound. 
In the King's name the king's himself uncrowucd; 
So doth the dust destroy the diamond. 



sin WILLIAM DjrEXJNT.su: riioMJs browse. 



AVitli propositions daily they enchant 

My people's ears — such as do reason d.-iniir, 

And the Almiglity will not let nie grant. 

Tlicy promise to erect my royal stem. 

Til make me great, to advance my diadem, 

If I will first fall down and worship them. 

My life tliey prize at such a slender rate, 
That in my absence they draw bills of hate, 
To prove the Uing a traitor to the State. 

Felons obtain more privilege than I ; 
They are allowed to answer ere they die; 
'Tis death for me to ask the reason why. 

But, sacred Saviour, with thy words I woo 

Thee to forgive, and not be bitter to 

Such as thou know'st do not know what they do. 

Augment my patience, nullify my hate. 

Preserve my is.sne, and inspire my mate; 

Yet, thougli we perish, bless this Church ami State! 



Sir lllilliam Dat)cnaiit. 

A native of O.'cford, Davenant (160.5-1668) succeeded 
Ben Jonson as poct-Iaureate. He was tlie son of an inn- 
keeper, and educated at O.xford. In 1643 he was knighted 
by King Charles. His works consist of dramas, masques, 
addresses, and an uufinislied epic called "Gondibert," 
which he dedicates to Hobbes. He left a son, Charles, 
wbo sat in Parliament, and distinguished himself some- 
what as a literary man. 



THE SOLUIEU GOING TO THE FIELD. 

Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl. 

To purify the air ; 
Thj' tears to thread, instead of pearl, 

On bracelets of thy hair. 

Tlie trumpet makes the echo hearse. 
And wakes the louder drum ; 

E.xpenso of grief gains no remorse. 
When sorrow should be dumb : 

For I must go, where lazy peace 
Will hide her drowsy head ; 

And, fur the sport of kings, increase 
The number of the dead. 



But first I'll chide thy cruel theft ; 

Can I in war delight. 
Who, being of my heart bereft, 

Can have no heart to tight? 

TIiou know'st the sacred laws of old 
Ordained a thief should pay, 

To quit him of his theft, sevenfold 
What he had stolen away. ' 

Thy payment shall but double be ; 

Oh, then, with speed resign 
My own seduced heart to me, 

Accompauied with thine. 



TO THE QUEEN. 

Fair as unshaded light, or as the day 
In its first birth, when all the year was May;. 
Sweet as the altar's smoke, or as the new 
Unfolded bud, swelled by the early dew ; 
Smooth as the face of waters first appeared, 
Ere tides began to strive or winds were heard; 
Kind as the willing saints, and calmer far 
Than in their sleeps forgiven hermits are ; — 
Yon that are more tlian our discreeter fear 
Dares praise, with such full art, what make you 

here ? 
Here, where the summer is so little seen. 
That leaves, her cheapest wealth, scarce reach at 

green ; 
You come, as if the silver planet were 
Misled awhile from her much-injured sphere ; 
And, to ease the travels of her beams to-niglit. 
In this small lanthorn would contract her light. 



5ir iSljoiiuis Broiuiic. 

Browne (160.5-1683) is known chieHy for his prose 
writings. His •'Reliifio Medici" is still in demand at 
the book-stores. Of his poems we have one favorable 
specimen. He was born in London, became a practising 
physician at Norwich, and was knighted by Charles II. 
in 1671. 



THE NIGHT IS COME. 

The night is come: like to the day. 
Depart not Thou, great God, away ! 
Let not my sins, black as the night, 
Eclipse the lustre of Thy light. 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BIIITISH AND JMEIUCAX POETRT. 



Keep still iu my liorizou ; fur to rue 

The sun makes not the day, but Thee. 

Thou Avhose nature cauuot sleep, 

On my temples sentry keep ! 

Guard me 'gaiust those vratchful foes, 

Whoso eyes are opeu while mine close ; 

Let no dreams my head infest, 

But such as Jacob's temples blest. 

While I do rest, my soul advance ; 

Make my sleep a holy trance, 

That I may, my rest being -n-rought, 

Awake into some holy thought ; 

And with as active vigor run 

My course as doth the nimble sun. 

Sleep is a death ; oh ! make me try, 

By sleeping, what it is to die : 

And as gently lay my head 

On my grave, as now my bed. 

Howe'er I rest, great God, let me 

Awake again at last with Thee. 

And thus assured, behold I lie 

Securely, or to wake or die. 

These are my drowsy days; iu vain 

I do now wake to sleep again : 

Oil ! come that hour when I shall never 

Sleep again, bnt wake forever. 



(PDmuuL) lUallcr. 

Waller (1C0.5-1C87) flourislicd unclL-r the rule of Cliai-les I. 
and Charles II. His mother was aunt of the celeliratctl 
John Hampden, wlio was first cousin both of Edmund 
Waller and Oliver Cromwell. Rich an^ well-born, Wal- 
ler was educated at Eton, and became a member of Par- 
liament at eisliteen. His political life was eventful, and 
not wholly to his credit. He sat in all the p.arliaments 
of Charles II., and was the delight of the House : even at 
eighty years of age lie was the liveliest and wittiest man 
within its walls. His verses are smooth and polished, 
but superliciiil. Overpraised iu his day, his fame has, not 
undeservedly, declined. lie was left heir to an estate 
of £3500 in his inlancy, and was either a Roundhead or 
a Roj-alist, as the time served. At twenty-five he mar- 
ried a rich heiress of London, who died the same year. 
Kasy and witty, he was j'ct cold and selfish. 



THE MESSAGE OF THE ROSE. 

Go, lovely Rose, 
Tell her that wastes her time and me 

That now she knows. 
When I resemble her to thee. 
How .sweet and fair she seems to be.. 



Tell her that's young, 
And shuns to have her graces spied, 

That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts, where no men abide, 
Thon must have uncommcnded died. 

Small is the ^^orth 
Of Beauty from the light retired : 

Bid her come forth. 
Suffer herself to be desired. 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die, that she 
The common fate of all things rare 

May read iu tliee : 
How small a part of lime they share 
Tiiat are so wondrous sweet and fair. 



ON A GIRDLE. 

Tliat which her slender waist confined 
Shall now my joyful temples bind : 
No nioiiarch but would give his crown 
His arms might do what this has done. 

It was my heaven's cxtreniest sphere. 
The pale which held that lovely deer ; 
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love. 
Did all within this circle move. 

A narrow comiiass, and yet there 
Dwelt all tliat's good and all that's fair: 
Give mo but what this riband bound. 
Take all the rest the snu goes round. 



lUilliaiu tjiabiucitou. 

Habington (1C0.5-1G4.5) was a Roman Catholic. He was 
educated at St. Omer's and Paris, and after his return to 
England married the lady who is the "Castara" of his 
volume of poems. He had no stormy passions to agitate 
him, no unruly imagination to control. His verses arc 
often of a jjlacid, tender, elegant description, but studded 
with conceits. 



NOMINE LABIA MEA APERIES. 

No monument of me remain, — 
My nienuny rust 
III the .same marble with my dust,- 
Kre I (he spreading laurel gain 
By writing wanton or profane! 



WILLIAM nJBIXGTOX.—JOnX illLTOX. 



Y 



lorions woiulei's of the skies ! 
Sliiiie still, briglit stars, 

Tlio Aliniglity's mystic cbaractpvs ! 
I'll not your beauteous lights surprise 
To illiiniinatc a woman's eyes. 



Nor to perfume her veins will I 
lu each one set 
The purple of the violet : 
The uiitoHcbed flowers may grow and ilio 
Safe from my fancy's injury. 

Open my lips, great God ! and then 
I'll soar above 
The humble flight of enrnal love : 
Upward to thee I'll force my pen. 
And trace uo paths of vulgar men. 

For what can our unbounded souls 
Worthy to be 
Tlieir oljject find, excepting thee? 
Where can I fix? since time controls 
Our pride, whose motion all things rolls. 

Sliouhl I myself ingratiate 
To a prince's smile, 
How soon may death my hopes beguile! 
And should I farm the proudest state, 
I'm tenant to uncertain fate. 

If I court gold, will it not rust? 
And if my love 
Toward a female beauty move, 
How will that surfeit of our lust 
Distaste us when resolved to dust ! 

But thon, eternal bancinet! where 
Forever we 
May feed without satiety! 
Who harmony .art to the ear, — 
Who art, while all things else appear! 

While up to thee I shoot my flame, 
Thon dost dispense 
A boly death, that murders sense. 
And nuikes me scorn all pomps that aim 
At other triumphs than thy name. 

It crowns me with a victory 
So heavenly, — all 
That's earth from me away doth fall i 
And I, from my corruption free, 
Grow in my vows even part of thee. 



3ol)u iUiltou. 



Jlilton (1008-1074) was the younger son of a London 
scrivener in good circumstances. At sixteen ho entered 
Clii'ist's College, Cambridge; taking his degree of M.A. 
in 1033, about which time he wrote "L'Allegro," "II 
Penseroso," "Comus," "Lycidas," and other of his 
shorter poems. Afterward he travelled in Italy for 
some tiftcen months, and visited blind old Galileo. Re- 
turning to England, he kept school for "nwliile. He 
strongly advocated the Republican cause, and, on the 
death of Cliarlcs I., was appointed Latin Secretary to the 
Council of State. At tlie Restoration he retired into 
private life ; and it was tlicn, in liis old age, when he had 
become totally blind, that be wrote his immortal poems, 
" Paradise Lost " and " Paradise Regained." 

Milton was married three limes — first, in 1643, to Mary 
Powell. It was a hasty marriage, and an unhappy one. 
Six years after her death he was united to Catherine 
Woodcock, with whom be lived happily for a year, 
when, to his great grief, she died. It is of her he speaks 
in one of liis sonnets as "his lote espoused saint." In 
lUCO he married Elizabeth Minshull,who proved an ex- 
cellent wife. Milton's English sonnets, seventeen in 
number, are happily described by Wordsworth as " soul- 
animating strains, alas ! too few." Johnson, however, 
could not see their grandeur, and explained what he 
considered Milton's "failure" by remarking to Hannah 
More, "Milton's was a genius that could hew a Colos- 
sus out of a rock, but could not carve heads on cherry- 
stones." In bis youth Milton was remarkable for his 
beauty of countenance. His life was tlie pattern of sim- 
plicity and purity, almost to austerity. He acted from 
his youtli as "under his great Taskmaster's eye." 

Milton's two juvenile poems, "L'Allegro" and "II 
Penseroso," hardly deserve the reputation they have 
long held. Ho evidently took bis hints for them partly 
from a forgotten poem prefixed to Burton's "Anatomy 
of Melancholy," and partly from the song, by Beaumont 
and Fletcher, "Hence, all you vain delights!" (which 
see). The poem in Burton's boolv has these lines : 

"When I go musing nil nlnne, 
Tliinkiug of diverse things foreknown : 
When I build castles in the air, 
Void of sorrow, vtiid of fear. 
Pleasing m3'?eif with ijhantusnis sweet, 
Metliinks the time runs very fleet. 

All my joys to this are folly ; 

Naught so sweet as Melancholy I" 

The remainder of the poem is still more suggestive of 
resemblance, both in the measure and the general tone. 
The following tribute to the nobility of Milton's charac- 
ter is paid by Maeaulay : "If ever despondency and as- 
perity could be excused in any man, it might have been 
excused in Milton. But the strength of liis mind over- 
came every calamity. Neither blindness, nor gout, nor 
age, nor penury, nor domestic ntflictions, nor political 
disappointments, nor abuse, nor proscription, nor neg- 
lect, had power to disturb his sedate and majestic pa- 
tience." The fame of this eminent poet seems to have 
been undisturbed by the lapse of time. 



90 



CTCLOPJUDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEIilCAN POETltY. 



L'ALLEGKO.' 

Hence, loatlitfd Meliiiichdly, 

Of Ccibonis and blackest Miduiglit bovn ! 

lu Sfygian cave forloni, 

'Mongst iKirriil sliaiies, and shrieks, and sights 
unhidy, 

Find ont Kciniis nncnnth cell. 

Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous 
wings, 

And the night-raven sings ; 

Thei'p, nnder ebon shades, and low-browed rocks. 

As ragged as thy locks. 

In dark Cinniierian desert ever dwell. 
But come, thou goddess, fair and free. 
In heaven y-cleped Enphrosyne,' 
And by men, heart-easing Mirth! 
Whom lovely Venns at a birth, 
With two sister Graces more. 
To ivy-crownM Bacchus bore; 
Or whether (as some sages sing) 
The frolic wind that breathes the spring. 
Zephyr with Aurora playing — 
As he met her once a-Maying — 
There, on beds of violets bine. 
And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, 
Filleil her with tliee, a daughter fair, 
So bnxom, blithe, and debonair. 

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee 
Jest and youthful Jollity, — 
Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, 
Nods, and Becks, aiul wreatlnSd Smiles, 
Scich as hang on Hebe's cheek. 
And love to live in dimple sleek ; — 
Sport, that wrinkled Care derides. 
And Laughter holding both his sides. 
Come, and trip it, as you go, 
On the light fantastic toe; 
And in tliy right hand lead with thee 
Tlie mountain nymph, sweet Liberty; 
And if I give thee honor due. 
Mirth, admit mo of thy crew, 
To live with her, and live with tlice, 
In nnrcprov^d pleasures free; — 
To hear the lark begin his flight, 
And, singing, startle the dull night 
From liis watch-tower in the skies, 
Till the dappled dawn doth rise; 
Then to come, in spit* of sorrow. 
And at my window bid good-morrow, 



' 'I'lip m.m of mirth. 

2 Eiiphnsi/ne iGr.), Clieoirulnese: one ot tho Gi-nces. 



Through the sweet-brier, or the vine, 

Or the twisted eglantine ;' 

While the cock, with lively din. 

Scatters the rear of darkness thin. 

And to the stack or the barn-door 

Stoutly stmts his dames before ; — 

Oft listening how the hounds and horu 

Cheerly rouse the slumbering Morn, 

From the side of some hoar hill. 

Through the high wood echoing shrill ; — 

Some time walking, not unseen. 

By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, 

Right against the eastern gate, 

Where the great sun begins his state. 

Robed in flames and amber light, 

The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; 

While tlie ploughman near at band 

Whistles o'er tho furrowed land, 

And the milkmaid singeth blithe. 

And the mower whets his scythe. 

And every shepherd tells his tale 

Under tho hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine eye hath caught new iileasurcs, 
Wliilst the landscape round it measures: 
Russet lawns and fallows gray. 
Where tlic nibbling flocks do stray; 
Mountains, on whose barren breast 
The laboring clouds do often rest ; 
Meadows trim with daisies pied, 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. 
Towers and battlements it sees 
Bosomed high in tnfted trees, 
Where, perhaps, some beauty lies, 
The Cynosure of neighboring eyes. 
Hard by a cottage chimney smokes. 
From betwixt two aged oaks, 
Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met. 
Are at their savory dinner set. 
Of herbs and other country messes, 
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses: 
And tln^n iu haste her bower she leaves, 
Willi Tliestylis to bind the sheaves; 
Or, if the e:irlier season lead 
To the tauned hay-cock in the mead. 
Sometimes with .secure delight 
The upland hamlets will invite. 
When the merry bells ring r()un<l. 
And the jocund rebecks'' sound 
To many a youth and many a maid 
Dancing iu the checkered shade ; 

1 Wiirton pnys : '* Sweetbrier and eglantine ni-c the piime 
plant; by the 'twisted egluntine ' he therefttre ine;n).« it;^ 
honeysuckle." " A Hurt of tiddle. 



JOny MILTON. 



91 



Ami yoniig anil old coiuo forth to l>l:iy 

On a sunsliine lioliilay, 

Till tbe livelong dayliglit fail ;— 

Tlieu to tlie spicy iiut-biowii ale, 

With stories tolil of many a feat, 

How fairy Mab the junkets eat ; 

She was iiincheil and pulled, she said, 

And he by friars' laiithoni led ; 

Tells how the drudging goblin sweat 

To earn his cream-bowl duly set, 

When in one night, ere glimpse of morn. 

His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn 

That ten day-laborers conld not end ; 

Then lies him down, the lubber fiend! 

And. stretched out all the chimney's length, 

Basks at the fire his hairy strength. 

And, crop-full, out-of-doors he flings 

Ere the first cock his matin rings. 

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep. 

By whispering winds soon lulled to sl(!cp. 

Towered cities please us then. 
And the busy hnm of men, 
Where throngs of knights and barons bold 
lu weeds of peace high triumphs hold, — 
With store of hulies, whose bright eyes 
Rain influence, and judge tlie prize 
Of wit or arms, while both contend 
To win her grace whom all commend. 
There let Hymen oft appear, 
In saftVon robe, with taper clear, 
And pomp, and feast, and revelry. 
With mask and antiipie pageantry; 
Such sights as j'onthfnl poets dream 
On summer eves by haunted stream. 
Then to the well-trod stage anon, 
If Jonsou's learu6d sock be on. 
Or sweetest Shakspcare, Fancy's child, 
Warble his native wood-notes wild. 

And ever against eating cares, 
Lap me in soft Lydian airs. 
Married to immortal verse. 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce ; 
In notes with many a winding bout' 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out. 
With wanton heed and giddy cunning 
The melting voice through mazes running. 
Untwisting all the chains that tie 
The hidden soul of harmony, — 
That Orpheus' S(df may heave his head 
From golden slumber on a bed 



A fold or twist. 



Of heaped El^sian flowers, and hear 
Such strains as would have won the ear 
Of Pinto to have rjnite set free 
His half-regained Eurydice. 

These delights if thou canst give, 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 



IL PENSEROSO.' 

Hence, vain, deluding joys, 
The brood of folly, -without father bred ! 

How little yon bestead. 

Or fill the fix6d mind with all your toys! 

Dwell in some idle brain. 

And fancies fond with gaudj' shapes jiossess, 

As thick and numberless 

As the gaj' motes that people the sunbeams. 

Or likcst hovering dreams. 

The fickle pensioners of Morpliens' train. 
But hail, then goddess, sage and holy! 
Hail, divinest Melancholy! 
Whose saintly visage is too bright 
To liit the sense of human sight, 
And therefore to our weaker view 
O'erlaid with black, staid wisdom's line; 
Black, but such as in esteem 
Prince Memuon's sister might beseem. 
Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove 
To set her beauty's praise above 
The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended ; 
Yet thou art higher far descended ; 
Thee bright-haired Vesta, long of yore, 
To solitary Saturn bore ; 
His daughter she (in Saturn's reign 
Such mixture was not held a stain): 
Oft in glimmering bowers anil glades 
He met her, and in secret shades 
Of woody Ida's inmost grove. 
While yet there was no fear of Jove. 

Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, 
Sober, steadfast, and demure. 
All in a robe of darkest grain. 
Flowing with majestic train. 
And sable stole of cypress' lawn 
Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 
Come, but keep thy wonted state, 
With even step, and musing gait. 
And looks commercing with the skies, 
Thy rapt .soul sitting in thine eyes: 



> The mcl.^ncholy m.nn. 

2 A tliiii tralispareut te.xliu'e. 



93 



CJCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



There, held in holy passiou still, 

Forget thyself to marble, till 

With a sad, leaden, downward cast 

Thou fix them on the earth as fast ; 

And join with thee calm Peace and Qniet, 

Sparc Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, 

And hears the Muses in a ring 

Aye round about Jove's altar sing ; 

And add to these retired Leisure, 

That in trim gardens takes his pleasure; 

Bnt first and chiefest, with thee bring 

Him that yon soars on golden wing, 

Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne. 

The cherub Contemplation ; 

And the mute Silence hist along, 

'Less Philomel will deign a song. 

In her sweetest, saddest plight, 

Smoothing the rugged brow of night. 

While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke 

Gently o'er the accustomed oak : 

Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly. 

Most musical, most melancholy ! 

Thee, cUantress, oft the woods among 

I woo, to hear thy even-song ; 

And, missing thee, I walk unseen 

On the dry smooth-shaven green. 

To behold the wandering moon. 

Riding near her highest noon. 

Like one that had been led astray 

Through the heaven's wide, pathless way; 

And oft, as if her head she bowed. 

Stooping thnuigh a fleecy cloud. 

Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 

I hear the far-off curfew sound 

Over some wide-watered sh(n'e. 

Swinging slow with sullen roar; 

Or, if the air will not permit. 

Some still, removed place will fit, 

Where glowing embers through the room 

Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; 

Far fr<uu all resort of mirth, 

Save the cricket on the hearth, 

Or the bellman's' drowsy charm 

To bless the doors from nightly harm: — 

Or let my lamp at midnight hour 

He seen in some high, hmely tower, 

AVhere I may oft out-watch the Bear, 

With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere 

The spirit of Plato, to unfold 

What worlds or what vast regions hold 



1 Anciently tlio wntclinian, who cried ttie liour?, used s^utidry 
beuedictioDG. — Waktun. 



The immortal mind that hath forsook 
Her mansion in this fleshly nook : 
And of those demons that are found 
In fire, air, flood, or under ground, 
VVhose power hath a true consent 
With planet or with element. 

Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 
In sceptered pall come sweeping by. 
Presenting Thebes, or Pclops' line, 
Or the tale of Troy divine. 
Or what (though rare) of later age 
Ennobled hath the buskined stage. 

But, O sad Virgin, that thy power 
Might raise Musasus from his bower ! 
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
Such notes as, warbled to the string. 
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek. 
And made Hell grant what love did seek I 
Or call up him that left half told 
The story of Cambuscan bold,' 
Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 
And who had Cauace to wife. 
That owned the virtuous ring and glass, 
And of the wondrous horse of brass 
On which the Tartar king did ride ; 
And if aught else great bards beside 
In sage and solemn tunes have sung. 
Of tourneys and of trophies hung. 
Of forests, and euehantments drear, 
Where more is meant than meets the ear. 

Thus, Night, oft see me in thy jiale career. 
Till civil-suited Morn appear. 
Not tricked and frounced," as she was wont 
With the Attic boy to hunt. 
But kerchiefed in a comely cloud. 
While rocking winds are piping loud. 
Or ushered with a shower still, 
Wlicn the gust hath blown his fill, 
Emling on the rustling leaves. 
With minute" drops from ofl' the eaves. 
And when tlie sun begins to fling 
His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring 
To arched walks of twilight groves. 
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves. 
Of pine or monumental oak. 
Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke. 
Was never heard the Nym[>hs to daunt, 
Or fright them from their hallowed h.innt. 



> A reference to the "Squii-e's T:\le," by Ch:\ncer. 
- From the Frencli /rojicer, to curl, juid refers to nn excei^sive 
dic^sinir of the linir. 
= Tli:it is, dnijis at intci-viils, by minntes. 



JOHN MILTOX. 



93 



Tliere, in close covert, by some bmoU, 
AVliere no juofauer eye may loolc, 
Hide me from day's garisli eye, 
While the bee with honeyed thigli, 
That at her llowery work doth sing, 
And the waters murmuring 
With such consort as they keep 
Entice the dewy-feathered s!eci> ; 
And let some strange, mysterious dream 
Wave at his winga in aery stream 
Of lively portraiture displaj'ed, 
Softly on my eyelids laid ; 
And iis I wake, sweet music breathe 
Above, about, or underneath, 
Sent by some Spirit to mortals good. 
Or the unseen Genius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail 
To walk the studious cloisters pale, 
And love the high embowM roof. 
With antic pillars massy proof. 
And storied windows, richly dight. 
Casting a dim, religious light : 
There let the pealing organ blow 
To the full- voiced quire below. 
In service high and anthems clear. 
As may with sweetness, through mine ear. 
Dissolve me into ecstasies. 
And bring all heaven before mine eyes. 

And may at last my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage. 
The hairy gown and mossy cell, 
AVhere I may sit and rightly spell 
Of every star that heaven doth show. 
And every herb that sips the dew. 
Till old experience do attain 
To something like prophetic strain. 

These pleasures, Melancholy, give. 
And I with thee will choose to live. 



LYCIDAS. 

This noble monody w.as written in memory of n dear nnd 
learned friend, Mr. Edward King, Fellow of Ctirist's College, 
and flrst appeared in a Cambridge collection of verses on the 
subject, I03S. 

Yet once more, oh ye laurels, and once more 

Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude ; 

And, with forced fingers rude. 

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year : 

Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear. 

Compels me to disturb your season due : 



For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, 
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. 
Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew 
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
Ho must not float upon his watery bier 
Unwept, and welter to the iiarchiiig wind. 
Without the meed of .some melodious tear. 

Begin then. Sisters of the sacred well, 
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; 
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. 
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse : 
So may some gentle Muse 
With lucky words favor my destined urn ; 
And as he passes turn. 
And bid fair peace be to my sable sbro.id. 

For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, 
Fed the same flock, bj' fountain, shade, and rill. 
Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 
Under the opeuing eyelids of the Morn, 
We drove a-field, and both together heard 
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, 
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night. 
Oft till the star that rose at evening, bright. 
Toward heaven's descent hail sloped his westering 

wheel. 
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not nnite. 
Tempered to the oaten flute; 

Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven lieel 
From the glad sound would not be absent long; 
And old Damcctas loved to hear our song. 

But, oh the heavy change, now thou art gone. 
Now thou art gone and never must return! 
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves. 
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 
And all their echoes mourn : 
The willows and the hazel copses green 
Shall now no more be seen 
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. 
As killing as the canker to the rose, 
Or t.aint-worm to the weanling herds that graze. 
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, 
When first the white-thorn blows ; 
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear. 

Where were ye. Nymphs, when the remorseless 
deep 
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? 
For neither were ye playing on the steep, 
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie. 
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high. 
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream : 
Ay me ! I fondly dream ! 

Had ye been there — for what could that have done ? 
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, 



94 



CTCLOPJLDIA OF BIUTISII AXD A^JEKICJ^^ POETRY. 



The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, 
■\Vhi)ni nniversal Nature did lament, 
When by the rout that made the hideous roar 
His gory visage down the stream was sent, 
Down the swift Hebriis, to the Lesbian shore ? 

Alas ! what boots it with incessant care 
To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade, 
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse ? 
Were it not better done, as others use. 
To sjiort with Amaryllis in the shade. 
Or with the tangles of Nesera's hair? 
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise- 
Tljat last infiraiity of noble mind — 
To scorn delights, and live laborious days ; 
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find. 
And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorr<^d shears. 
And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise, 
Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling eais ; 
" Fame is uo plant that grows on mortal soil. 
Nor in the glistering foil 

Set-off to the world, nor iu broad rumor lies; 
But lives, and spreads aloft by those pure eyes. 
And iierfect witness of all-judging Jove; 
As he pronounces lastly on each deed, 
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed." 
O fountain Arethnse, aiul thou honored flood. 
Smooth-sliding Mincins, crowned with vocal reeds, 
That strain I heard was of a higher mood ; 
But now my oat proceeds. 
And listens to the herald of the sea 
That came iu Neptune's plea. 
He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds. 
What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain ; 
And questioned every gust of rugged wings 
Tliat blows from off each beaked promontory : 
They knew not of his story ; 
And sage Hippotades their answer brings. 
That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed ; 
The air was calm, and on the level brine 
Sleek Pauope with all her sisters played. 
It was that fatal and perfidious bark. 
Built in the eclipse, and rigged vrith curses dark, 
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 

Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow. 
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, 
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 
Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. 
"Ah, who hath reft (qnoth he) my dearest pledge?" 
Last came, and last did go, 
The pilot of the Galilean lake ; 
Two massy keys he bore of metals twain 
(Tlie goldcMi opes, tlio iron shuts amain); 



He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : 
" How well could I have spared for thee, young 

swain, 
Enow of such as for their bellies' sake 
Creep, aiul intrude, and climb into the fidd! 
Of other care they little reckoning make 
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast. 
And shove away the worthy bidden guest. 
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how 

to hold 
A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least 
That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! 
What recks it them ? What need they ? They are 

sped ; 
And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs 
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw : 
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 
But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw. 
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread ; 
Beside what the grim wolf with privy paw 
Daily devours apace, and nothing said : 
But that two-handed engine at the door 
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more." 

Eeturn, Alphens! the dread voice is past 
That shrunk thy streams. Return, Sicilian Muse, 
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. 
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, 
0:i whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks. 
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes. 
That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, 
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, 
The tufted crow-toe and pale jessamine. 
The white pink and the pansy freaked witli jet, 
The glowing violet, 

The musk-rose and the well-attired woodbine. 
With cowslips wau that hang the pensive head, 
And every flower that sad embroidery wears: 
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed. 
And dalfadillies "fill their cups with tears. 
To strew the laureate herse where Lycid lies. 
For, so to interpose a little ease. 
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise; 
Ay me! whilst tliee the shores and sounding seas 
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurleil. 
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 
Where thou, perhaps, under the whelming tide, 
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world : 
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, 
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 
Wliere the great vision of the guarded mount 



JUHX MILTOX. 



93 



Looks toward Naiuaiicos ami Bayoua's bold ; 
LiKik homeward, angel, uow, aud melt with ruth : 
And, O je dolphins, waft the hapless youth. 

Wi-ep uo more, wofnl shepherds, weep uo more ; 
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, 
Sunk though he be heueath the watery floor: 
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, 
Aud yet auoii repairs his drooping head, 
Aud tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore 
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: 
So Lyeidas suulc low, but mounted high. 
Through the dear might of Him that walked the 

waves. 
Where, other groves aud other streams along, 
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 
Aud hears the uuexpressive nuptial song, 
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy aud love. 
There entertain him all the saints above 
lu solemn (roops aud sweet societies, 
Tliat siug, and, singing, iu their glory move, 
Aud wipe the tears forever from his eyes. 
Now, Lyeidas, the shepherds weep no more ; 
Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, 
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
To all that wander in that perilous flood. 

Tlius sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and 
rills. 
While still the Morn went out with sandals gray; 
He touched tlie tender stops of various quills. 
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: 
And now tlie sun had stretched out all the hills, 
Aud now was dropt into the western bay; 
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue ; 
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new. 



THE MESSENGER'S ACCOUNT OF SAMSON. 

From " Sasisos Agonistes." 

Occasions drew me early to this city; 
Aud as the gates I entered with suni-ise, 
Tlie morning trumpets festival proclaimed 
Through each high street: little I had despatched 
When all abroad was rumored that this day 
Samson should be brought forth to show the people 
Proof of his mighty strength in feats and games: 
I sorrowed at his captive state, but miuded 
Not to be absent at that spectacle. 
The building was a spacious theatre, 
Half-rouud, on two main pillars vaulted high, 
With seats, where all the lords and each degree 
Of sort mighi sit iu order to behold : 



The other side was open, where the throng 

On bauks aud scaffolds nuder sky might stand ; 

I among these aloof obscurely stood. 

The feast and noou grew high, aud sacrifice 

Had tilled their hearts with mirth, high cheer, aud 

wine. 
When to their sports they turned. Lnmediately 
Was Samson its a public servant brought, 
In their state livery clad : before him iiipes 
And timbrels; on each side went armeil guards. 
Both horse and foot: before him and behind. 
Archers aud slingers, cataphracts and spears. 
At sight of him the people with a shout 
Rifted the air, clamoring their god w ith praise, 
Who had made their dreadful euemy their thrall. 
He, patient but undaunted, where they led him, 
Came to the place; aud what was set before 

him, 
Which without help of eye might be assayed, 
To heave, pull, draw, or break, he still performed 
All with incredible, stupendous force, 
Noue d:iring to appear antagonist. 
At length, for iutermissiou' sake, the.y led him 
Between the pillars ; he his guide requested 
(For so from such as nearer stood we heard). 
As over-tired, to let him lean aw hile 
With both his arms 'ou those two massy pillars 
That to the arched roof gave main support. 
He, unsuspicious, led him ; which when Samson 
Felt iu his arms, with head awhile inclined, 
And eyes fast fixed, he stood as one w ho prayeil, 
Or some great matter iu his mind revolved. 
At last, with head erect, thus cried aloud : — 
Hitherto, lords, what your commands imposed 
I have performed, as reason was, obeying. 
Not without wonder or delight beheld : 
Now of my own accord such other trial 
I mean to show you of my strength, yet greater. 
As with amaze shall strike all who behold. 
This uttered, straining all his nerves, he bowed : 
As with the force of winds aud waters pent. 
When mountains tremble, those two massy pillars 
With horrible convulsion to and fro 
He tugged, he shook, till down they came, and drew 
The whole roof after them, with burst of thuuder. 
Upon the heads of all who sat beneath. 
Lords, ladies, captains, counsellors, or priests. 
Their choice nobility and flower, not only 
Of this, but each Philistiau city round. 
Met from all parts to solemnize this feast. 
Samson, with these immised, inevit;ibly 
Pulled down the same destruction ou himself; 
The vulgar only 'scaped, who stood without. 



96 



CTCLOFJIDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



SCENE FROM "COMUS." 

Comtis. Can any mortal mixture of earth's monkl 
Breatlie such divine, enchanting ravishment? 
Sure, something holy lodges iu that breast, 
And vrith these raptures moves the vocal air 
To testify his hidden residence. 
How sweetly did they float upon the wings 
Of silence through the empty-vaulted night, 
At every fall smoothing the raven-down 
Of darkness till it smiled ! I have oft heard 
My mother Circe, with the Syrens three, 
Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades, 
Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs; 
Who, as they sung, would take the prisoned soul 
And lap it in Elysium : Scylla wept, 
And chid her barking waves into attention. 
And fell Charybdis murmured soft applause; 
Yet they in pleasing slumber lulled the sense. 
And in sweet madness robbed it of itself: 
But such a sacred and home-felt delight, 
Such sober certainty of waking bliss, 
I never heard till now. I'll speak to her. 
And she shall be my queen. Hail, foreign wonder! 
Whom certain these rough shades did never breed, 
Unless the goddess that, iu rural shrine, 
Dwell'st here with Pan or Sylvan ; by blessed song 
Fiuliidding every bleak, unkindly fog 
To touch the iirosperous growth of this tall wood. 

Lailij. Nay, gentle shepherd, ill is lost that praise 
That IS addressed to unattending ears : 
Not any boast of skill, but extreme shift 
How to regain my severed company, 
Compelled mo to awake the courteous Echo, 
To give me answer from her mossy conch. 

Cum. What chance, good Lady, hath bereft you 
thus ? 

Lad. Dim darkness and this leafy labyriuth. 

Com. Could that divide you from uear-ushering 
guides ? 

L<i(l. They left me weary on a grassy turf. 

Com. By falsehood, or discourtesy, or why ? 

Lad. To K(!ek i' the valley some cool friendly 
spring. 

Com. And left your fair side all unguarded, Lady? 

Lad. They were but twain, and i)urposed quick 
returu. 

Com.. Perhaps forestalling night iireventcd them. 

Lad. How easy my misfortune is to hit! 

Com. Imports their loss beside the present need ? 

Lad. No less than if I should my brothers lose. 

Com. Were they of nuiuly prime, or youthful 
bloom ? 



Lad. As smooth as Hebe's their unrazored lips. 

Com. Two such I saw what time the labored ox 
In his loose traces from the furrow came, 
And the swiuked hedger at liis supper sat. 
I saw them under a green mantling vine 
That crawls along the side of you small hill, 
Plucking ripe clusters from the tender shoots. 
Their jiort was more than human as they stood : 
I took it for a faery vision 
Of some gay creatures of the element, 
That in the colors of the rainbow live, 
And play i' the plighted clouds. I was awc-strucl;. 
And, as I passed, I worshipped : if those you seek, 
It were a journey like tlie path to heaven 
To lielj) you find them. 

Lad. Gentle villager. 

What readiest way would bring me to that jilace ? 

Com. Duo west it rises from this shrubby point. 

Lad. To find out that, good shepherd, I suppose. 
In such a scant allowance of starlighf. 
Would overtask the best land-pilot's art 
Without the sure guess of well-practi.sed feet. 

Com. I know each lane, and every alley green, 
Dingle, or bushy dell of this wild wood. 
And every bosky liourn from side to side. 
My daily walks and ancient neighborhood ; 
And if your stray attendance be yet lodged. 
Or shroud within these limits, I shall know 
Ere morrow wake, or the low-roosted lark 
From her thatched pallet i'ou.se ; if otherwise, 
I can conduct yon, Lady, to a low 
But loyal cottage, where you may be safe 
Till farther quest. 

Lad. Shepherd, I take thy word. 

And trust thy honest ottered courtesy, 
Which oft is sooner found in lowly shed 
With smoky rafters than in tapestry halls 
In courts of princes, where it first was named, 
And yet is most pretended : in a place 
Less warranted than this, or less secure, 
I cauuot be, that I should fear to change it. — 
Eye me, blessed Providence, and square my trial 
To my proportioned strength. — Shepherd, lead on ! 



SATAN'S ENCOUNTER WITH DEATH. 

FiioM " PAnADisE Lost," Book II. 

The other shape. 
If shape it might be ealU'd that shape had none 
Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb; 
Or substance might be called tliat shadow seemed, 



JOHN MILTON. 



97 



For each seemed either; black it stood as night, 
Fierce as ten fnries, terrible as hell, 
And shook a dreadful dart ; what seemed his head 
The likeness of a kingly crown had on. 
Satan was uow at hand, and from his seat 
The monster moving onward came as fast 
With horrid strides ; hell trembled as he strode. 
The nndannted fiend what this might bo admired — 
Admired, not feared ; God and his Sou except, 
Created thing' nanght valned he, nor shunned ; 
And with disdainful look tlins first began : 

'■Wlience and what art tbon, execrable shape, 
That darest, thongh grim and terrible, advance 
Th}- miscreated front athwart my way 
To yonder gates ° Throngh them I mean to pass, 
Tliat be assnred, withont leave asked of thee: 
Eetire, or taste thy folly, and learn by proof. 
Hell-born, not to contend with spirits of heaven." 

To whom tho goblin, fnll of wrath, replied : 
"Art thou that traitor-angel, art thou he, 
Who first broke peace in heaven, and faith, till then 
Unbroken, and in proud rebellious arms 
Drew after him the third jiart of heaven's sons 
Conjured against the Highest; for which both thou 
And they, outcast from God, are here condemned 
To waste eternal days in woe aud pain ? 
And reckon'st thou thyself with spirits of heaven. 
Hell-doomed, and breath'st defiance here and scorn, 
Wliere I reign king, and, to enrage tlieo more. 
Thy king and lord? Back to thy punishment, 
False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings. 
Lest witli a whip of scorpions I pursue 
Thy lingering, or with one stroke of this dart 
Strange horror seize thee, aud pangs unfelt before." 

So spake the grisly Terror, aud in shape. 
So speaking and so threatening, grew tenfold 
More dreadful and deform. On the other side. 
Incensed with indignation, Satan stood, 
Unterrified, aud lilie ,a comet burned. 
That fires the length of Ophiuchus" huge 
In the arctic sky, and from his horrid hair 
Shakes pestilence and war. Each at tho head 
Levelled his deadly aim ; their fatal hands 
Xo second stroke intend ; and such a frown 
Each cast at the other as when two black clouds. 
With heaven's artillery fraught, come rattling ou 
Over the Caspian, then stand front to front. 
Hovering a space, till winds the signal blow 
To join their dark encounter in mid-air : 

•. ' "C.eated thiug." This species of gr.immatic.al, or, rather, 
^' logical, error occurs more th.-iii once in Miltou. 

2 Or, Serpeni.iriii?, the ser|K'nt-bearer, a conspicuous coustel- 
latton in tiie northern hemisi>here. 



So frowned tho mighty combatants that hell 
Grew darker at their frown; so matched they stood, 
For never but once more was either like 
To meet so great a foe :' and now great deeds 
Had been achieved whereof all hell had rung, 
Had not the snaky sorceress that sat 
Fast by hell-gate, and kept tho fatal key. 
Risen, and with hideous outcry rushed between. 



ADAM AND EVE'S MORNING HYMN. 
From "Paradise Lost," Book V, 

These are thy glorious works. Parent of good, 
Almighty! thine this universal frame. 
Thus wondrous fair : thyself how wondrous then ! 
Unsiie.akable ! who sitt'st above these heavens, 
To us invisible, or dimly seen 
In these thy lowest works ; yet these declare 
Tliy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. 
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sous of light. 
Angels! for ye behold liim, ami with songs 
And choral symphonies day witliout night 
Circle bis throne, rejoicing : ye, in heaven ; 
Ou earth, join, all ye creatures, to extol 
Him first, him last, him midst, aud without end I 
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, 
If better thou belong not to the dawn. 
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn 
Witli thy bright circlet! prai.so him in thy sphere. 
While day arises, that sweet lionr of prime. 
Thou sun, of this great world both eye ami soul, 
Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise 
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, 
And when high noon hast gained, aud when thou 

fall'st. 
Moon, th.tt now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st, 
With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb, that flies; 
Aud ye five other wamlering fires, that move 
In mystic dance, not without song, resound 
His praise who out of darkness called ui> light. 
Air, and ye elements, tho eldest birth 
Of nature's womb, that iu quaternion run 
Perpetual circle, multiform, aud mix 
And nourish all things : let your ceaseless change 
Vary to our great Maker still new praise. 
Ye mists aud exhalations, that now rise 
From hill or steaming lake, dusky, or gray. 
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, — 
In honor to the world's great Author rise ; 
Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky, 

' The Messiah. 



L 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITlsa AXD AMERICAN I'OETRT. 



Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, 

Rising or falling, still advance his praise. 

His praise, yo winds, that from fonr quarters 1jlow, 

Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines, 

With every phmt, in sign of worship wave. 

Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow. 

Melodious niurmnrs, warbling, tune his praise. 

Join voices, all ye living souls : ye birds. 

That, singing, up to heaveu-gate ascend, 

Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise. 

Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 

The earth, and .stately tread, or lowly creep, 

AVitness if I be silent, morn or even. 

To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade, 

Made vocal by my song, and tauglit his praise. 

Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still 

To give us only good ; and if the night 

Have gathered anglit of evil, or concealed. 

Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark! 



ONE FIR.ST MATTER ALL. 

From " Paradise Lost," Book V. 

To whom the wiugi^d Hierarch replied : 
O Adam, one Almighty is, from whom 
All things proceed, and up to hiui return, 
If not depraved from good ; created all 
Such to iierfectioM, one first matter all. 
Endued with various fiuin.s, various degrees 
Of substance, and, in things that live, of life ; 
But more refined, more siiirituous, and ]uirc, 
As nearer to him placed, or nearer tending 
Each in their several active sphei-es assigned. 
Till body up to spirit work, in bounds 
Proportioned to each kind. So from the root 
Springs lighter the green stalk ; from thence the 

leaves 
More aery ; last the bright consunimato flower 
Spirits odorous breathes : flowers and their fruit, 
Man's nourishment, by gradual scale sublimed. 
To vital spirits aspire, to animal. 
To intellectual; give both life and sen.so, 
Fancy and nuderstanding : whence the soul 
Reason receives, aud reason is her being, 
Discursive or intuitive : discourse 
Is oftest yours ; the latter most is ours, 
Differing but in degree, of kind the same. 
Wonder not, then, what God for you saw good 
If I refuse not, but convert, as you. 
To proper substance. Time may come when nun 
With angels may participate, and find 
No iuconvenient diet, nor too light fare ; 



And from these corporeal nutriments, perhaps, 
Your bodies may at last turn all to spirit, 
Improved by tract of time, and, winged, ascend 
Ethereal, as we; or may, at choice, 
Here or in heavenly Paradises dwell ; 
If ye lie found obedient, and retain 
Unalterably firm his love entire 
Whose progeny yo4i are. Meanwhile enjoy 
Your fill what happiness this happj' state 
Can compveheiul, incapable of more. 



WHAT IS GLORY? 

Christ's Reply to the Tempter, "Paradise Regained," Book III. 

To whom our Saviour calmly thus replied : 

Thou neither dost persuade me to seek wealth 

For empire's sake, nor empire to afl'ect 

For glory's, sake, by all thy argument. 

For what is glory but the blaze of fame, 

The people's praise, if always praise unmixed ? 

And what the people but a herd confused, 

A miscellaneous rabble, who extol 

Things vulgar, aud, well weighed, scarce worth tlu^ 

praise ? 
They praise and they admire they know not what. 
And know not whom, but as one leads the other: 
And what delight to be by such extolled. 
To live upon their tongues, and be their talk. 
Of whom to be disprai.sed were no small praise — 
His lot who dares be singularly good ? 
The intelligent among them, and the wise. 
Are few, and glory scarce of few is raised, 

if * * * * ♦ 

They err who count it glorious to snbdno 

By conquest far aud wide, to overrun 

Largo countries, and in field great battles win, 

Great cities by assault. What do these worthies 

But rob and spoil, burn, slaughter, and enslave 

Peaceable nations, neighboring or remote. 

Made captive, yet deserving freedom more 

Than those theu" conquerors, who leave behind 

Nothing but ruin wheresoe'er they rove, 

Aud all the flourishing works of peace destroy, 

Then swell with pride, and must be titled gods, 

Great benefactors of mankind, deliverers, 

AVorshipped with temple, priest, and sacrifice ? 

One is the son of Jove, of Mars the other, 

Till comiueror Death discover them scarce men, 

Rolling in brutish vices, and deformed, 

Violent or shameful death their due reward. 

But if there bo in glory aught of good. 

It may by means far diflerent be attained, 



JOHN MILTON. 



99 



Without ambition, -n-iir, or violence — 
I3y deeds of peace, by -wisdom eminent, 
liy patience, temperance. I mention still 
Him whom thy wrongs, with saintly patience borne. 
Made famous in a land and times obscure: 
Who names not now with honor patient Job ? 
Poor Socrates (who next more memorable ?), 
By what ho taught and suffered for so doing, 
For truth's sake sutfering death uujust, lives now 
Equal iu fame to jirondest conriuerors. 
Yet if for fame and glory aught be done, 
Aught suffered ; if young Africaue for fame 
His wasted country freed from Punic rage. 
The deed becomes unpraised — the man, at least — 
And loses, though but verbal, bis reward. 
Shall I seek glory, then, as vaiu men seek, 
Oft not deserved ? I seek not mine, but His 
Who sent me, aud thereby witness whence I am. 



AX EPITAPH OX THE ADJHRABLE DRAMATIC 
POET, WILLIAM SHAKSPEAEE. 

What needs my ShaUspeare for his honored bones 

The labor of an age in piled stones? 

Or that his hallowed relinues should be hid 

Under a star-y pointing pyramid ? 

Dear son of Memory, gre.it heir of Fame, 

1 What need'st thou such weak witness of thy 
name ? 
Thou in our wonder and astonishment 
Hast built thyself a live-long monument; 
For whilst, to the shamo of slow-endeavoring art, 
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart 
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book 
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, — 
Then thou, our fancy of itself liereaving, 

■ Bost make us marble with too much conceiving, 
Aud so sepulchred, iu such pomp dost lie 
That kiuKS for such a tomb would wish to die. 



OX HIS BEING AKinVED TO THE AGE OF 
TWENTV-THKEE. 

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth. 
Stolen on liis wing my three-and-tweutieth year! 
Jly basting days fly on with full career. 
But my l.ifc spring no bud or blossom show'th. 
Perhi.ps tt'y semblance might deceive the truth 
That I to manhood ain arrived so near, 
And inw.ird ripeness doth much less appear 
That somo mure tiniely-hapiiy spirits eudu'th. 



Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow. 
It shall be still in strictest measure even 
To that same lot, however mean or high. 
Toward which Time leads me, aud the will of 

Heaven ; 
All is, if I have grace to use it so, 
As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye. 



TO THE LORD-GENERAL CROMWELL. 

WRITTEN ABOUT M.\Y, 1652. 

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud. 
Not of war only, but detractions rude. 
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude. 
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed. 
And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud 
Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pursued : 
While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued, 
And Dunbar tield resounds thy praises loud, 
And Worcester's laureate wreath. Y'et much re- 
mains 
To conquer still : Peace hath her victories, 
No less renowned thau War : new foes arise, 
Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains. 
Help us to save free conscieuce from the p.iw 
Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw. 



TO SIR HENRY YANE THE YOUNGER. 

Tane, young iu years, but iu sago counsel old, 

Thau whom a better senator ne'er held 

The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms, repelled 

The fierce Epirot and the African bold : 

Whether to settle peace, or to unfold 

The drift of hollow .states hard to be sijelled ; 

Then to advise how War may, best upheld, 

Move by ber two main nerves, iron and gold. 

In all her ecxuipage ; besides to kuow 

Both spiritual jiower aud civil — what each means. 

What severs each — thou hast learued, which few 

have done : 
The bounds of either sword to thee we owe 
Tlierefore on thy firm hand Religion leans 
In iieace, aud reckons thee her eldest son. 



ON HIS BLINDNESS. 

Wheu I consider how ray light is spent 

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, 

And that oue talent wLich is death to hide 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Lodged -with me useless, tbougli my soul more 

beut 
To servo tbcrcwith my Maker, aud present 
My true account, lest he, returniug, chide ; 
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" 
I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need 
Either man's work or his own gifts ; who best 
Boar his mild yoke, they serve him best ; Lis 

state 
Is kingly ; tliousauds at his biddiug speed, 
Aud post o'er laud and ocean without rest : 
Thej' also servo who only stand and wait." 



TO MR. LAWRENCE. 

Lawreuce, of virtuous father virtuous sorf, 

Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire. 

Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire 

Help waste a sullen day, what may be won 

From the hard season gaining? Time will run 

On smoother till Favonius reinspiro 

Tlie frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire 

Tl)e lily aud rose, that neither sowed nor spun. 

What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice. 

Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise 

To hear the lute well touched, or artful voice 

Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air ? 

He who of those delights can judge, and spare 

To interpose them oft, is uot unwise. 



TO CYEIAC SKINNER. 

Cyriac, this three -years-day these eyes, though 
clear, 
To outward view, of blemish or of spot. 
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot ; 
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 
Of suu, or moou, or star, throughout the year, 
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not 
Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot 
Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer 
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou 
ask ? 
The eonscieuce, friend, to have lost them over- 
plied 
In liberty's defence, my noble task. 
Of which all Europe riugs from side to side. 
This thought might lead me through the world's 

vain mask 
Content, though blind, had I no better guide. 



ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATH- 
ERINE THOMSON, MY CHRISTIAN FRIEND, 
DECEASED DECEMBER 16th, 1()46. 

When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never, 
Had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God, 
Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load 
Of death, called life, which us from life doth sever. 
Thy works, and alms, and all thj' good endeavor 
Stayed uot behind, nor in the grave were trod ; 
But, as Faith jjointed with her golden rod. 
Followed thee up to joy aud bliss forever. 
Love led them on, and Faith, who knew them best. 
Thy handmaids, clad them o'er with purple beams 
And azure wings, that up they flew so drcst. 
And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes 
Before the Judge, who theuceforth bid thee rest, 
And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams. 



SONG: ON MAY MORNING. 

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger. 
Comes dancing from the east, aud leads with her 
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws 
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. 
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire 
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire! 
Woods aud groves are of thy dressing, 
Hill aud dale doth boast thy blessing. 
Thus we salute thee with our early soug, 
Aud welcome thee, aud wish thee loug. 



FROM THE SPIRIT'S EPILOGUE IN "COMUS." 

To the ocean now I fly, 

Aud those happy climes that lie 

Where day never shuts his eye. 

Up in the broad fields of the sky. 

There I suck the liquid air, 

All amidst the gardens fair 

Of Hesperus and his daughters three. 

That sing about the golden tree : 

Along the crisped shades and bowers 

Revels the sjn'uce and jocimd Spring: 

The Graces and the rosy-bosomed Hours 

Thither all their bounties bring ; 

There eterual Summer dwell.-. 

And west-winds, with muskv \iii.'.. 

About the cedarn alleys fliu:; 

Nard and cassia's balmy smells. 



men Ann ceashatt. 



101 



But now my task is smoothly done, 
I cau fly or I can run 
Quickly to the green earth's eutl, 
Wljpro the bowed welkin slow doth bend, 
And from thence can soar as soon 
To the corners of the moon. 

Mortals, that would follow me, 
Love Virtue ; she alone is free ; 
She can teach yon how to climb 
Higher than the sphcry chime ; 
Or, if Virtue feeble were. 
Heaven itself would stoop to her. 



Hicljavi) CErasljatii. 

Crashaw (about 1610-lfi.50) was e.ducated at Cambridge, 
aiKl loolv holy orders. lu France he became a Roman 
Catholic. Hia religious poetry and his translatious from 
Latin and Italian are of a liigli order, tliough marred by 
the affectations fashinnable in his day. In the same 
year that he graduated he published a volume of poems, 
ehieQy religious, in Lathi. They contain one memorable 
line. Referring to Christ's miracle of turning water into 
wine, he wrote : 

"Nynipha pudica Denin vidit, et erubaii." 
(The modest water saw its God, aud blushed.) 



IN PRAISE OF LESSIUS'S' RULE OF HEALTH. 

That which makes us have no need 
Of iihysic, that's physic indeed. 

Hark, hither, reader ! would'st thou see 
Nature her own physician be ? 
Would'st see a man all his own wealth, 
His own physic, his own health? 
A man whose sober soul can tell 
How to wear her garments well — 
Her garmeuts, that upon her sit. 
As garmeuts should do, close and fit; 
A well-clothed soul, that's not oppressed. 
Nor choked with what she should be dressed ; 
A soul sheathed in a crystal shrine, 
Through which all her bright features shine ; 
As when a piece of wanton lawn, 
A thin al'rial veil, is drawn 
O'er Beauty's face, seeming to hide, 
More sweetly shows the blnshiiig bride; 

» Leouard Le.«sins wiis not a i>hysiciaii, but a famous Jesnit. 
He was born near ,\iit«'erp in 1.5.54, tniii;ht pliilosoi)by and the- 
olo2:y at Louvain, inid died in 1623. Air.oug his works was one 
on die True Rule of IIc:\[ih. In whicli be recommcuds hyijieuic 
remedies, aud disapproves oC Jrngs. 



A soul whose intellectual beams 

No mists do mask, no lazy steams ? 

A happy soul, that all the way 

To heaven hath a summer's day ? 

Would'st see a man whose well-warmed blood 

Bathes him in a genuine flood? 

A man whose tuudd humors be 

A seat of rarest harmony ? 

Would'st see blithe looks, fresh cheeks beguile 

Age ? Would'st see December smile ? 

Would'st see a nest of roses grow 

In a bed of reverend snow ? 

Warm thoughts, free spirits, flattering 

Winter's self into a spring ? 

In sum, would'st see a man that cau 

Live to be old, and still a man ? 

Whose latest aud most leaden hours 

Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers; 

And, when life's sweet fable ends, 

Soul aud body jiart like friends : — 

No quarrels, murmurs, no delay ; 

A kiss, a sigh, and so away ? 

This rare one, reader, would'st thou see ? 

Hark, hither! and — thyself be he! 



FROM "WISHES TO HIS SUPPOSED MIS- 
TRESS." 

Whoe'er she be. 

That not impossible she. 

That shall command my heart aud me : 

Where'er she lie. 

Locked up from mortal eye. 

In shady leaves of destiny : 

Till that ripe birth 

Of studied fate stand forth, 

Aud teach her fair steps to our earth : 

Till that divine 

Idea take a shrine 

Of crystal flesh, through which to shine : 

Meet yon her, my Wishes, 

Bespeak her to my blisses. 

And bo ye called my absent kisses. 

I wish her beauty. 

That owes not all its duty 

To gaudy tire or glistering shoe-tio ; — 



102 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BlilTISH AND AMEBICAN POETRY. 



Sometliiiig more than 
Tiiffata or tissue can. 
Or rampant featlitr, or ricU fan : 

More tliau tire spoil 

Of sliop, or silkworm's toil, 

Or a bought blnsli, or a set smile : 

A face tbat's best 

By its own beauty dressed, 

And can alone command the rest : 

A face made up 

Out of no other shop 

Thau what Nature's white haud sets ope : 

* if i' # * * 

A cheek where grows 
More than a morning rose, 
Which to no bos his being owes. 
****** 
Eyes that displace 
The neighbor diamond, and outface 
That sunshine by their own sweet grace. 

Tresses that wear 

Jewels, but to declare 

How much themselves more precious are. 

Days that need borrow 

No part of their good morrow 

From a fore-speut night of sorrow : 

Days that, in spite 
Of darkness, by the light 
Of a clear mind are day all night ; 
****** 
Life, that dares send 
A challeuge to his cud, 
Aud when it comes, say. Welcome, friend ! 

Sidueian' showers 

Of sweet discourse, whose powers 

Can crown old Winter's head with flowers: 

Soft silken hours, 

Opeu suns, shady bowers, 

'IJove all — nothing witliiu that lowers: 

Whate'er delight 

Can nnike day's forehead bright, 

Or give down to the wings of night. 

1 Either in :illusii)n to the couve!*s:itinii.s ia the "Arcadia," 
or to Sir Philip Siiliiey himself, as a model of geutleuess in 
spirit aud demeanor. 



I wish her store 

Of worth may leave her poor 

Of wishes ; and I wish — no more. 

Now, if Time knows 

That her, whose radiant brows 

Weave them a garland of my vows; 

Her, wliose just bays 

My future hojies can raise 

A trophy to her present praise ; 

Her, that dares be 

What these lines wish to see : 

I seek no further, it is she. 

'Tis she, and here, 

Lo, I unclothe and clear 

My Wish's cloudy character. 

May she enjoy it. 

Whose merit dare apply it, 

But modesty dares still deny it. 

Such worth as this is 
Shall fix my flying wishes, 
And determine them to kisses. 

Let her full glory, 

My Fancies, fly before ye, 

Be ye my iictions, but — her story. 



TWO A\EXT UP TO THE TEMPLE TO PRAY. 

Two went to pray? Oh, rather say, 
One went to brag, the other to pray. 



One stands up close, and treads on high, 
Where the other dares uot lend his eye. 

One nearer to God's altar trod. 
The other to the altar's God. 



iUan]ui5 of iUontrosc. 

James Graham, Minquis of Montrose (1612-1650), de- 
scended from an ancient Scotch family, was a famous 
royalist imder Charles I. lie woD a series of Ijrilliant 
victories as commander of tlic royal fo'iees. Under a 
commission from Cliarlcs l\. tlicn in exile, lie landed in 



MJUQFIS of MOyTIlOSE.—SIf! JOUX SUCELISG.SIR JOHN DEXBJM. 



103 



Scotland, but liis little invadius army was routed, and 
Iiu was seized, conveyed to Edinburg;Ii, and tliere liung 
and quartered, May SIst, 1650, after the barbarous fasli- 
ion of tbe times. Of the following spirited poem tbere 
are several corrui^t versions. 



I'LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE. 

My <U'ar and only love, I piay 

That little world of thee 
Be governed by no other sway 

But pnre.st moiiareby : 
For if coufiisiou Lave a part, 

Which virtuous souls abhor, 
And hold a synod iu thy heart, 

I'll never love thee more. 

As Alexander I will reign, 

And I will reign alone ; 
My thoughts did evermore disdain 

A riv.ll on my throne. 
He either fears bis fate too nineh. 

Or bis deserts are small, 
AA'ho dares not put it to the touch 

To gain or lose it all. 

But I will reign and govern still. 

And always give the law, 
And li.ave each subject at my will, 

And .ill to stand in awe : 
But 'gainst my batteries if I find 

Tlion storm, or Tex me sore, 
As if thou set me as a blind, 

I'll never love thee more. 

And iu tbe empire of thy heart, 

Where I should solely be, 
If others do pretend a part, 

Or dare to share with me, — • 
Or com'mittees if tbou erect. 

Or go on such a score, 
I'll smiling mocli at tby neglect. 

And never love thee more. 

But if no faithless action stain 

Thy love and constant word, 
I'll make tbee famous by my pen. 

And glorious by my sword : 
I'll serve thee in such noble ways 

As ne'er was known before ; 
I'll deck and crown tby head -with bays, 

And love thee more and more. 



Sir 3o\)n Sudxiing. 



Suckling (1009-16-11) was born at Witliam, in Middle- 
sex. His fatlier was Secretary of State to James I. The 
young poet went abroad, and served under Gustavus 
Adolphus of Sweden. Returning to England, he at- 
tempted with others to deliver Stratford from the Tow- 
er; for this lie was ordered to appear at the bar of the 
House of Commons, whereupon he set out for France. 
While stopping at an mn, he was robbed b^ a servant, 
who, to prevent pursuit, stuck the blade of a penknife 
inside his master's boot, and when Suckling, in haste, 
tried to draw it on, he received a wound, of,wEic^lic 
died. 



WHY SO PALE AND WAN? 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover ? 

Prythee, why so pale ? 
Will, when looking well can't move ber, 

Looking ill prevail ? 

Prytbee, why so pale ? 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? 

Prythee, why so mute? 
Will, when sxieaking well cau't wiu ber. 

Saying nothing do't ? 

Prytbee, why so mute ? 

Quit, quit for shame, this will not move. 

This cannot take ber ; 
If of herself she will not love. 

Nothing can make ber : 

Tbe devil take her! 



Sir 3o\}n Din\)am. 

Denham (1615-1668), son of the Chief-baron of Ex- 
chequer in Ireland, was born at Dublin. He was made 
Governor of Farnhara Castle by Charles I., who told 
him, on seeing one of his poems, "that when men are 
young, and have little else to do, they may vent the over- 
flowings of their fimey in that way ; but when they are 
thought tit for more serious employments, if they still 
persisted in that course, it looked as if they minded not 
the way to any better." The poet stood corrected, and 
his Muse was dumb for a time. His marriage was an 
unhappy one, and his closing years were darkened by in- 
sanity, from which, however, he recovered. His princi- 
pal poem is "Cooper's Hill," which was highly praised 
for a few generations, but would hardly have escaped 
oblivion if produced iu these days; but Dryden said of 
it: "For the majesty of the style it is, and ever will be, 
the exact standard of good writing;" and Pope extolled 
it. We quote the well-known pas.sage descriptive of 
the Thames : it is far above anj thing else in the poem. 



104 



CYCLOVJEDIA OF BIUTLSII AXD AAIERICAX ruETUY. 



DESCRIPTION OF THE THAMES. 

FnoM " Cooper's Hill." 

My eye, desceiuling from the bill, surveys 

Where Thames among the wanton valleys strays : 

Thames, the most lovetl of all the Ocean's sous 

By his olil sire, to his embraces runs ; 

Hasting to pay his tribute to tlie sea, 

Like mortal life to meet eternity. 

Though with those streams he no resemblance hold, 

Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold; 

His genuine and less guilty wealth t' explore, 

Search not his bottom, but survey his shore, 

O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing, 

And hatches plenty for th' ensuing spring; 

Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay, 

Like mothers which tlieir infants overlay ; 

Nor with a sudden and imij'etuous wave, 

Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave. 

No unexpected inundations spoil 

The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughmau's toil ; 

But godlike his unwearied bounty flows; 

First loves to do, then loves the good he does. 

Nor are his blessings to his banks confined. 

But free and common as the sea or wind, — 

When he, to boast or to disperse his stores, 

Full of the tributes of his grateful shores, 

Visits the world, and in his tlying tours 

Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours ; 

Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants. 

Cities in deserts, woods in cities, plants. 

So that to us no thing, no place, is strange, 

While his fair bosom is the world's Exchange. 

Oh, could I flow like thee! and make thy stream 

My great example, as it is my theme ! 

Though deep, yet clear ; though gentle, yet not 

dull ; 
Strong, without rage ; without o'erllowing, full ! 



Samuel Butler. 

The son of a Worcestershire farmer, Samuel Butler 
(101".i-lC80) is not knowu to have had a university edu- 
cation. Having lost liis wife's fortune through bad in- 
vestments, he became an author, and published in IfitiS 
the first part of his "HucHbras," a satire launched at the 
Puritan party. It is indclitcd for much of its celebrity 
to public sympathy with its partisan hits. It had a hu-ge 
success, and has been praised as " the best burlesque 
poem iu the English language" — which is not saying 
much for it. It now lias few readers. But it contains 
several epigrammatic expressions which liavc Ijccouie 
provcrliial, and it is rich in wit and wisdom. Butler 



died obscurely in his sixty-eighth year, having suffeied 
deeply from tbat hope deferred whidi maketh the heart 
sick. 



THE LEARNING OF HUDIBRAS. 

He was in logic a. great critic. 
Profoundly skilled in analytic. 
He could distinguish and divide 
A hair 'twixt south and sonth-west side : 
Ou either which he could dispute. 
Confute, change hands, and still confute. 
He'd undertake to prove, by force 
Of argument, — a man's no horse ; 
He'd iirovc a buzzard is no fowl. 
And that a lord may be an owl ; 
A calf an alderman ; a goose a justice ; 
And rooks conmiittee-meu and trustees. 
He"d run in debt by disjiutation, 
And pay with ratiocination : 
All this by syllogism, true 
In mood and figure, he would do. 

For rhetoric — he could not ope 
His month but out there flew a trope. 
And when he happened to break off 
r the middle of his speech, or cough, 
He'd hard words readj' to show \\\\\, 
And tell what rules he did it by ; 
Else, when with greatest art he spoke, 
You'd thiuk he talked like other folk ; 
For all a rhetorician's rules 
Teach nothing but to name his tools. 

But, when he pleased to show't, his speech. 
In loftiness of sound was rich ; 
A Babyloni.sh dialect. 
Which learudd pedants much afl'ect. 
It was a party-colored dress 
or patched aiul piebald langnages. 
'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin, 
Like fn.stian heretofore on satin. 
It had an odd promiscuous tone, 
As if he'd talked throe parts in one. 
Which made" some think when he did gabble 
They'd heard three laborers of Babel, 
Or Cerberus himself pronounce 
A leash of languages at once. 



FROM " MISCELLANEOrS THOUGHTS.'' 

Far greater numbers have been lost by hopes 
Thau all the magazines of daggers, ro])cs. 
And other ammunitions of desjvair, 
Wei'o ever able to despatch by fear. 



JEREMY TAYLOR.— HESRT MORE. 



105 



In Rome no temple was so low- 
As tlmt of Honor, built to show 
How humble bonor ougbt to be, 
Though there 'twas all authority. 

Some people's fortunes, like a weft or stray, 
Are only gained by losing of their way. 

The truest characters of ignorance 

Are vanity and pride and arrogance, 

As blind men use to bear their noses higher 

Than those that have their eyes and sight entire. 

All smatterers are more brisk and pert 
Than those that understand an art ; 
As little sparkles shine more bright 
Thau glowing coals that give them light. 

Love is too great a happiness 
For wretcheil mortals to possess ; 
For could it hold inviolate 
Agaiust those cruelties of Fate 
Which all felicities below 
By rigid laws are subject to, 
It would become a bliss too high 
For perishing mortality, 
Translate to earth the joys above ; 



3crcinn (Tanlor. 

Known chiefly as a theologian, Toylor (1613-1667) was 
also in the highest sense a poet, as liis devotional writ- 
ings, though in prose, abundantly sliow. He was a na- 
tive of Cambridge, and having taken his degree at Coins 
College, was admitted to holy orders when he was little 
more than twenty. His wife was said to have been a 
natural daughter of Charles I. Taylor attached himself 
to the royal cause, and after encountering many vicissi- 
tudes of fortune, incident to civil wars, was made a bish- 
op by Charles II. in 16(>1. He seems to have been thor- 
oughly estimable as a man, and faithful in the discharge 
of his clerical duties. 



THY KINGDOM COME. 

Lord ! come away ! 
Why dost thou stay ? 
Thy road is ready ; and thy iiaths, made straight, 

With longing expectatiou wait 
The consecration of thy beauteous feet ! 
Ride on triumphantly ! Behold, we lay 
Our lusts and proud wills in thy way ! 



Hosanua! Welcome to our hearts! Lord, here 
Thou hast a temple too ; and full as dear 
As that of Sion, and as full of sin : 
Nothing but thieves and robbers ihvell therein: 
Kuter, and chase them forth, and cleanse the floor! 
Crucify them, that they may never mcuc 
Profane that holy place 

Where thou hast chose to set thy face! 

And then, if our stiff tongues shall bp ' 
Mute in the praises of thy Deity, 

The stones out of the temple wall 
Shall cry aloud, and call 
Hosauna! and thy glorious footsteps greet! Ameu! 



Cjcnri) fUoic. 



Henry More (161-1-1C8T), who published in 1G42 a "Pla- 
tonical Song of the Soul," in four books, was si.^ years 
younger than Milton. He lived a hermit life at Cam- 
bridge, was a great admirer of Plato, a correspondent of 
Descartes, and a friend of Cudworth. He wrote various 
prose works, and in his "Immortality of the Soul" 
showed that lie was a full believer in apparitions and 
various psychical i:ilicnomcna. He fully sympathized 
with Gliinvil in his belief that there was a substantial 
basis of spiritual agency in witchcraft; and ho believed 
that he himself had had superhuman communications. 
He seems to have adopted the Platonic notion of the 
soul's prc-existence. 

THE PRE-EXISTEXCY OF THE SOUL. 

Else, then, Aristo's son, assist my Muse! 

Let that high sprite which did enrich thy brains 

With choice conceits, some worthy thoughts infuse 

Worihy thy title and the reader's pains. 

And thou, O Lyeian sage ! whose peu contains 

Treasures of heavenly light with gentle lire, 

Ciive leave awhile to warm mo at thy flames, 

That I may also kindle sweet desire 

In holy minds that unto highest things aspire. 

For I would sing the pre-cxistency 
Of liuuiaM souls, and live once o'er again, 
By recollection and quick memory. 
All that is jiast since first we all begau ; 
But all too shallow be my wits to scan 
So deep a point, and mind too dull to clear 
So dark a matter. But thou, more than man, 
Aread, thou sacred soul of Plotiu dear ; 
Tell me what mortals are — tell what of old they 
were. 
* # # # ^f # 

Show fitly how the pre-existeut soul 
Euacts, and enters bodies here below, 



103 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BHITISH AXD AJilEHICJX POETRY. 



And then, entire unhurt, can leave tliis nionl. 
Ami tbeuee her airy vehicle can draw, 
In which by sense and motion they may know 
Better than Tve what things transacted he 
Upon the earth, and, when they list, may show 
Tlieniselves to friend or foe — their phantasie 
Jloiilding tlieir airy orb to gross consistency. 

Wherefore the sonl, possessed of matter meet. 
If she h:\tli power to operate thereon, 
Can eath transform this vehicle to sight, 
Dight with dne color figuration ; 
Can speak, can walk, and then dispear anon. 
Spreading herself in the dispersed air; 
Tlieii, if slie please, recall again what's gone: 
Those the nnconth mysteries of fancy are. 
Than thunder far more strong, more quick than 
lightning far. 



Uicljaib CttJ-tcr. 



FROM '-THE PHILOSOPHER'S DEVOTION.' 

Sing aloud ! His praise rehearse 
Who hath made tlie universe. 
* jf * * # * 

God is good, is wise, is strong — 
Witness all the creature-throng! 
Is confessed by every tongue — 
All return from whence they sprung. 
As the tliankful rivers pay 
What they borrowed of the sea. 

Now myself I do resign : 
Take me whole, I all am thine. 

Save, me, God, from self-desire, 
Death's dark pit, hell's raging fire, 
Envy, hatred, vengeance, ire ! 
Let not lust my soul bemire ! 

Quit from these, thy praise I'll sing. 
Loudly sweep the trembling string. 
Bear a part, O wi.sdom's sous. 
Freed from vain religions! 

Kiso at once — let's sacrifice ! 
Odors sweet perfume the skies ! 
See how heavenly lightning fires 
Hearts Inflamed with high aspires: 
All the substance of our souls 
Up in clouds of inceuso rolls ! 
Leave wo nothing to oni-.selves 
Save a voice — what need wo else f — 
Or a hand to wear and tire 
On the thankful lute or lyre. 

Sing aloud ! His praise rehearse 
Who hath made the universe ! 



Born at Rowtlon, in Shropshire, Baxter (1615-1691), af- 
ter some desultory work at school, and a course of pri- 
vate theological study, passed into the ministry of the 
Church of England. But when the Act of Uniformity 
was passed in 166i, he left that Church and spent several 
years in active literary work. His "Saints' Everlasting 
Rest" and his "Call to the Unconverted" had vast suc- 
cess. His published writings (1830) fill twenty-three 
volumes. He believed in intercommunication with the 
spirit-world, and relates what he regarded as well au- 
thenticated instances of supersensual i)on"cr. He suf- 
fei-ed much for his non-conformist principles, and was 
brought (16S4) before the notorious Jeffreys on a frivo- 
lous charge of seditious utterances in his Notes on the 
New Testament. The brutal judge, on Baxter's at- 
tempting to speak, roared out: "Richard, Richard, dost 
thou think we will let thee poison the court? Richard, 
thou art an old fellow, an old knave ; thou hast written 
books enough to load a cart. Hadst thou been whipt out 
of thy writing trade forty years ago, it liad been happy." 

A poem of 168 lines, by Baxter, entitled "The Valedic- 
tion," appears in several collections : but it is inferior 
to the hymn we publish ; and of which eight only of the 
eleven four-line stanzas are here given. 



THY WILL BE DONE. 

Now it belongs not to my care 

Whether I die or live ; 
To love and servo Thee is my share, 

And this Thj' grace must give. 

If death shall bruise the springing seed 

Before it come to fruit. 
The will with Thee goes for the deed, 

Thy life was in the root. 
->, # ^ ^ # * 

Would I long bear my heavy load, 

And keep my sorrows long? 
Would I long sin against my God, 

And bis dear mercy wrong ? 

How much is sinful fle.sli my foe, 

That doth my sonl pervert 
To linger here in sin and woe, 

And steals from God my heart! 

Christ leads mi' through no darker rooms 

Than ho went through before; 
He that unto God's kingdom comes 

Must enter by this door. 

Come, Lord, when grace hath made me meet 
Thy blessi^d face to see; 



HEXBT VAUCrEJX. 



107 



For if tliy work on earth be sweet, 
What will thy glory be? 

Then I shall end my sad eoniplaints, 

And Tveary sinful days, 
And join -with the triumphant saints 

That sing Jehovah's praise. 

My knowledge of that life is small: 

The eye of faith is /lim ; 
But it's enough that Christ knows all. 

And I shall he with Him. 



I^cm|2 llaugljaii. 



A native of W.ales, Vaugh.in ( 1C14-169.5 ) studied at 
Oxfoid, first became a lawyer, then a pliysiciau ; but in 
neither profession was he successful in earning a com- 
jielency. Poverty seems to have dogged his steps. In 
the latter part of his life he became devout. Amidst the 
obscurities of his verse there are beauties that bespeak 
the genuine poet. Campbell; who bad little partiality 
for pious poets, compares these beauties to "wild flow- 
ers on a barren lieatli." In his own "Rainbow," he 
has, pcrliaps, unwittingly borrowed a "wild llowcr" or 
two from iMor Vauglian. 



THE RETREAT. 

Happy those early days, when I 
Sljiued in my angel infancy ! 
Before I understood this place 
Appointed for my second race, 
Or taught my soul to fancy aught 
But a -white, celestial thought; 
When yet I had not walked above 
A mile or two from my first love, 
And looking back at that short space. 
Could see a glimpse of his bright face; 
When ou some gilded cloud or flower 
My gazing soul would dwell an hour, 
And in those weaker glories spy 
Some shadows of eternity; 
Before I taught my tongue to wound 
My conscience with a sinful souud, 
Or had the black art to dispense 
A several sin to every sense, 
liut felt through all this tle-shly dress 
Bright shoots of everlastingness. 
Oh, how I long to travel hack 
And tread again that ancient track ! 
That I might once more reach that plain, 
Where first I left my glorious traiu ; 



From whence tlie enlightened spirit sees 
That shady City of Palm-trees. 
But ah! my soul with too nmch stay 
Is drunk, and staggers in the way! 
Some men a forward motion love, 
But I by backward steps would move ; 
And, when this dust falls to the urn, 
lu that state I came, return. 



THE RAINBOW. 

Still youug and fine! hut what is still in view 
We slight as old and soiled, though fresh and new. 
How bright wert thou when Shem's admiring eye 
Thy burnished, llaniing arch did first descry! 
When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, 
The youthful world's gray fathers, in one knot 
Did with intentive looks watch every hour 
For thy new light, and trembled at each shower! 
When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and 

fair. 
Forms tnru to music, clouds to smiles and air; 
Rain gently spends his honey-drops, aud pours 
Balm on the cleft earth, milk ou grass and flowers. 
Bright pledge of peace aud sunshine! the sure tie 
Of thy Lord's hand, the object of his eye! 
When I behold thee, though my light be dim, 
Distant and low, I can in thine see him 
Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne, 
Aud minds the covenant 'twixt all and One. 



THEY ARE ALL GOXE ! 

They are all gone into the world of light! 

Aud I alone sit lingering here! 
Their very memory is fair and bright. 

And my sad thoughts doth clear. 

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast 
Like stars upon some gloomy grove, 

Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest 
After the sun's remove. 

I see them walking iu an air of glory, 
Whose_ light doth trample ou my days, — 

My days which are at best but dull and hoary. 
Mere glimmering and decays. 

O holy hope! aud high humility! 
High as the heavens above ! 



103 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BllITISH AXD JMEIUCJX rOETRY. 



These are your walks, aud you liave sboned tbcm 
me 
To kindle my cold love. 

Dear, beauteous death; the jewel of the just! 

Shilling uowhere but in the dark ; 
What mysteries do lie beyoud thy dust. 

Could man outlook that mark! 

He that Iiatli I'niiiid some fledged bird's-uest may 
kuow 

At first sight if the bird be flown; 
But what fair dell or grove he sings iu now. 

That is to him uukuowu. 

And yet as angels in some brighter dreams 
Call to the soul wlieu man doth sleep, 

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted 
themes, 
And into glory peep. 

If a star were confined into a tomb. 

Her captive tlames must needs burn there; 

But when tlie hand that locked her up gives room. 
She'll shine through all the sphere. 

O Father of eternal life, and all 

Created glories under tliee! 
Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall 

Into true liberty ! 

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill 
My pcrsi)ective still as they pass, — 

Or else remove me hence unto that hill, 
Where I shall need no glass. 



THE REQUEST. 

Thou who didst deny to me 
This world's adored felicity. 
And" every big imperious lust. 
Which fools admire in sinful dust; 
With those tine subtle twists that tie 
Their bundles of foul gallantry ; — 
Keep still my weak eyes from the sbiuc 
Of those gay things which are not Thine! 
And shut my ears against the noise 
Of wicked, though applauded, joys! 
For Thou in any laud hast store 
Of shades and coverts for Thy poor; 
Where from tin; busy dust and beat. 
As well as storms, they may retreat. 



A rock, a bush are downy beds. 

When Thou art there, crowning their heads 

With secret blessings, or a tire 

Made of the Comforter's live fire. 

And, when Thy goodness, in the dress 

Of anger, will not seem to bless, 

Yet dost thou give them that rich raiu 

W^hich as it drops clears all again. 

O what kind visits daily pass 
'Twixt Thy great self and such poor grass! 
With what sweet looks dotli Thy love shine 
On these low violets of Thine, 
While the tall tulip is accurst. 
And crowns imperial die with thirst! 
O give me still those secret meals, 
Those rare repasts which Thy love deals ! 
Give me that joy Tvliicb none can grieve, 
And which in all griefs doth relieve. 
This is the portion thy child begs; 
Not that of rust, ami rags, and dregs. 



LIKE AS A NURSE. 

Even as a nurse, whose child's imperfect jiaco 
Can hardly lead his foot from place to place, 
Leaves her fond kissing, sets him down to go, 
Nor does uphold him for a step or two; 
But when she finds that ho begins to fall, 
She holds him up and kisses him withal: 
So God from man sometimes withdraws his hand 
Awhile to teach his infant faith to stand: 
But when lie sees his feeble strength begin 
To fail, he gently takes him up again. 



llicljavi!) Couditcc. 



Lovelace (1G18-165S), born iii a knightly mansion, was 
educated at Oxford. Of remarkable physical beauty, lie 
was the most unhappy of the Cavalier poets. For his 
gallant striignlcs in the royal cause he suB'urcd imprison- 
ment, during which he published his "Odes and Songs." 
He spent his fortune in the service of the King and in 
aid of poorer friends. The Lucasta {Lux casta, pure light ) 
of his verse was Lady SaclicvercU, whom lie loved, but 
who married another, after false reports that Lovelace 
hart been killed at Dunkirk. Under Cromwell he was 
set free, but lived in extreme poverty, and died of con- 
sumption, in great distress, in an alley in Shoe Lane. 
Much of his poetry is of little value, and disfigured with 
the obscurities and affectations which were the fashion 
of the day. Two at least of his poems are likely to 
hi^t as long as the English lan;;ii.ige. Tlicy breathe the 
knightly spirit of a true nobility. 



lUCUAUD LOVKLACE.—ADIiAHAM COWLEY. 



109 



TO ALTHEA (FROM PRISON). 

Whcu Love witli uuconfiu^il wings 

Hovers witUiu my gates, 
And my divine Altliea brings 

To wbisper at the grates ; 
Wlien I lie tangled in her bair, 

And fettered to her eye, 
Tlie birds that ■wanton in the air 

Know no snch liberty. 

When ilowing cups rnu swiftly round 

With 110 allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads with roses bound, 

Onr hearts with loyal flames ; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep. 

When healths and draughts go free. 
Fishes that tipple in tlie deep 

Know no such liberty. 

When, like committed linnets, I 

With shriller throat shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, m.njesty, 

And glories of my King ; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, bow great shonld be, 
Enlarg(5d winds that curl the flood 

Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage : 
If I have freedom in my love. 

And in my soul am fiee. 
Angels aloue that soar aboxo 

Enjoy such liberty. 



TO LUCASTA (ON GOING TO THE WARS) 

Tell mo not, sweet, I am nukind, 

That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind 

To war and arms I fly. 

True, a new mistress now I chase, 

The first foe in the tield ; 
And with a stronger faith embrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 
As you too shall adore ; 



I could not love thee, dear, so much, 
Loved I not honor more. 



^brialjam (l"ou)lcn. 

In the period of his reputation, Cowley (1618-1667) 
precedes Miltou ; lie died in the year of the publication 
of "Paradise Lost." He was the posthumous son of a 
London stationer ; entered Cambridge University, and 
at the age of fifteen published a volume of poems, show- 
ing marvellous precocity. During the Civil War he was 
ejected from Cambridge, and went to Oxford. In lfrt6 
he went with the Queen to Paris, and was active in man- 
aging the cipher correspondence between King Charles 
and his wife. In 1647 appeared Cowley's love poems, 
under the title of " The Mistress." They are pure 
works of imagination. He never married; and it is said 
that although he was once, and only once, in love, he 
was too shy to tell his passion. He had "the modesty 
of a man of genius and the humility of a Christian." In 
his style he belongs to the metaphvsical school, of wliieh 
Doune was the founder: its chief characteristic being 
tlie atfeetation of remote and uncommon imagery and 
obscure conceits, often drawn from scientific sources, 
and attenuated to e.^haustion. His praise of Brutus in 
one of his odes lost him the favor of Charles II. His 
"Davideis" is an unfinished epic in four books, writ- 
ten while he was at Cambridge. He died in his forty- 
ninth year, and was interred with great pomp in West- 
] minster Abbey, between Chaucer and Spenser. No poet 
of his day was more popular than Cowley, though he 
is now but little read. 



MY PICTURE. 

Here, take my likeness with you, whilst 'tis so; 

For when from heuee you go, 

The next sun's rising •will behold 

Me pale, and lean, and old. 

The man who did this picture draw 

Will swear next day my face he never saw. 

I really believe, ■within a while, 

If you upon this shadow smile. 

Your presence ■n'ill such vigor give 

(Yonr presence ■ndiicli makes all things live!) 

And absence so much alter me, 

This will the substance, I the shadow be. 

When from yonr well-wrought cabinet yon take it, 

And your bright looks awake it, 

Ah, be not frighted if you see 

The new-sonled jiictnre gaze on thee, 

,\nd hear it breathe a sigh or two ; 

For those are the first things that it will do. 



110 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAX POETRY. 



My rival-image will be tlieu tboiijjUt blust, 

Ami langli at me as dispossest ; 

But thou, who (if I Icuow tliee light) 

I'th' substance dost not much dcliglit, 

Wilt rather send again for nie, 

Wlio then sliall but my picture's picture be. 



TENTANDA EST VIA. 

What shall I do to bo forever known, 

And make the ago to come my own ? 
I shall, like beasts or couinion people, die, 

Unless you write my elegy ; 
Whilst others great, by being born, are grown ; 

Their mothers' labor, not their own. 
lu this scale gold, iu th' otlier fame does lie. 

The weight of that mouuts this so high. 
These men are Fortune's jewels, moulded bright; 

Brought forth with their own fire and light : 
If I, her vulgar stone, for either look. 

Out of myself it must be strook. 
Yet I must on. What sound is't strikes mine ear? 

Sure I Fame's trumpet hear ; 
It sounds like the last trumpet ; for it can 

Raise up the buried man. 
Uupast Alps stop me ; but I'll cut them all. 

And march, the Muses' Haunil)al. 
Hence, all the flattering vanities that lay 

Nets of roses iu the way ! 
Hence, the desire of honors or estate, 

And all that is not above Fate ! 
Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days. 

Which intercepts my coming praise. 
Come, my best friends, my books, and lead nie on ; 

'Tis time that I were gone. 
Welcome, great Stagyrite!" and teach me now 

All I was born to know ; 
Thy scholar's victories thou dost far outdo ; 

He conquered th' earth, the whole world you. 
Welcome, learu'd Cicero ! whose blest tongue and 
wit 

Preserves Rome's greatness yet : 
Thou art the first of orators ; only he 

Who best can praise thee next must be. 
Welcome the Mantuan swan, Virgil the wise! 

Whose verse walks highest, but not flies ; 
Wlio brought green Poesy to her perfect age. 

And made that art which was a rage. 



1 Aristotle wns btirn nt Stngyrn, in Mncedonin, near the 
mnuih nf the Strymou. lie was the iustrnctor of Alexandei- 
Ihc Oreiit. 



Tell me, ye mighty Tliree! what shall I do 

To be like one of you ? 
But you have climbed tlie mountain's top, there sit 

On the calm flourishing head of it. 
And, whilst with wearied steps we upwards go, 

See us, and clouds, below. 



A HAPPY LIFE. 
Paraphrase from Martial, Book X. 

Since, dearest friend, 'tis your desire to see 
A true receipt of happiness from me, 
These are the chief ingredients, if not all : 
Take an estate ueither too great nor small, 
Which quantum siiffidt the doctors call ; 
Let this estate from parents' care descend, 
The getting it too much of life does spend. 
T.ake such a ground, whose gratitude may be 
A fair encouragement for industry; 
Let constant fires the winter's fury tame. 
And let thy kitchen's be a vestal flame : 
Tliee to the town let never suit at law, 
And rarely, very larely, business draw ; 
Tliy active mind iu equal temper keep. 
In undisturb6d peace, yet not in .sleep : 
Let exercise a vigorous health maititain. 
Without which all the composition's vain. 
In the same weight prudence and iunocence taki\ 
Ana of each does the just mixture make. 
But a few friendships wear, and let them be 
By nature and by fortune fit for thee ; 
Instead of art .and luxury iu food, 
Let mirth aud freedom make thy table good. 
If auy cares into thy daytime creep. 
At night, without witie's opium, let them sleep ; 
Let rest, which Nature does to darkness wed, 
Aud not lust, recotnmend to thee thy bed. 
Be satisfied, aud pleased with what thou art, 
Act cheerfully aud well th' allotted part. 
Enjoy the iiresent hour, be thankful for the past, 
Atid neither fear, nor wish, the approaches of tlie 
l.ast. 



MARK THAT SWIFT ARROW. 

Mark th.at swift arrow, how it cuts the air. 

How it outruns thy following eye ! 

Use all persuasious now, and try 
If thoti canst call it b.ack or stay it there, 

That w.ay it went ; but thou sbalt find 

No track is left behind. 



ABRAHAM COWLEY.— ANDREW MARVELL. 



Ill 



Fool! 'tis tby lift?, ami tbo fond arcbei- tliou ; 

Of nil the tiiiio thou 'st shot away, 

I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday, 
And it shall bo too hnid a task to do. 

Besides repentance, what caust find 

That it hath left behind ? 

Oni- life is carried with too strong a tide; 

A doubtful cloud our substance bears, 

And is the horse of all our years : 
Each day doth on a wiug<5d whirlwind ride. 

We and our glass run out, and must 

Both reuder up our dust. 

But his past life who without grief cau see. 
Who never thinlis bis end too near. 
But says to Fame, thou art mine heir, — 

That man extends life's natural brevity 

To outlive Nestor in a day. 



ON THE DEATH OF CRASHAW. 

Poet aud Saint ! to thee alone are given 
The two most sacred names of earth and heaven ; 
The hard and rarest uuiou which can be. 
Next that of Godhead -with humanity. 
Long did the Muses, banished slaves, abide, 
And built vaiu pyramids to mortal jiride ; 
Like Moses thou (tbo' spells aud charms with- 
stand) 
Hast brought them nobly home, back to their 

Holy Land. 
Ah, wretched we! poets of earth! but thou 
Wert living the same i)oet which thou'rt now. 
Whilst angels sing to thee their airs divine. 
And joy in an applause so great as thiue, 
Equal society with them to hold. 
Thou ueed'st not make new songs, but say the old : 
Aud they (kind spirits!) shall all rejoice to see 
How little less than they exalted nuiu may be. 



FROM "THE WISH." 

This only grant me, that my means may lie 
Too low for envy, for contempt too high. 

Some honor I would have, 
Not from great deeds, but good alone ; 
The unknown are bettor than ill known ; 

Rumor cau ope the grave. 
Acquaintauce I would have, but when 't depends 
Not on the uumber, but the choice, of friends. 



Books should, not business, entertain the light. 
And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the night. 

My house a cottage more 
Thau palace ; and should litting be 
For all my use, no luxury. 

My garden painted o'er 
With Nature's hand, not Art's ; and pleasures yield, 
Horace might envy iu his Sabine field. 

Thus would I double my life's fadiug space; 
For he that ruus it well twice runs his race. 

Aud iu this true delight, 
Tliese uubought sports, this happy state, 
I would not fear, nor wish, my fate ; 

But boldly say, each night. 
To-morrow let my sun his beams display. 
Or in clouds bide tbeni ; I have lived to-day. 



^ubrcui iUarncll. 

The friend of Milton, anil his assistant in the Latin 
Secretaryship, Marvell (10:20-1078) w:is born in Lincoln- 
shire, .nnd educated at Cambridge. His education was 
superior. He wrote both poetry and prose, and was 
Member of Parliament for Hull. A man of inflexible in- 
tegrity, he was a strenuous foe of the Roman Catholic 
religion, and as a political pamphleteer toolc a high rank. 
Repeatedly threatened with assassination, he died sud- 
denly—from the eftucts of poison, it was beliored. There 
is a vein of elegance and pathos in his poems, and they 
reveal the genuine, high -hearted thinker. His Latin 
jioeuis are his best. Tlie familiar poem, " The Spacious 
Firmament on High," is confidently attributed by many 
to Marvell. That he was equal to it is evident; but the 
proofs are iusufiieient to authorize us to take from Ad- 
dison what has so long been ascribed to him. The sim- 
plicity and directness of the style are Addisonian rather 
than Marvellian. The piece first appeared anonymously 
in the Spectalor, edited by Addison. The Spectator was 
begun in ITU, and Marvell died iu 1678. If the piece 
was fi-om his pen, wliat good reason was there, after ids 
death, for withholding his name ? It was in no spirit of 
boasting that, in a letter to one of his correspondents, 
Marvell wrote : 

" Disce, pner, viitiUeni ex me, vcrumqtie laboreni ; 
Ftirtuuam ex .aliis." 



SONG OF THE EMIGR.\NTS IN BERMUDA.' 

Where the remote Bermudas ride 
Iu the ocean's bosom uuespied, 



' Eniifrrants snppofed tn be driven to expatiiate theniselve.i 
by the j^overument of Cliarles I. 



112 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BUITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Fioni a small boat that rowed along 
The listeiiiug wiuils received tliis song : 
"What shonlil wo do but sing liis praisu 
That led iis through the watery maze 
Unto an isle so long unknown, 
And yet far kinder tliau our own ? 
Where lie the huge sea-uionsters wracks 
That lift the deep upon their backs, 
Hu lands us on a grassy stage 
Safe from the storms aud prelate's rage. 
He gave us this eternal spring 
Which here enamels everytliing, 
And scuds the fowls to us iu care 
Ou daily visits through the air. 
He hangs in shades the oraugo bright, 
Like golden lamps in a green night. 
And docs in the pomegranates close 
Jewels more rich than Ormns shows. 
He makes the figs our mouths to meet, 
Aud throws the melons at our feet, 
But apples plants of such a i)rice 
No tree could ever bear them twice. 
With cedars chosen by his hand 
From Lebanon, he stores the land, 
And makes the hollow seas that roar 
Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 
He cast (of which we rather boast) 
The Gospel's pearl upon onr coast, 
And in tliese rocks for us did frame 
A temiile where to sound his name. 
Oh, let onr voice his praise exalt 
'Til it arrive at heaven's vault, 
Whicli, then, perhaps, rebounding, may 
Eclio beyond the Mexiqne Bay." 

Thus snug they, in the English boat, 
A holy aud a cheerful note. 
And all the way, to guide their chime, 
With falling oars tliey kept the time. 



COURAGE, MY SOUL! 

A DI.^LOfiUE BETWEEN THE RESOLVED SOUL AND 
CnE.\TED PLEASURE. 

Courage, my soul ! now learn to wield 
The weight of thine immortal shield ; 
Close ou thy head thy helmet bright; 
Balance thy sword against the fight ; 
See where an army, strong as fair, 
Willi silken banners spread the air! 
Now, if thou bc'st that thing divine, 
Iu this day's combat let it shine. 



Aud show that nature wants an art 
To couquer one resolved heart. 

Pleasure. Welcome, the creation's guest, 

Lord of earth, and heaven's heir! 
Lay aside that warlike crest, 
And of nature's banquet share, 
Where the souls of fruits and flowers 
Stand prepared to heighten yours. 

Sou}. I sup above, and cannot st.ay 
To bait so long upon the way. 

Vhnsiire. On these down}' pillows Ho, 

Whose soft pinnies will thither fly ; 
On these roses, strewed so plain 
Lest one leaf thy side should straiu. 

SonJ. My gentler rest is ou a thought. 
Conscious of doing what I ought. 

Plmsiux: If thou bc'st with perfumes pleased 
Such as oft the gods rppeased, 
Thou iu fragrant clouds shalt show- 
Like another god below. 

Soul. A soul that knows not to iiresnme 
Is Heaven's and its own perfume. 

Phasuir. Everything does seem to vie 

Wliich should first attract thine eye; 
But since none deserves that grace, 
In this crystal view thy face. 

Soul. When the Creator's skill is prized, 
The rest is all but earth disguised. 

Pleasure. Hark how uiusic then prepares 

For thy stay these charming airs. 
Which the posting winds recall, 
Aud suspend the river's fall. 

Soul. Had I but any time to lose, 

Ou this I would it all dispose. 

Cease, tempter! None can chain a mind. 

Whom this sweet cordage cannot bind. 



Earth cannot show so brave a sight, 
As when a single soul does fence 
The battery of alluring Sense, 
And Heaven views it with delight. 
Then persevere ! for still new charges sound : 
.'Vnd if tlion ovcrcom'st thou shalt be crowned I 

Pleasure. All that's costly fair and sweet 
Which scatteriugly doth shine. 
Shall within one beauty meet, 
And she be only thine. 
Soul. If things of sight such heavens be, 

What heavens are those we cannot see ! 
Pleisure. Wheresoe'er thy foot shall go 
The minted gold shall lie, 



JKDBEW MAEVELL. 



113 



Suiil. 



Till thou inu'cliaso all lielow, 

Aud waut uew worlds to hay. 
Were't not for price who'd value gold ? 
Aud that's worth naught that can be sold. 
Pleasure. Wilt thou all the glory have 

That war or peace commend? 
Half the world shall bo thj' slave, 

The other half thy friend. 
Soul. What friends, if to myself untrue? 
What slaves, unless I captive you ? 
Pleasure. Thou shalt know each hidden cause 

Aud see the future time, 
Try what depth the centre draws, 

And then to heaven climb. 
None thither mounts by the degree 
Of knowledge, but humility. 



Triumph, triumph, victorious soul .' 
The world has not one pleasure more : 

The rest doth lie beyond the jiolc, 
Aud is thiue everlasting store. 



Soul. 



A DROP OF DEW. 

Translated from the Latin of Marvell. 

See how the orient dew. 

Shed from the bosom of the morn 

Into the blowing roses, 
(Yet careless of its mansion new. 
For the clear region where 'twas born), 

Round in itself iucloses; 
And in its little globe's extent 
Frames .as it can, its native element. 

How it the purple flower does slight, 
Scarce touching where it lies ; 
But, gazing back upon the skies. 

Shines with a mournful light, 
Like its own tear. 

Because so long divided from the sphere. 
Restless it rolls and unsecurc, 
Trembling, lest it grow impure ; 
Till the warm sun pities its pain, 
And to the skies exh.ales it back again. 
So the soul, that drop, that ray, 
Of the clear fountain of eternal day, 

Could it withiu the human flower bo seen, 
Remembering still its former height, 

Shuus the sweet leaves and blossoms green ; 
And, recollecting its own light, 
Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express 
The greater heaven in a heaven less. 
8 



In how coy a figure wound, 
Every way it turns away ; 

So the world excluding round. 
Yet receiving in the day; 

Dark beneath, but bright above ; 

Here disdaining, there in love. 
How loose and easy hence to go ; 

How girt aud ready to ascend ; , 

Moving but on a point below, "■ 

It all about does upwards bend. 
Such did the manna's sacred dew distil, 
White and entire, although congealed and chill ; 
Congealed on earth ; but does, dissolving, run 
Into the glories of the almighty sun. 



THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN.' 

How vainly men themselves amaze, 
To win the palm, the oak, or bays ; 
Aud their incessant labors see 
Crowned from single herb, or tree. 
Whoso short and narrow-verged shade 
Does prudently their toils upbraid; 
While all the flowers and trees do close, 
To weave the garlands of repose. 

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, 
And Innocence, thy sister dear ? 
Mistaken long, I sought you then 
In busy companies of men : 
Your sacred plants, if here below. 
Only among the plants will grow : 
Society is all but rude 
To this delicious solitude. 

No white nor red was ever seen 

So amorous as this lovely green. 

Fond lovers, cruel as their flame. 

Cut in these trees their mistress' name. 

Little, alas ! they know or heed. 

How far these beauties her exceed ! 

Fair trees ! where'er your barks I wound. 

No name shall but your own be found. 



' This poem is printed as a tr.iushition in Marvell's works ; 
l)ut the original Latin is obviously his own. Here is a speci- 
men ofit : 

*'Alnia Qtiies, teneo tc! et te g:ermana Quietis 
Simplicitas ! vos erj;:o din per templa, per urbes 
Quffisivi, regnm perque alta palatia frnstra: 
Sed vos hortoruni per opaca silentia, lon^e 
Celarunt plantos virides, et concolor umbra." 



114 



CYCLOPEDIA OF niUTISn AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



When we have ruu our passion's heat 
Love hither makes his best retreat : 
The gods who mortal beauty chase, 
Still ill a tree did end their race : 
Apollo huuted Daphne so 
Only that she might laurel grow : 
And Pan did after Syrinx speed 
Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 

What wondrous life is this I lead ! 
Eipe apples drop about my head ; 
The luscious clusters of the viue 
Upon my mouth do crush their wino ; 
The nectarine, and curious peach, 
Into my hands themselves do reach ; 
Stumbling on melons, as I pass. 
Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 

3Ieanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, 

Withdraws into its happiness : 

The mind, that ocean where each kind 

Does straight its own resemblance find ; 

Yet it creates, transcending these. 

Far other worlds and other seas ; 

Annihilating all that's made 

To a green thought in a gieen shade. 

Here at the fountain's sliding foot. 
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root. 
Casting the body's vest aside, 
My soul into the boughs does glide : 
There, lilic a bird, it sits and sings, 
Then whets and claps its silver wings, 
And, till prepared for longer flight, 
Waves in its plumes the various light. 

Siicli was that happy garden-state, 
While man there wallied without a mate ; 
After a place so iiuie and sweet. 
What other help could yet be meet ! 
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share 
To wander solitary there : 
Two paradises are in one, 
To live ill paradise alone. 

How well the skilful gardener drew. 
Of flowers and herbs this dial new ! 
When!, from above, the milder sun 
Does through a fragrant zodiac run : 
And, as it works, the industrious bee 
Computes its time as well as we. 
How could such sweet and wholesome hours 
Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers! 



<Ll)omas Stanlcj). 



Stanley (1635-lCTS) edited ^schylus, wrote a credita- 
ble "History of Philosophy," and, in 1651, published a 
volume of verse. He was educated at O.xl'ord, aud spent 
part of Ills youth in travelling. His poems, though de- 
formed by the conceits fashionable at the time, give 
signs of a rich and genuine poetical vein. 



THE DEPOSITION. 

Though when I loved thee thou wert fair 

Thou art no longer so ; 
Those glories, all the pride they wear. 

Unto opinion owe : 
Beauties, like stars, in borrowed lustre shiue, 
Aud 'twas my love that gave thee thine. 

The flames that dwelt within thine eye 

Do now with mine expire ; 
Thy brightest gr.aces fade aud die 

At once with my desire. 
Love's fires thus mutual influence return ; 
Thine cease to shiue when mine to burn. 

Then, proud Celinda, hope no more 

To be implored or wooed ; 
Since by thy scorn thou dost restore 

The wealth my love bestowed ; 
And thy despised disdain too late shall find 
That none are fair but who are kind. 



Cljarlcs Olotton. 



The friend of good old Izaak Walton, Cotton (1030- 
1G87) was a cheerful, witty, aud accomplished mau, but 
improvident in worldly matters. His fithcr, Sir George, 
left him the encumbered estate of Ashbourne, in Derby- 
shire, near the river Dove. Cotton was thenceforth al- 
ways in money difliculties, and died insolvent. To get 
money, he translated several works from the French and 
Italian, and among them Montaigne's Essays. He made 
a disci-editable travesty of Virgil, remarkable only for its 
obscenity. But some of his verses show a genuine vein. 



NO ILLS BUT WHAT WE MAKE. 

KaOM " CONTENTATION ; DIRECTED TO JIY DEAR FaTIIEU AND HOST 

WORTHY Friend, Mr. Izaak Walton." 

There are no ills but what we make 
By giving shapes and names to things ; 

Which is the dangerous mistake 
That causes all our suflerings. 



JOHN DRYDEX. 



115 



O fruitful grief, the woiUVs disease ! 

Aud vainer man, to nialie it so, 
Wlio gives liis miseries increase, 

By cultivating liis own ivoe ! 

We call that sickness which is health. 

That persecntiou -which is grace. 
That poverty which is trne wealth. 

And that dishonor which is praise. 
Alas ! onr time is hero so short, 

That in what state soe'er 'tis spent, 
Of joy or woe, does not import. 

Provided it be innocent. 

But we may make it jileasant too, 

If we will take our measures right, 
And not what Heaven has done undo 

By an unruly appetite. 
The world is full of beaten roads, 

But yet so slippery withal. 
That where one walks secure 'tis odds 

A hundred and a hundred fall. 

Untrodden paths are then the best. 

Where the frequented are unsure ; 
And he comes soonest to his rest 

Whose journey has been most secure. 
It is coutent aloue that makes 

Onr pilgrimage a pleasure here ; 
And who buys sorrow cheapest takes 

An ill commoditj' too dear. 



3oI)n Dvjilicn. 



One of tlie most celebrated of English poets, Dryden 
(1031-1700) was born in Northamptonshire, of Puritan 
parents. He received his school education at Westmiu- 
ster, under Dr. Busby, of birchen memory ; his college 
education, at Cambridge. Wlicn Cromwell died, he wrote 
laudatory stanzas to his memory; but this did not pre- 
vent his greeting Cliarles II., at his restoration, with a 
salutatory poem, entitled "Astraja Redux." Uryden's 
veerings in religion, politics, criticism, and taste exhibit 
a mind inuler the dominion of impulse. His marriage, 
which took place in 1665, was not a happy one, though 
he seems to have been warmly susceptible of domestic 
;itt'ection. In 1668 be succeeded Sir William Davenaut 
;i!. poet -laureate. For many years he had supported 
himself by writing for the stage. He wrote some twen- 
ty-eight plays. His tragedies are stilted and inctfective; 
while Ids comedies are execr.ably impure and licentious, 
and not to be palliated even by the laxity of tliat cor- 
rupt and shameless age. He lacked some of the great- 
est elements of poetic genius, and in moral earnestness 
was sadly deficient. His "Annus Mirabilis" is a poem 



on the great Arc. His "Absalom and Acliitopliel" is re- 
garded as one of the most powerful of modern satires. 
His "Keligio Laici" exhibits the poet convulsed with 
religious doubts. 

After tlie death of Charles II. Dryden became a Roman 
Catholic, had his children brought up in that faith, and 
lived and died in it. Macaulay calls him an "illustrious 
renegade." Scott takes a less uncliaritable view of his 
motives. When William and Mary ascended Mie throne 
Dryden lost his laureateship, and thenceforth became a 
bookseller's hack. For translating Virgil into Englisli 
verse he received £1200; for his "Fables," about £2.50. 
After a life of literary toil, productive of many splendid 
works, but dishonored by some winch it were well for 
Ills memory if they could be annilulated, Dryden let fall 
his pen. He died at sixty-eight, and his body was buried 
in Westminster Abbey. In terms of extreme exaggera- 
tion, .lohuson sa)-s of him that "he found the English 
language brick, and left it marble." 

Dryden was sixty- six years old when he wrote his 
"Alexander's Feast," one of the finest lyrics in all lit- 
erature. "I am glad," he wrote to bis publisher, "to 
hear from all hands that my Ode is esteemed the best 
of all my poetry by all the town. I thouglit so myself 
when I writ it; but being old, I mistrusted my own 
judgment." Let it be added in Dryden's behalf that he 
had the grace to submit with meekness to Collier's se- 
vere criticism of the moral defects of his plays. Un- 
doubtedly, the recollection of tbem caused him many 
bitter regrets. His prose style is excellent. " In his 
satire," says Seott, "his arrow is always drawn to the 
bead, and files directly and mercilessly to his object.'' 



ALEXANDER'.S FEA.ST. 

AN ODE IN HONOR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY. 

St. Cecilia, n Roman I.<idy born about a.d. 29.5, aud bred iu the 
Christiau faith, was married to a Pa^'au nobleman, Vnlerianns. 
Slie told her husband that she was vir^ited uigluly by au angel, 
wiiom he was allowed to see after his own couversion. They 
botli suffered martyrdom. The aiigel by whom Cecilia was 
visited is referred to iu the closing liues of Drydeu's "Ode,"' 
coupled with a tradition that he had been diawn down to her 
from heaven by her melodies. In the earliest traditions of 
Cecilia there is no mention of skill in music. The great Italian 
painters fixed her position as its patron saint by representing 
her always with symbols of harmony— a harp or organ-pipes. 
Then came the suggestion adopted in Drydeu's "Ode," th it 
the organ was invented by St. Cecilia. The practice of holdi-.ig 
Musical Festivals on Cecilia's D.ay (the 22d of November) be- 
gan to prevail in England at the close of the 17th century. 



'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won 
By Philip's warlike sou ; 
Aloft in awful state 
The godlike hero sate 

On his imperial throne : 
His valiaut peers were placed around ; 
Their l)rows with roses and with myrtles bound, 
(So should desert iu arms be crowned): 



IIG 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEBIC AX POETRY. 



The lovely Thais, b.v his side, 
.Sate, like a blooniiug Eastern bride, 
111 flower of youth aud beauty's pride. 

Happy, happ}-, happy pair ! 

Nouo but the brave, 

Xoiie but the brave, 

Xoue but the brave deserves the fair. 

CHORUS. 

Happy, happy, happy pair! 

None but the brave. 

None but the brave, 

None but the brave deserves the fair. 



Timothous, placed ou high 
Amid the tuueful quire. 
With flying fiugers touched the lyre : 
The trembling notes ascend the sky, 

And heavculj' joys inspire. 
The song began from Jovo, 
^Vll0 left his blissful seats above, 
Such is the power of mighty love. 
A dragon's fiery form belied the god, 
Sublime ou radiant spires he rode, 
When he to fair Olympia pressed, 
Aud Tvhile he sought her snowy breast : 
Then round her slender waist ho curled, 
Aud stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of 

the world. 
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound : 
'•A present deity!" they shout around: 
'•A present deity!" the vaulted roofs rebound. 
With ravished ears 
The monarch hears; 
Assumes the god, 
Aflects to nod. 
And seems to shake the spheres. 

CHORUS. 

With ravished ears 
The mouarch hears; 
Assumes the god, 
Aflects to nod, 
Aud seems to shake the spheres. 



The praise of Bacchus thcu the sweet Musician 
sung. 
Of Bacchus ever fair aud ever young: 
The jolly god in triumph comes ; 
Sound the trumpets; beat the drums! 



Flushed with a purple grace 
He shows his honest face. 
Now give the hautboys breath : he comes, he comes ! 
Bacchus, ever fair aud young, 

Drinking joys did first ordain : 
Bacchus' blessings' are a treasiu-e, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure: 
Uich the treasure. 
Sweet the iileasure, 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 

CIIOKUS. 

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : 

Eich the treasure. 

Sweet the pleasure, 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 

IV. 

Soothed with the sound the king grew vain ; 
Fought all his battles o'er again : 
And thrice he routed all his foes, aud thrice he 
slew the slain. 
The Master saw the madness rise ; 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
And, while he lieaven and earth defied, 
Chauged bis hand and checked his pride. 
He chose a mournful muse 
Soft pity to infuse : 
He sung Darius great aud good. 

By too severe a fate 
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen. 
Fallen from his high estate. 

And weltering in his blood ; 
Deserted, at his utmost need. 
By those his former bounty fed. 
On the bare earth exposed he lies. 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, 
Revolving in his altered soul 

The various turns of chance below; 
Aud now aud then a sigh he stole, 
And tears began to flow. 

CHORUS. 

Revolving in his altered soul 

The various turns of chance below ; 

And now and then a sigh he stole, 
And tears began to flow. 



The mighty Master smiled to see 
That love was iu the next degree ; 



JOHN DUXDEy. 



117 



"fwas but a kiiidroil soiiud to move, 
For I'ity melts the mind to love. 
Softly sweet, in Lydiaii measures, 
Soon be soothed his soul to jilcasurcs. 
War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; 
Honor but an empty bubble ; 

Never euding, still beginning, 
Fighting still, and still destroying; 

If the -n-orld be worth thy winning, 
Think, oh think it worth enjoying : 
Lovely Thais sits beside thee. 
Take the good the gods provide thee. 
The many rend the skies with loud applause; 
So Love was crowned : but Music won the cause. 
The prince, uuablo to conceal his pain, 
Gazed on the fair 
Who caused his care. 
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked. 
Sighed aud looked, and sighed again : 
Xi length, with love and wine at once oppressed. 
The vanquished victor sunk upon lier breast. 



Tlie prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
Giized on the fair 
Who caused his care, 
And siglied aud looked, sighed and looked, 
Sighed and looked, and sighed again : 
At length, with love aud wine at ouce oppressed. 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 



Xow strike the golden lyre again : 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. 
Break his bauds of sleep asunder. 
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thuudcr. 
Hark, hark, the horrid sound 
Has raised up liis head : 
As awaked from the dead, 
And amazed, he stares around. 
"Revenge! revenge!" Timothens cries: 
See the Furies arise ; 
See the snakes that tlicy rear. 
How they hiss in their hair. 
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! 
Behold a ghastly band. 
Each a torch in his hand: 
Those are Grecian ghosts that in battle were 
slain, 

And iniburied remain 
Inglorious on the plain : 
Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew. 



Behold how they toss their torches on high! 

How they point to the Persian abodes, 
Aud glittering temples of their hostile gods! 
The in-inces applaud with a furious joy ; 
Aud the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; 

Thais led the way. 

To light him to his prey, 
Aud, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 



.\ud the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; 

Thais led the way. 

To light him to his prey, 
Aud, like another Helen, lired another Troy. 



Thus long ago. 
Ere heaving bellows learued to blow. 
While orgaus yet were uuite ; 
Timothens, to his breathing flute, 
And sounding lyre. 
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 
At last diviue Cecilia came, 
luveutress of the vocal frame ; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds. 
And added length to solemn sounds. 
With nature's mother-wit, and arts uuknow'u before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the jirize. 

Or both divide the crown : 
He raised a mortal to the skies ; 
She drew an angel down. 

GRAND CllOUrS. 

At last divine Cecilia came, 

luveutress of the vocal frame ; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store. 

Enlarged the former narrow Ijounds, 

Aud added length to solemn sounds, 
With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crown : 
He raised a mortal to the skies ; 

She drew an angel down. 



VEXI CREATOR. 

Creator Spirit, by whose aid 
The world's foundations first were laid, 
Come, visit every pious mind ; 
Come, pour thy joys on humankind ; 



118 



CYCLOPMDIA OF BIIITLSH AXD AilEllICJX POETRY. 



From sill aud sorrow set us free, 
Aud make thy temples worthy thee. 

O source of uncreated light, 
The Father's promised Paraclete! 
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire, 
Onr hearts with heavenly love inspire ; 
Come, and thy sacred unction Ijriug, 
To sauctify ns while wo siug. 

Plenteous of grace, descend from high, 
Ivich in thy sevenfold energy! 
Thou strength of his Almighty hand, 
Whoso power does heaven and earth command ; 
Proceeding Spirit, onr defence. 
Who dost the gifts of tongues dispense, 
And crowii'st thy gifts with eloquence ! 

Refine and purge our earthly ])arts ; 
But, oh inflame aud fiie our hearts ! 
Our frailties help, onr vice control, 
Submit the seuses to the soul ; 
And when rebellious they are grown. 
Then lay thine hand, and hold them down. 

Chase from our minds the infernal foe, 
And peace, the frnit of love, bestow ; 
And, lest our feet should step astray, 
Protect aud guide us in the way. 

Make ns eternal truths receive. 
And practise all that we believe : 
Give ns thyself, that we may see 
The Father, and the Son, by thee. 

Immortal honor, endless fame. 
Attend the Almighty Father's name ! 
The Saviour Son be glorified. 
Who for lost man's redemption died ! 
And equal adoration be. 
Eternal Paraclete, to thee ! 



SHAFTESBURY DELINEATED AS ACHITO- 
PHEL. 

Fro:*! *' Absalom and Acihtophel." 

Of these the false Achitophcl was finst — 
A name to all succeeding ages curst : 
For close designs and crooked counsels fit. 
Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit ; 
Restless, unfixed in principles and place ; 
In power nupleascd, impatient of disgrace ; 
A fiery soul which, working out its way. 
Fretted the pigmy body to decay. 
And o'er informed its tenement of clay : 
A daring pilot in extremity. 

Pleased with the danger, when the waves went 
high. 



He sought the storms ; but, for a calm unfit. 
Would steer too uigh the sands to boast his wit. 
Great wits are sure to madness near allied, 
Aud thiu partitions do their bounds divide : 
Else, why should he, with wealth and honors blest, 
Refuse Lis age the needful hours of rest ? 
Punish a body which he could not idease. 
Bankrupt of life, yet jirodigal of ease ? 
Aud all to leave what with his toil he won 
To that unfeathered, two-legged thing, a son! 



BUCKINGII.UI DELINEATED AS ZIMRL 

Frosi "Absalom and AcniToriiEL.'" 

Some of their chiefs were princes of the land ; 

In the first rank of these did Zimri staud, 

A man so various that he seemed to bo 

Not one, but all maukiud's epitome; 

Stiff iu opinions, always in the wrong, 

Was everything by starts, and nothing long; 

But, in the course of one revolving moon, 

Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon ; 

Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking. 

Besides ten thousand freaks that died iu tliinkiug. 

Blest madman ! who conld every hour employ 

With something new to wish or to enjoy. 

Railing aud praising were his usual themes, 

And both, to show his judgment, iu extremes ; 

So over-violent or ovei-civil, 

That every man with him was god or devil. 

In squandering wealth was his iicculiar art, — 

Nothing went unrewarded but desert ; 

Beggared by fools whom still ho found too late, 

He had his jest, and they had his estate. 

He laughed himself from court, then sought relief 

By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief; 

For, spite of him, the weight of business fell 

On Absalom and wise Achitophel : — ■ 

Thus, Mieked but in will, of means bereft. 

He left not faction, but of that was left. 



ENJOY THE PRESENT. 

FAnAPHRASE FROM IIORACE, UOOK I., ODE XXIX. 

Enjoy the present smiling hour, 
And put it out of Fortune's power: 
The tide of business, like the running stream. 
Is sometimes high, aud sometimes low, 

And always in extreme. 
Now with a noiseless, gentle course 



JOHN DRYDEN.—EATBARINE PHILLIPS. 



119 



It keeps Tvitbin the middle bed ; 
Anon it lifts aloft the head, 
And bears down all before It with impetuous force; 
And trunks of trees couie rolling down ; 
Sheep aud their folds together drown ; 
Both house aud homestead into seas are borne ; 
And rocks are from their old foundations torn : 
And woods, made thin with winds, their scattered 
honors mourn. 

Happy the man, and happy he alone, 

He who can call to-day his own ; 

He who, secure within, can say. 
To-morrow, do thy worst, for I have lived to-day ! 

Be fair or foul, or rain or shine ; 
The joys 1 have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine! 

Not heaven itself upon tlio past has power; 
But what has been, has been, and I have had my 
hour. 

Fortune, that with malicious joy 

Does man, her slave, ojipress. 
Proud of her office to destroy. 

Is seldom pleased to bless : 
Still various, and inconstant still. 
But with an inclination to be ill, 

Promotes, degrades, doliglits in strife, 

Aud makes a lottery of life. 
I can enjoy her while she's kind ; 
But when she dances in tlio wind. 

And shakes the wings, and will not stay, 

I pufl' the prostitute away ! 
The little or the much she gave is quietly resigned : 

Content with poverty, my soul I arm ; 

And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm. 

What is't to me, 
Who never sail in her unfaithful sea, 

If storms arise, and clouds grow black. 
If the mast split aud threaten wreck? 
Then let the greedy merchant fear 

For his ill-gotten gain. 
And pray to gods that will not hear, 
Wliile the debating winds aud billows bear 

His wealth into the main. 
For me, secure from Fortune's blows, 
Secure of what I cannot lose. 
In my small pinnace I can sail. 

Contemning all the blustering roar ; 
Aud, running with a merry gale. 
With friendly stars my safety seek 
Within some little winding creek, 

And see the storm ashore. 



Katljarinc JiJIjillips. 



Daughter of Mr. John Fowler, a London merchant, 
Katharine rhilli|is (1631-1664) showed genuine poetical 
taste and ability. Slie was a friend of Jeremy Taylor, 
who addressed to her a "Discourse on Friendsliip." 
She wrote under the name of Orinda, was praised by 
Roscommon and Cowley, and had the friendshicp of many 
of the eminent authors of her day. She tra'lislated two 
of the tragedies of Corneille, and left a volume of letters, 
which was published after her death. Her poems were 
very popular in her lifetime, hut their lame has been 
cvansceut. 



TO MRS. M. A., AT PARTING. 

I have examined, and do find, 

Of all that favor me, 
There's none I grieve to leave behind 

But only, only thee ! 
To part with thee I needs must die, 
Could parting separate for aye. 

Our clianged and mingled souls are grown 

To such acquaintance now. 
That if each would resume her own, 

(Alas! we know not how!) 
We have each other so engrossed 
That each is in the union lost. 
# # # if * »■ 

By my own temper I .shall guess 

At thy felicity, 
Aud only like my happiness 

Because it pleaseth thee : 
Our hearts at any time will tell 
If thou or I be sick or well. 

Thy lieger soul in me shall lie. 

And all my thoughts reveal ; 
Then back again with mine shall fly, 

And thence to me shall steal, — 
Thus still to one another tend : 
Such is the sacred tie of friend ! 



ON CONTROVERSIES IN RELIGION. 

Religion which true policy befriends. 
Designed by God to servo man's holiest ends, 
Is by the old Deceiver's subtle play 
Made the chief party in its own decay. 
And meets that eagle's destiny whose breast 
Felt tbe same shaft which his own feathers drest. 



1-20 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Qrarl of Uoscommon. 

Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon (1034-1085), 
was the nephew of the great Earl of Strafford, after 
whose fall on the scaffold he was sent to Caen to pursue 
his studies. While there he succeeded to the title of 
Roscommon. Aubrey tells a story that tlie youth had a 
presentiment of his father's death, and exclaimed, "My 
father is dead I" one day while he was engaged with 
some boys at play, at least a fortuight before the intelli- 
gence ari'ivcd from Ireland. Roscommon's chief work is 
called "An Essay on Translated Verse;" lie also trans- 
lated Horace's " Art of Poetry," and wrote minor poems. 
Just before he died he uttered two lines of his own para- 
phrase of Thomas de Celano's "Dies Ira>:" 

" My God, my Father, aud my Fi-icud, 
Do not forsake me iu my eud ;" 

His mortal remains were interred with great pomp iu 
Westminster Abbey. To his lionor let it be said that he 
well deserved this tribute from Pope : 

"Uuhnppy Dryden ! Iu all Charleses days, 
Koscommon ouly boasts uuspotted l.^ys." 

Living in the foul times of the second Charles, he re- 
fused to soil his pages with the ribaldry and grossness 
which the popular taste seemed theu to demuud. He 
wrote this couplet: 

"Immodest words admit of no defeuce, 
For want of decency is want of sense." 

Benjamin Franklin, in no hypercritical spirit, suggested 
not a bad amendment of the couplet, thus: 

"Immodest words admit but this defence: 
Tliat want of decency is want of sense." 



POETIC INSPIRATIOX. 

I pity, from my soul, unhappy men 
Compelled by want to pro.stitute tlieir iicn ; 
Who must, like lawyers, either starve or plead, 
Aud follow, right or wrong, where gniueas lead. 

No poet any passion can excite 

But what they feel transport them w hen they w rite 

Have yon been led through the C'nnueau cave, 

And heard th' inipatieut maid divinely rave? 

I bear her now ; 1 see her rolling eyes ; 

And, panting, "Lo, the god, the god !" she cries: 

With words not hers, and more than liuman sound. 

She makes th' obedient ghosts peep, trembling, 

tlirough the ground, 
lint tliougli wo must obey when Heaven conunands. 
And man in vain the sacred call withstands, 
Beware what spirit rages iu your breast ; 
For ten inspired ten thousand are iiossest. 



Thus make the proper use of eacli extreme. 
And write with fury, but correct with phlegm. 
As when the cheerful hours too freely pass, 
And sparkling wine smiles iu the tempting glass. 
Your pnlse advises, aud begins to beat 
Through every swelling vein a loud retreat : 
So when a Muse propitiously iuvites, 
Improve her favors, and indulge her flights ; 
But when yon find that vigorous beat abate, 
Leave off, and for another summons wait. 
Before the radiant sun a glimmering lamp, 
Adult'rate metals to the sterling stamp. 
Appear not meaner than mere human lines 
Compared with those whose inspiration sliiues : 
These nervous, bold ; those languid and remiss ; 
Tliere cold salutes, but hero a lover's kiss. 
Thus have 1 seen a rapid, headlong tide 
With foaming waves the passive Sa6ne divide. 
Whose lazy waters wifhont motion lay. 
While he with eager force urged his impetuous way. 



iiljoinas Ken. 



Ken (1037-1711) was educated at Oxford, became cliap- 
lain to Charles II., aud was one of the seven bishops sent 
to the Tower for resisting tlie tyranny of James II. A 
meeker aud a braver man thau Ken never lived. His 
hymns are still deservedly esteemed. He published an 
epic poem entitled "Edmund," and was the author of 
several approved devotional works. 



FROM THE "EVENING HYMN." 

AU praise to thee, my God, this night, 
For all the blessings of the light ! 
Keep me, oU keep me. King of kings. 
Beneath thy own almighty wings ! 

* * * if * # 

Wlien iu the night I sleepless lie. 
My soul witli heavenly thoughts supply ; 
Let no ill dreams disturb my rest, 
No powers of darlvuess me nmlest. 

Dull sleep ! of sense me to deprive ! 
I am but half ray time alive; 
Thy faithful lovers. Lord, are grieved 
To lie so long of thee bereaved. 

But tho\igh sh'ep o'er my frailty reigns, 
Let it not hold me long iu chains ; 
And now aud then let loose my beart, 
Till it a Hallebijah dart. 



THOMAS OTJrJT. 



121 



The faster sleep the senses binds, 
The more uufettered are our minds. 
Oh, may my soul, from matter free. 
Thy loveliness luiclouded see ! 

* 7i ^ ^ 5f # 

Oh, may my Guardian,' while I sleep, 
Close to my bed his vigils Ueeii ; 
His love angelical instil. 
Stop all the avenues of ill. 

May he celestial joys rehearse, 
Aud thought to thought with me converse ; 
Or, iu my stead, all the night long, 
Sing to ray God a grateful song. 

Praise God, from whom all blessiugs flow ; 
Praise him all creatures here below ; 
Praise him above, ye heavenly host ; 
Praise Father, Sou, aud Holy Ghost ! 



(iljoinas (DtiuaH. 



Tlie son of a clei-gyman, Otway (16.51-168.5) was born 
in Sussex. Leaving Cxforcl without a degree, he ap- 
peared on the stage in 16T2 as an actor, but failed. He 
then got a commission iu the army iu Flanders, but was 
cashiered. He wrote for the stage, and several of his 
pieces were quite successful ; but he was continually in 
the direst poverty, aud he is alleged by some to have 
died of voraciously eating a piece of bread after a long 
compulsory fast. His fame rests cUieflj' on liis "Ven- 
ice Preserved," in which there are passages of great dra- 
matic power. He wrote some miscellaneous poems, but 
tlieir merit is very Imnible. 



FEOM "VENICE PRESERVED." 

-VcT IV,, Scene II. 

Pierre. What whining monk art tlion ? what holy 
cheat. 
That wonldst encroach upon my credulous ears, 
Aiul cant'st thus vilely? Hence! I know thee not! 

Jiiff. Not know me, Pierre ! 

Pierre. No, know thee not! Wliat art thou? 

»Jaff. Jaffier, thy friend, thy once loved, valued 
friend ! 
Tho' now deservedly scorned aud used most hardly. 
Pierre. Thou Jaffier! thou my once loved, valued 
friend ! 
I!y heavens, thou liest ! The man so called my 
friend 

' Tb.it is, my Giiardiau .^llgel. 



Was generous, honest, faithful, just, aud valiant ; 
Noblo iu mind, and iu his person lovely ; 
Dear to my eyes, and tender to my heart : 
But thou, a wretched, base, false, worthless coward, 
Poor eveu in soul, aud loathsome in thy aspect ! 
All eyes mnst shun thee, and all hearts detest thee. 
Prithee, avoid, no longer cling thus round me. 
Like something baneful, that my nature's ^hilled at. 

Jaff. I have not wronged thee ; by these tears, 
I have not. 

Pierre. Hast thou not wronged me ? Dar'st thou 
call thyself Jaffier, 
That once loved, valued friend of mine. 
And swear thou ha.st not w rouged mo ? Whence 

these chains ? 
Whence the vile death which I m.ay meet this' 

moment ? 
Whence this dishonor but from thee, thou false one? 

Jaff. All's true ; yet grant one thing, aud Pve 
done asking. 

Pierre. What's that? 

Jaff. To take thy life on snch conditions 
The council have proposed : thou and thy friends 
May yet live long, aud to be better treated. 

Pierre. Life! ask my life ! confess! record myself 
A villain for the privilege to breathe, 
Aud carry up and down this cursed city 
A discontented aud repining spirit. 
Burdensome to itself, a few years longer; 
To lose it, maybe, at last, in a lewd quarrel 
For some new friend, treachero\is and false as thnti 

art! 
No, this vile world aud I have long been jangling, 
Aud cannot part on better terms than now. 
When oulj- men like thee arc fit to live iu't. 

Jaff. By all that's just— 

Pierre. Swear by some other power, 
For thou bast broke that sacred oath already. 

Jaff. Then by that hell I merit, PU not leave thee 
Till to thyself at least thon'rt reconciled, 
However thy resentments deal with me. 

Pierre. Not leave me ! 

Jaff. No ; thou shalt not force me from thee. 
ITse me reproachfully aud like a slave ; 
Tread on me, bnffet me, heap wrongs on wrongs 
On my poor head : PU bear it .all with patience ; 
Shall weary out thy most unfriendly cruelty ; 
Lie .at thy feet, and kiss them, thongh they spurn 

me ; 
Till, wounded by my sufferings, thou relent. 
And raise me to thy arms with dear forgiveness. 

Pierre. Art thou not — 

Jiiff. What ? 



122 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Pierre. A traitor < 

Jaff. Yes. 

Pierre. A villaiu ? 

Jaff. Grauteil. 

Pierre. A coward, a most scandalous coward ; 
Spiritless, void of honor ; one who has sold 
Thy evei'lastiiig fame for shameless life ? 

Jaff. AJl, all, and more, much more ; my faults 
are numberless. 

Pierre. And wonldst thou have me live ou terms 
like thiue f 
Base as thou'rt false — 

Jaff. No. 'Tis to me that's grauted ; 
The safety of thy life was all I aimed at, 
In recompense for faith and trust so broken. 

Pierre. I scorn it more because preserved by thee ; 
And, as when first my foolish heart took pity 
Ou thy misfortune, sought thee iu thy miseries, 
Relieved thy wauts, and raised thee from the state 
Of wretchedness iu which thy fate had plnuged 

thee. 
To rank thee in my li.st of noble friends, 
All I received, iu surety for thy truth, 
Were unregarded oaths, and this, this dagger, 
Given with a worthless pledge thou siuce hast 

stolen ; 
So I restore it back to thee again, 
Swearing by all those powers which thou hast vio- 
lated 
Never, from this cursed hour, to hold communion, 
Friendship, or interest with thee, though our years 
Were to exceed those limited the world. 
Take it — farewell — for now I owe thee nothing. 

Jciff. Say thou wilt live, then. 

Pierre. For my life, dispose it 
Just as thou wilt ; because 'tis what I'm tired with. 

Jaff. O Pierre! 

Pierre. No more. 

Jaff. My eyes won't lose the sight of thee, 
But languish after thiue, and ache with gazing. 

Pierre. Leave me : — nay, then, thus I throw thee 
from me ; 
And curses great as is thv falsehood catch thee ! 



became rector of Bemerton, near Salisbury. Ilallam pro- 
nounces him " a writer of fine genius, and of a noble ele- 
vation of moral sentiments." 



3o\)n Norris. 



Alrarncd metaphysician and divine, Nori'is (10.57-1711) 
was a Platonist, and sympathized with tlie views of Hen- 
ry More. He published a " Philosophical Discourse con- 
cerning the Natural Immortality of the Soul;" an "Es- 
say toward the Theory of the Ideal or Unintelligible 
World;" "Miscellanies, consisting of Poems, Essays, 
Discourses, and Letters;" and other productions. He 



THE ASPIRATION. 

:, great God, low long 
Immured iu this dark prison lie, 
Where at the gates and avenues of sense 
My soul must watch to have intelligence ; 
Where but faint gleams of thee salute my sight, 
Like doubtful moonshine in a cloudy night ? 
Wheu shall I leave this magic sphere. 
And be all miud, all eye, all ear ? 

How cold this clime ! and yet my sense 
Perceives even here thy influence. 
Even here thy strong magnetic charms I feel. 
And pant and tremble like the amorous steel, — 
To lower good and beauties less divine 
Sometimes my erroneous needle does decline ; 
But yet (so strong the sympathy) 
It turns, and points again to thee. 

I long to see this excellence, 

Which at such distance strikes my sense. 
My impatient soul struggles to disengage 
Her wings from the coutineraent of her cage. 
Wouldst thou, great Love, this prisoner once set free. 
How would she hasten to be linked with thee ! 

She'd for no angel's conduct stay, 

But tiy, and love on all the way. 



SUPERSTITION. 

1 care not though it be 

By the preciser sort thought popery ; 

We poets can a licen.so show 

For everything we do: 
Hear, then, my little saint, I'll pray to thee. 

If now thy happy miud 

Amid its various joys can leisure fiud 

To attend to anything so low 

As what I say or do. 
Regard, and be what thou wast ever — kind. 

Let not the blessed above 

Engross theo quite, hut sometimes hither rove. 

Fain would I thy sweet image see, 

And sit and talk with thee ; 
Nor is it curiosity, but love. 



MATTHEW Pinun. 



123 



Ah! what tleliglit 'tvroiilil be 

Wouldst thou sometimes by stealth converse ■with 
me ! 

How should I thine sweet commune prize, 

And other joys despise ! 
Come, then ; I ne'er was yet denied by thee. 

I would not long detain 

Tliy sonl from bliss, nor keep theo here in pain ; 

Nor should thy fellow-saints e'er know 

Of thy escape below : 
Before thou'rt missed thou shouldst return again. 

Sure, heaven must needs thy love 
As well as other qualities Improve ; 

Come, then, and recreate my sight 

With rays o$ thy pure light : 
'Twill cheer my eyes more than the lamps above. 

I But if fate's so severe 

I As to confine thee to thy blissful sphere 

(And by thy absence I shall know 

Whether thy state be so), 
I Live happy, but be mindful of me there. 



fllattljctti J^Jvior. 



Of obscure parentage, Prior (1664-1731) owed his ad- 
vaucemeut in life to tlie friendslnp of the Earl of Dorset, 
through which he rose to be ambassador to tlic Court of 
Versailles. His best-known poems arc his light lyrical 
pieces of theartilicial school. Thackeray says, with some 
exaggeration, tliat they "arc among the easiest, the 
richest, the most cliarmingly humorous in the English 
language;" but Prior's poetical fame, considerable in 
his day, has waned, and not undeservedly. His longest 
work is the serious poem of "Solomon," highly com- 
mended by Wesley and Hannah More, but now having 
few readers. His "Henry and Emma," called by C'ow- 
per "an enchanting piece," is a paraphrase of "The 
Nut-brown Maide," and a formidable specimen of " verse 
bewigged" to suit the false taste of the day. Compared 
with the original it is like tinsel to rich gold In the ore. 
Like many men of letters of his da}'. Prior never vent- 
ured on matrimony. 



A SIMILE. 

Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop 
Thy head into a tinman's shop ? 
There, Thomas, didst thou never see 
('Tis but by way of simile) 
A squirrel spend bis little rage. 
In jumping round a rolling cage ; 



The cage, as either side turned up. 
Striking a ring of bells at top? — 

Moved in the orb, jdeased with tlie chimes, 
The foolish creature thinks lie climbs: 
But, here or there, turn wood or wire, 
He never gets two inches higher. 

So fares it with those meri-y blades, 
That frisk it under Pindus' shades, , 
In noble song and lofty odes, ''^ 

They tread on stars, and talk with gods; 
Still dancing in au airy round, 
Still pleased with their own verses' sound ; 
Brought back, how fast soe'er they go, 
Always aspiring, always low. 



TO A CHILD OF QUALITY FIVE YEARS OLD 
(1704), THE AUTHOR THEX FORTY. 

Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band 
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters. 

Were summoned by her high command 
To show their passions by their letters. 

My pen among the rest I took. 

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read 

Should dart their kindling fires, and look 
The power they have to be obeyed. 

Nor quality, nor reputation. 

Forbid me yet my flame to tell ; 
Dear five-years-old befriends my passion, 

And I may write till she can spell. 

For while she makes her silk-worms' beds 
With all the tender things I swear, — 

Whilst all the house my passion reads 
In papers round her baby's hair, — 

She may receive and own my flame; 

For, though the strictest prndes should know it. 
She'll pass for a most virtuous dame. 

And I for an unhappy poet. 

Then, too, alas! when sho shall tear 
The lines some younger rival sends. 

She'll give me leave to write, I fear. 
And we shall still continue friends. 

For, as our different ages move, 

'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!) 
That I shall be past making love 

When she begins to comprehend it. 



124 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AilEIilCAN POETRY. 



lionatljan Swift. 



Swift's is one of the great names in English litera- 
ture (1BG7-1745). A Dublin man by birth, his parents 
and his ancestors were English. He was educated at 
Kilkenny School and Trinity College, but did not dis- 
tiuguisli himself as a student. For some years he lived 
with Sir William Temple, with whom his mother was 
slightly connected. Here he ate the bitter bread of de- 
|iendence, and became restive and soured. Having grad- 
uated as M.A. at Oxford, he entered into holy orders, 
and became prebend of Kilroot, in Ireland, at flOO a 
year. Eetuniing to the house of Sir William Temple, 
he became involved in the mysterious love-afl'air witli 
Hester Johnson, daughter of Sir William's house-l<eeper 
(and believed to be his child), better known by Swift's 
pet name of Stdla. Having become Vicar of Laracor, 
Swift settled there, but with the feelings of an exile. 
Miss Johnson resided in tlie neighborhood, and in the 
parsonage during his absence. He is said to have ful- 
lillcd his clerical office in an exemplarj* manner. 

From 1700 till about 1710 Swift acted witli the Whig 
party. Dissatisfied witli some of their measures, he then 
became an active Tory, and exercised prodigious influ- 
ence as a political pamphleteer. From his new patrons 
he received the deanery of St. Patrick's, in Dublin. The 
coarseness of his " Tale of a Tub " had cut him off from 
a bishopric. "Swift now, much against his will," says 
Johnson, "commenced Irishman for life." He soon be- 
came an immense favorite with the Irish people. Few 
men have ever exercised over them so formidable a per- 
sonal inflncnee. In 1736 he visited England for the pub- 
lication of his "Travels of Gulliver." Here he had en- 
joyed the society of Pope (who was twenty years liis 
junior). Gay, Addison, Arbutlinot, and Bolingbroke. He 
returned to Ireland to lay tlie mortal remains of Stella 
in tlie grave : she is believed to have been his real though 
unacknowledged wife. Excuse for his conduct is found 
in his anticipations of the insanity which clouded his 
last days. After two years passed in letliargic and hope- 
less idiocy, he died in 174.5. His death was mourned by 
an enthusiastic people as a national loss. His fortune 
was bequeathed to found a lunatic asylum in Dublin. 

Swift's fame rests on his clear and powerful prose. 
He is a satirical versifier, but not in the proper accqita- 
tion of tlie term a poet. Dryden, whose aunt was tlie 
sister of Swift's grandfather, said to him, " Cousin Swift, 
you will never be a poet." And the prophecy proved 
true, though Swift resented it by a rancorous criticism 
on his illustrious relative. Swift's verses, however, 
made their mark in his day, and they are still interesting 
for the intellectual vigor, pungencj', and wit by which 
they arc distinguished. 



FROM "THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT."' 

As Rocliefoncanlt lii.s maxims drew 
From nature, I believe tbcra tine : 

I This Fingnlar poem was prompted by the following maxim 
of Rdchefoiicnult: "Dans Tadvcrsitfi de iios meilleurs ami.-, 
nous troiivons loiijours qiielqne chose que ue nous di'plait pas." 



They argue no corriipteil mind 
In liim : the fault is in maukiud. 

This maxim more than all the rest 
Is thougbt too base for human breast : 
"In all distresses of our friends, 
We fir-st consult onr private ends ; 
While nature, kindly bent to ease us, 
Points out some circiimstauce to jilease ns." 

If this perhaps your paticuce move. 
Let reason and experience prove. 

We all behold with envious eyes 
Our equals raised above our size : 
W'lio would not at .a crowded show 
Staud high himself, keep others low ? 
I love my friend as well as you : 
But why should ho obstruct my view f 
Then let me have the liigher post ; 
Sujipose it but au inch at most. 
If ill a battle you should iind 
One, whom you love of all maukind, 
Had some heroic action done, 
A chanipioii killed, or trophy won ; 
Rather than thus be overtopt, 
Would you not wish his laurels cropt ? 
Dear honest Ned is iu the gout, 
Lies racked with paiu, and you without : 
How patiently you hear him groan ! 
How glad the case is not your own ! 

What poet would uot grieve to see 
His brother write as well as he ? 
But, rather than they should excel, 
Would wish bis rivals all in hell? 
Her cud, wheu emulation misses, 
She turns to envy, stings, and hisses: 
The strongest friendship yields to pride, 
Unless the odds be on our side. 
Vain human-kiud! fantastic race! 
Thy various follies who can trace ? 
Self-love, ambition, euvy, iiride, 
Their empire in our heart divide. 
Give others riches, power, and station, 
'Tis all to me an usurpation ! 
I have uo title to aspire. 
Yet, wheu you sink, I seem the higher. 
Iu Pope I cannot read a line. 
But with a sigh I wish it mine : — 
When ho can in one couplet fix 
More souse than I can do in six, 
It gives mo such a jealous fit, 
I cry, "Pox take him and his wit!" 
I grieve to bo outdone by Gay 
In iny own humorous, biting way. 
Arbutlinot is no more my friend, 
Who dares to irony pretend. 



JONATHAN SWIFT. 



125 



AVliicb I was bom to introduce, 

Eefiueil at first, and showed its use. 

St. Jobn, as well as Piilteney, kuows 

That I had some repute for prose ; 

And, till they drove me out of date, 

Could Diaul a minister of state. 

If they have mortified my pride, 

Aud made me throw my pen aside, — 

If with snch talents Heaveu hath blessed 'em, 

Have I not reason to detest 'em ? 

To all my foes, dear Fortuue, send 
Thy gifts ; but uever to my friend : 
I tamely can endure the first ; 
But this with envy makes me burst. 

Thus much may serve by way of proem ; 
Proceed we tlierefore with our poem. 

The time is not remote when I 
Must by tlie course of nature die ; 
When, I foresee, my special friends 
Will try to find their private ends : 
And, though 'tis hardly understood 
Which way my death can do them good, 
Yet thus, methiuks, I hear them speak : 
" See how the Dean begins to break I 
Poor gentleman, he droops apace! 
You plainly find it in his face. 
That old vertigo in his head 
Will never leave him till he's dead. 
Besides, his memory decays : 
Ho recollects not what he says ; 
He cannot call his friends to mind : 
Forgets the place where last he dined ; 
Plies you with stories o'er and o'er; 
He told them fifty times before. 
How does he fancy we can sit 
To hear his out-of-fashion wit ? 
But he takes up with younger folks, 
Who for his wine will bear his jokes. 
Faith ! he must make his stories shorter, 
Or change his comrades ouce a quarter ; 
In half the time he talks them round, 
There must another set be found. 

" For jioetry he's past his prime ; 
He takes an hour to find a rhyme : 
His fire is out, his wit decayed. 
His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. 
I'd have him throw away his iien ; 
But there's no talking to some men !" 

And then their tenderness appears 
By adding largely to my years: 
"He's older than he would be reckoned, 
Aud well remembers Charles the Second. 
He hardly drinks a pint of wine : 
And that, I doubt, is no good sign. 



His stomach, too, begins to fail ; 

Last year we thought him strong and hale ; 

But now bo's quite another thing : 

I wish he may hold out till spring !" 

They hng themselves, aud reason thus : 
"It is not yet so bad with us!" 

In such a case they talk in tropes, 
And by their fears express their hopee. 
Some great misfortune to portend. 
No enemy can match a friend. 
With all the kindness they profess, 
The merit of a lucky guess 
(When daily how-d'ye's come of course; 
And servants auswer, " Worse and worse !") 
Would please them better than to tell 
That, " God be praised, the Dean is well." 
Then he who prophesied the best, 
Approves his foresight to the rest : 
"You know I alw.ays feared the worst, 
And often told you so at first." 
He'd rather choose that I should die 
Thau his iiredictions prove a lie. 
Not one foretells I shall recover ; 
But all agree to give me ovei'. 

Yet should some neighbor feel a pain 
Just in the parts where I complain, — 
How many a message would he send! 
What hearty prayers that I should mend ! 
Inquire what regimen I kept ; 
What gave me ease, and how I .slept 1 
And more lament, when I was dead, 
Than all the snivellers round my bed. 

My good compauious, uever fear ; 
For, though you may mistake a year. 
Though your prognostics run too fast, 
Thev must be verified at last ! 



STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1720. 

All travellers at first incline 

Where'er they see the fairest sign ; 

Will call again, and recommend 

The Angel Inn to every friend. 

What though the painting grows decayed, 

Tbe house will uever lose its trade ; 

Nay, though the treacherous tapster Thomas 

Hangs a new Augel two doors from us, • 

As fine as daubers' hands can make it. 

In hopes that strangers may mistake it. 

We think it both a shame and sin 

To quit the true old Angel Inn. 



126 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Now tbis is Stella's case iu fact, 
Au augel's face a little cracked 
(Could poets or conld paiuters fix 
How angels look at tbirty-six) : 
Tliis drew us iu at first to find 
Iu such a form au angel's mind ; 
And every virtue now supplies 
The fainting rays of Stella's eyes. 
See at ber levee crowding swaius, 
,-Wlioip Stella freely entertains 
^ With breeding, bninor, wit, and sense. 
And jints tbcra to but small espeuse ; 
Tbeir mind so plentifully fills, 
Aud makes sucb reasonable bills. 
So little gets for what sbe gives, 
AVe really wonder bow she lives ; 
And, bad ber stock been less, uo doubt 
Sbe must have long ago run out. 

Then who Can think we'll quit the pliice. 
When Doll bangs out a newer face ? 
Or stop aud light at Cbloe's head, 
With scraps aud leavings to be fed ? 

Tlieu, Chloe, still go on to prate 
Of thirty-six aud thirty-eight ; 
Pursue your trade of soaudal-pickiug, 
Your hints that Stella is uo chicken ; 
Your inuueiuloes, when you tell us 
Tliat Stella loves to talk with fellows ; 
Aud let me warn yon to believe 
A truth, for which yonr soul should grieve ; 
That, should you live to see the day 
When Stella's locks must all be gray. 
When age must print a furrowed trace 
Oil every feature of her face ; 
Though you, and all your senseless tribe. 
Could art, or time, or nature bribe, 
To make you look like Beauty's Queen, 
And hold forever at fifteen ; 
No bloom of youth cau ever blind 
The cracks aud wrinkles of yonr mind : 
All men of sense will pass your door, 
Aud crowd to Stella's at fourscore. 



torals" as the finest iu the language. Piiilips won si>nie 
little success as a dramatic writer; but as he advanceil 
in life be seems to have forsaken the Muses : he becaun' 
a Member of Parliament, and died at the ripe age of scv 
enty-eight; surpassing, in longevity at least, most con- 
temporary poets. 



;?linbrosc yi)ilip£ 



The word namhij-pninb'j was introduced nito the lan- 
guage through its having been first applied to Ambrose 
Philips (1C71-1749) by Harry Carey, author of "Sally in 
our Alley," etc. Pope snatched at the nickname as 
suited to Philips's "eminence in the inlantile style;" so 
little did he appreciate the simplicity and grace of such 
lines as those " To Miss Georsiana Carteret." But Pope 
had been annoyed by Tickell's praise of Philips's "Pas- 



A FEAGMENT OF SAPPHO. 

Blest as the immortal gods is he. 
The youth who fondly sits by thee. 
And bears aud sees tliee all the while 
Softly speak, aud sweetly smile. 

'Twas this deprived my soul of rest, 
Aud raised snch tumults in my breast ; 
For while I gazed, iu transport tossed, 
My breath was goue, my voice was lost. 

My bosom glowed ; the subtle flame 
Ran quick through all my vital IVnnie; 
O'er my dim eyes a darkness bung, 
My ears with hollow murmurs rung. 

In dewy damps my limbs were chilled. 
My blood with gentle horrors thrilled : 
My feeble pulse forgot to play, 
I faiuted, sunk, aud died away. 



TO MISS GEOKGIANA CAKTERET. 

Little cb.arm of placid mien. 
Miniature of Beauty's Queen, 
Numbering years, a scanty nine. 
Stealing hearts without design. 
Young inveigler, fond iu wiles, 
Proue to mirth, profuse iu smiles. 
Yet a uovice In disd.ain, 
Pleasnre giving without pain. 
Still caressing, still cares.sed. 
Thou and all thy lovers blessed, 
Never teased, aud never teasing. 
Oh forever i>leased and pleasing ! 
Hither, British Mu.se of mine, 
Hither, all the Grecian Nine, 
With the lovely Graces Three, 
And your promised nursling sec ! 
Figure on her Tvaxen mind 
Images of life refined ; 
Make it as a garden gay, 
Every bud of thought display. 
Till, improving year liy year. 
The whole culture .shall appear, 



COLLET CIBBEU.—J- 



fill SOX. 



127 



Voice, and speech, ami action, rising, 
All to human sense surprising. 

Is the silkeu web so thin 
As the texture of her skin ? 
Can the lily and the rose 
Such unsullied hue disclose ? 
Are the violets so blue 
As her veins exposed to view ? 
Do the stars in wintry sky 
Twinkle brighter than her eye? 
Has the morniug lark a throat 
Sounding sweeter than her uote ? 
Whoe'er knew the like before thee ? — 
The}' who knew the nymph that bore thee! 



Collcii (Eibbcr. 



Though remembered as a poet by only one simple lit- 
tle piece, Gibber (1671-1757) was made poet-laureate in 
1730. He had considerable success both as an actor and 
a writer of plays, and was severely satirized by Pope in 
"The Dunciad." Cibbei-'s "Apology for bis Life" is 
one of the most entertaining autobiographies in the lan- 
guage. 



THE BLIND BOY. 

Oh, say, what is that thing called light. 

Which I must ne'er enjoy ? 
What are the blessings of the sight? 

Oh, tell j'our poor blind boy ! 

You talk of Tvondrous things you see ; 

Yoti say the sun shines bright ; 
I feel him warm, but how can he, 

Or make it day or uight ? 

My day or uight myself I make, 

Whene'er I sleep or Jilay ; 
Aud could I ever keep awake 

With mo 'twere always day. 

With heavy sighs I often hear 
You nmurn my hapless woe ; 

But sure with patience I can bear 
A loss I ne'er can know. 

Then let not what I cannot have 

My cheer of mind destroy : 
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, 

Although a poor blind boy. 



iJosEpI) !:^i)bisou. 



Addison (1673-1719), one of the most beloved charac- 
ters in English literature, was the son of a clergyman, 
and was born in Wiltsliire. His success at the Universi- 
ty of Oxford, the friendships be bad formed, his genial 
disposition and general culture, brought bim early int-o 
the sphere of fortunate patronage. In reward for some 
complimentary verses ou King William, lie got, at the age 
of twenty-tln'ce, a pension of JESOO a year. This enabled 
Iiim to travel. His epistle. from Italy to Lord Halifax 
belongs to the artificial school. The publication of the 
Tidier, and its successors, the Spectator and the Guardi- 
an, brought out Addison as one of the most graceful of 
English prose writers. He and Steele contributed the 
greater portion of the papers. In 1713, Addison pro- 
duced his tragedy of "Cato," and added largely thereby 
to his literary reputation. In 1716, be married the Count- 
ess Dowager of Warwick. It was not a happy union - 
In 1717, be was made Secretary of State; but he broke 
down as a public speaker, and the next year retired on 
a pension of £1500 a year. He did not live long to enjoy 
it. The room in which he died at Holland House has a 
large bay-window ovcilooUing the Park in the direction 
of Netting Hill. He died at the age of forty-eight, leav- 
ing an only cliild, a daughter, by the countess. Born 
in 171S, this daughter died in 1797. 

The biograpl:er of Andrew JIarvell has made it appear 
probable that the well-kuown lines, "The Spacious Fir- 
mament on High," also " The Lord my pasture shall 
prepare," were by Marvell. In the notice of that poet 
will be found tlio rcisous for crediting them to Addison. 
The internal evidences are decidedly in favor of his au- 
thorship. They were both inserted in the 6)-)cda<o)', with- 
out the name of the author, and have accordingly always 
passed as Addison's. 



HYMN. 

When all thy mercies, O ray God, 

My rising soul surveys. 
Transported with the view I'm lost 

In wonder, love, and praise. 

Oh, how shall words with equal warmth 

The gratitude declare. 
That glows within my ravished heart ! 

But thou canst read it there. 

Thy providence my life sustained. 
And all my wants redressed, 

W^ben in the silent womb I lay, 
And hung upon the breast. 

To all my weak complaints and erics, 

Thy mercy lent an ear. 
Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt 

To form themselves in prayer. 



128 



CTCLOP^DJ.I OF mUTlSH AND AMERICAN I'OETRT. 



Uniuimbered comforts to my soul 

Thy teuder care bestowed ; 
Before my infant heart conceived 

From •nhcuce these comforts flowed. 

When in the slippery paths of youth, 

With lieedless steps I ran, 
Thine tirni, uuseeu, conveyed me safe, 

And led me up to man. 

Through hidden dangers, toils, and death, 

It gently cleared my way. 
And through the pleasing snares of vice, 

More to he feared than they. 

AVheu worn with sickness, oft hast thou 
With liealth renewed my face ; 

And when in sins and sorrows sunk. 
Revived my soul with grace. 

Thy bounteous hand with -worldly bliss 
Hath made my cup run o'er ; 

And in a kind and fiiithful friend 
Hath doubled all my store. 

Ten thousand thousand precious gifts 

My daily thanks employ ; 
Nor is the least a cheerful heart, 

That tastes those gifts with joy. 

Through every period of my life 

Thy goodness I'll pursue ; 
And after death, in distant worlds, 

Tlie glorious theme renew. 

When nature fails, and day and night 

Divide thy works no moie, 
My ever-gratefnl heart, O Lord, 

Thy mercy shall adore. 

Through all eternity, to thee 

A joyful song I'll raise ; 
For, oh, eternity's too short 

To utter all thy praise ! 



ODE FROM THE NINETEENTH PSALM. 

The spacious firmament on high, 
With all the blue ethereal sky, 
And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
Their great Original proclaim. 



The unwearied sun from day to day 
Does his Creator's power display. 
And publishes to every laud 
The work of an almighty hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
Tbe moon takes up the wondrous tale, 
And, nightly, to the listening earth 
Repeats the story of her birth ; 
Whilst all the stars that round her burn. 
And all the planets in their turn 
Confirni the tidings as they roll. 
And sjiread tbe trutli from pole to pole. 

What though, in .solemn silence, all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ball f 
What though no real voice nor sound 
Amid their radiant orbs be found ? 
lu reason's car they all rejoice, 
And utter forth a glorious voice, 
Forever singing, as they shiue, 
" The hand that made us is divine." 



PARAPHRASE ON PSALM XXIII. 

The Lord my jiasture shall prepare, 
And feed me with a shepherd's care ; 
His presence shall my wants supply, 
And guard me with a watchful eye; 
My noonday walks he shall attend, 
And all my midnight hours defend. 

When in the sultry glebe I faint, 
Or on the thirsty mountains pant, 
To fertile vales and dewy meads. 
My weary wandering steps he leads, 
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow. 
Amid tho verdant landscape flow. 

Tliongh in the iiaths of death I tread 
With gloomy horrors overspread. 
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill, 
For thou, O God, art with mo still : 
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, 
And guide me through the dreadful shade. 

Though in a bare and rugged way, 
Through devious lonely wilds I stray, 
Tliy bounty shall my pains beguile ; 
The barren wilderness shall smile. 
With sudden greens and herbage crowned. 
And streams shall murmur all around. 



JOSEPH ADDISOX.— ISAAC WATTS, D.D. 



12'.» 



CATO'S SOLlLOQm.' ON THE IMMORTALITY 
OF THE SOUL. 

It. must be so — Plato, thou reason'st well ; 
Else whoiice this pleasing hope, this foud desire, 
Tliis lon^nns ;it'ti-r inimortality ? 
Or ■whenc' tliis secret dread aud Inward horror 
or falling into naught ? "Why shrinks the soul 
Back on herself and startles at destruction ? 
— 'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us, 
'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter, 
Aud intimates Eternity to man. 
Eternity ! — thou pleasing — dreadful thought ! 
Through what variety of untried being — 
Through what new scenes and changes must we 

jiass ! 
The wide, til' unbounded jirospect lies before me; 
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. 
Here will I hold: — If there's a Power above us 
(And that there is all nature cries aloud 
Through all her works), he must delight in Virtue ; 
And that which he delights in must be happy : 
But — when ? — or where ? — This worlil was made for 

Ciesar. 
I'm weary of conjectures : — Tliis must end them. 

ILaying his hand on his sword. 
Thus I am doubly armed ; my death aud life, 
Jly bane and autidote are both before me. 
This in a moment brings me to an end, 
But this informs me I shall never die. 
The soul, secured iu her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger and defies its point. 
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years ; 
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
I'nhurt amid the wars of elements, 
The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds. 



ODE. 



How are thy servants blest, O Lord ! 

How sure is their defence ! 
Eternal wisdom is their guide. 

Their helj) Omnipotence. 

In foreign realms, and lands remote, 

Supported by thy care, 
Through burning climes I passed unhurt, 

And breathed in tainted air. 

Thy mercy sweetened every toil, 
Made e^ery region please ; 
9 



The hoary Alpine hills it warmed. 
And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas. 

Think, oh ray soul, devoutly tliink, 

How, with aftrighted eyes. 
Thou saw'st the wide extended deep 

In all its horrors rise. 

Confusion dwelt in every face. 

And fear in every heart ; 
When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs 

O'ercame the pilot's art. 

Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord, 

Thy mercy set 7ne free, 
Whilst in the confidence of ])rayer, 

My faith took hold on thee. 

For, though in dreadful whirls we hung 

High on the broken wave, 
I knew thou wert not slow to hear, 

Nor impotent to save. 

The storm was laid, the winds retired 

Obedient to thy will ; 
The sea, that roared at thy command. 

At thy command was still. 

In midst of dangers, fears, and death. 

Thy goodness I'll adore. 
And praise thee for thy mercies past. 

And humbly hope for more. 

My life, if thou preserv'st my life, 

Thy sacrifice shall be ; 
And death, if death must be my doom, 

Shall join my soul to thee. 



Isaac lUatts, WM. 

This eminent writer (1G74-174.S) was born at South- 
ampton. His parents were Protestant dissenters, who 
liad suffered severely for their faith during the arbitrary 
times of Cliarles II. Watts read Latin at five years of 
age. Ho was well instructed, and became an Indepen- 
dent minister; but weak health prevented his devoting 
himself actively to his profession. The last thirty-six 
years of his long life were spent in the house of his 
friend, Sir Tliomas Abney. Watts wrote " Divine Songs, 
Attempted in Easy Lungunge for the Use of Children ;" 
but in Ins later years he is said to have abiindoned the 
cstremc Calvinistic views expressed in those once-popu- 
lar productions, and to have leaned almost to Universal- 
ism. His "Logic," aud his work ou " The Improvement 



130 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



of tliu Mind," show that he could write English prose 
witii clearness and Ibr-ce. He was the autliur of some 
ciglit hnndred hymns, most of them of little account in 
a literary respect, tliough in some he manifests genuine 
j)oetic feeling. Many of them still retain their liigli 
place among devotional etfnsions. The character of 
\Vatts was amiable and beautiful to the last. His poem 
of "True Riches" is alone sufficient to justify his claim 
to be ranked among true poets. 



TRUK RICHES. 

I am not couceruetl to know 
What to-morrow fate \Yill do ; 
'Tis euongli that I can say 
I've pos.sessed myself to-day : 
Tlien, if, liaply, midnight death 
Seize my tiesli, and stop my breath, 
Yet to-morrow I shall Ijo 
Heir of the best part of me. 

Glittering stones and golden tilings, 
Wealth and honors, that liave wings, 
Ever fluttering to be gone, 
I could never call my own. 
Riches that the world bestows, 
She cau take and I can lose ; 
Bnt the treasures that are mine 
Lie afar beyond her line. 
When I view my siiacious soul, 
And survey myself a whole, 
And enjoy myself alone, 
I'm a kingdom of my own. 

I've a mighty part within 
That the world hath never seen, 
Rich as Eden's happy ground. 
And with choicer plenty crowned. 
Here on all tlie shining boughs 
Knowledge fair and useless' grows ; 
On the same yonng flowery tree 
All the seasons yon may see : 
Notions in the bloom of light 
Just disclosing to the sight ; 
Here are thoughts of larger growth 
Ripening into solid truth ; 
Fruits refined of noble taste, — 
Seraphs feed on such rejiast. 
Here, in green and shady grove. 
Streams of pleasure mix with love ; 
There, beneath the smiling skies. 
Hills of contemplation rise ; 
Now upon some shining top 
Angels light, and call me up : 

Apparently implying not to be used in this world. 



I rejoice to raise my feet 

Both rejoice when there v.. i.... .. 

There are endless beauties more 
Earth hath no resemblance for; 
Nothing like them round tlie i»>\e ; 
Nothing can describe the soul : 
'Tis a region half unkirown, 
That has treasures of its own, 
More remote from public view 
Than the bowels of Peru ; 
Broader 'tis and brighter far 
Than the golden Indies are : 
Ships that trace the watery stage 
Cannot coast it in an age ; 
Harts or horses, strong and fleet, 
Had tliey wings to help their feet. 
Could not run it half-way o'er 
In ten thousand days and more. 

Yet the silly wauderiug mind, 
Loath to be too much cmitiued. 
Roves and takes her daily tours, 
Coasting round the narrow shores — 
Narrow shores of fle.sh and sense. 
Picking shells and pebbles thence: 
Or she sits at Fancy's door. 
Calling shapes and shadows to her; 
Foreign visits still receiving. 
And to herself a stranger living. 
Never, never would she buy 
Indian dust or Tyrian dye. 
Never trade abroad for more, 
If she saw her native shore; 
If her inward worth were known, 
She might ever live alone. 



EARTH AND HEAVEN. 

Hast thou not seen, impatient boy? 

Hast thon not read the solemn truth, 
That gray experience writes for giddy youth 
On every mortal joy, — 
Pleasure must be dashed with pain ? 
And yet with heedless hasto 
The thirsty boy repeats the taste. 
Nor hearkens to despair, but tries the bowl again. 
The rills of pleasni-e never run siacere ; 
Earth has no unpolluted spring : 
From the cursed soil some dangerous taint they bear; 
So roses grow on thorns, and honey wears a sting. 

In vain we seek a heaven below the sky ; 
The world has false but flattering charms ; 



ISAAC TTATTS, D.D.—JOHN PHILIPS. 



131 



Its <listaiit joys show big iu our esteem, 
Biit lesson still as tbey draw near the eye : 

In our embrace the visions die ; 

And wbcn we grasp the airy forms, 
Wo loso tlio pleasing dream. 

Earth, witli her scenes of gay delight, 

Is but a landscape rudely drawn, 

With glaring colors and false light : 

Distance commends it to the sight, 
For fools to gaze upon ; 

But bring the nauseous daubing nigh, 
Coarse and confused the hideous tigures lie, 
Dissolve the i)leasurc, and otTend the eye. 

Look up, my soul, pant tow'rds tlie eternal 
hills; 
Those heavens are fairer than they seem : 
There pleasures all sincere glide on in crystal 
rills ; 
There not a dreg of guilt defiles. 
Nor grief disturbs the stream : 
That Canaan knows no noxious thing, 
No cursed soil, no tainted spring, 
Nor roses grow ou thorns, uor honey bears a stiug. 



FROM ALL THAT DWICLL. 

From all that dwell beneath the skies 
Let the Creator's praise arise ; 
Let the Redeemer's name be snug 
Through every land, by every tongue! 

Eternal are thy mercies, Lord ; 

Eternal truth attends thy word ; 

Thy praise shall sound from sliore to shore, 

Till suns shall rise and set no more. 



JOY TO THE WORLD. 

Joy to the world ! the Lord is come ! 

Let earth receive her King ! 
Let e^ery heart prepare him room, 

And Heaven and Nature sing. 

Joy to the earth! the Saviour reigns! 

Let men their songs employ ! 
While tields and woods, rocks, hills, and plains, 

Repeat the sounding joy. 



No more let sins and sorrows grow. 
Nor thorns infest the ground : 

He comes to make his blessings flow 
Far as the curse is fouiul. 

Ho rules tho world with truth and grace, 
And makes the nations prove 

The glories of his righteousness ., 
And wonders of his love. 



loljit j[3ljiliflG. 



Son of an arclihishop, John Pliilips (167fi-170S) was 
born in Oxfordshire, and educated at Oxford. He had 
early studied, and attempted to imitate, the style of Mil- 
ton. Tliis led to the production, iu 170-3, of the bur- 
lesque poem by whicli ho is now remembered — "The 
Splendid Shilling." It would not have created much 
of a sensation had it been published a century later; but 
iu its day it had rare success, and is still read with pleas- 
ure. Philips also wrote a creditable poem on a most 
unpromising theme — "Cider." He led a blameless life, 
was much esteemed, aud died young. 



FROM "THE SPLENDID SHILLING." 

Happy the man who, void of cares and strife. 
In silken or in leathern purse retains 
A splendid shilling. He nor hears with pain 
New oysters cried, uor sighs for cbeerful ale ; 
But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, 
To Junipers Magpie, or Town-hall repairs. 
Where, mindful of the nymph whose wanton eye 
Transfixed his soul and kindled amorous flames, 
Chloe, or PhiUis, he, each circling glass, 
Wisheth her health, aud joy, and equal love : 
Meanwhile he smokes, and laughs at merry tale 
Or pun ambiguous or couundrura quaint. 
But I, whom grii)iug penury surrounds, 
And Lunger, sure attendant upon want. 
With scanty oflals aud small acid titf 
(Wretched repast!) my meagre corps snstaiu ; 
Thou solitary walk, or doze at homo 
In garret vile, and with a warming iiuff 
Regale chilled fingers, or from tube as black 
As winter-chinniey or well-polished jet 
Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent. 
Not blacker tube, uor of a shorter size, 
Smokes Cauibro-Britou (versed iu pedigree. 
Sprung from Cadwallador aud Arthur, kiugs 
Full famous in romautic tale) when he 



132 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BUITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



0"er many a cragsy hill and barren cliff, 

Upou a cargo of I'aiiu'd Ocstiiaii cheese 

High over-shadoxviiig rides, with a design 

To vend his wares or at tli' Arvonian mart. 

Or Mandimum,' or the aucient town 

Ycleped Brechiuia, or vrhere Vaga's stream 

Encircles Ariconinm, fruitful soil ! 

Whence flow uectareons wines that well may vie 

Witli Massic, Setin, or renowned Falern. 

Tluis, while my joyless minntes tedious tlow, 
With looks demure and silent pace, a dun, 
Horrible monster! hated by gods and men! 
To my aerial citadel ascends. 
With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, 
With hideous accent thrice ho calls; I know 
Tlie voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. 
What should I do? or whither turn? Amazed, 
Confounded, to the dark recess I fly 
Of wood-hole. Straight my bristling hairs erect 
Tlirougli sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews 
My sliuddering liml>s; and (wonderful to tell!) 
My tongue forgets her faculty of speech, 
So horrible he seems ! His faded brow 
Intrenched with many a frown, and conic beard, 
And spreading band admired by modern saints. 
Disastrous acts forebode ; in his right hand 
Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, 
With characters and figures dire inscribed, 
Grievous to mortal eyes : ye gods, avert 
Such plagues from righteous men! Behind Iiim 

stalks 
Another monster, not unlike himself. 
Sullen of aspect, by tin; vulgar called 
A Catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods 
With force incredible and magic charms 
First have endueil. If he his aniplo palm 
Should, haply, on ill-fated shoulder lay 
(If debtor, straight his body, to the touch 
Obsequious (as wliiloni knights were wont). 
To sonic enchanted castle is conveyed. 
Where gates impregnable and coercive chains 
In durance strict detain him, till in form 
Of money Pallas sets tlie captive free. 

Beware, yc debtors, when ye walk, Ix^ware ! 
Be circumspect! Oft with insidious ken 
Tliis caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft 
Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, 
Promiit to enchant some inadvertent wretch 
With his unhallowed touch. 



1 MarUhmmn, Oiiprmnnlion ; Z»Vcc/()7a'a, Brecknock ; Vaga, 
the Wye; Ariconinm, Hereford. 



(tljomas Parncll. 



Of English descent, Piu-nell (1C79-1718) was born in 
Dublin. He became archUeacon of Cloglier, and Swift 
got for liim tbe appointment of viear of Finglas. He 
was the friend of Pojie, and assisted him in the transla- 
tion of Homer. "The Hermit" is the poem for whieli 
Parnell still maintains a respectable rank amonn- Eng- 
lish poets ; but tliere are otiier poems of considerable 
merit from Ills pen. Pope collected and published them 
all in 1731, dedicating them ta Robert Harley, Earl of 
0.\ford, who had been Parnell's friend. In his dedica- 
tion. Pope says: 

" Such were the notes thy once-loved poet snng, 
Till dcjith niiliniely stopped his tuneful tongue. 
O jnst beheld and lost ! adtnired nnd mourned ! 
With softest inanners, gentlest arts adorned ! 
I'.lcst ill each science, blest in every strain I 
Dear to the Muse, to Ilarley dear — iu vain !" 

"The Hermit" is a modern version of a talc from the 
"Gcsta Romanorum," which was the name of a mediae- 
val collection of Latin tales, moralized for the use of 
preachers, each tale having a religions "application" 
tilted to it. 



THE HERMIT. 

Far in a wild utiktiowu to public view, 
From youth to age a reverond hermit grew ; 
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, 
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well : 
Remote from man, with God he passed the dtiys. 
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. 

A life so sacred, such serene repose. 
Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose: 
That Vice should tritimiili. Virtue Vice obey — 
Tbis sprung some doubt of Providence's sway. 
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, 
And all the tenor of his soul is lost : 
So when a smooth expanse receives, imprest. 
Calm Nature's imago on its watery breast, 
Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, 
And skies boneilth with answering colors glow; — 
But if a stone the gentle sea divide. 
Swift rtifiling circles curl ou every side. 
And glimmering fragnients of a broken sun. 
Banks, trees, and skies in thick disorder run ! 

To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight. 
To find if books or swains report it right 
(For yet by swains alone the world lie knew. 
Whoso feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew) 
Ho quits his cell; the pilgrim-staft" he bore, 
And lixed the scallop in his hat before; 
Then with the sun a rising jonruey went, 
Sedtito to think, and watching each event. 



THOMAS PABNELL. 



133 



Tlio iiioru was wasted iu the pathless grass, 
Aud long and lonesome was the wild to pass ; 
But when the sontheru sun liad warmed the day, 
A Youth came posting o'er a crossing way ; 
His raiment decent, his complexion fair, 
And soft iu graceful ringlets waved his hair. 
Then near ajiproaching, " Father, hall !" ho cried ; 
Aud " Hail, my son !" the reverend sire replied. 
Words followed words, from question answer flowed, 
And talk of various kind deceived the road ; 
Till each with other pleased, and loath to part, 
While in their age they diti'er, join iu heart: 
Thus stands an aged elm iu ivy bound, 
Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. 

Now sunk the sun ; the closing hour of day 
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray ; 
Nature in silence bid the world repose : 
When near the road a stately palace rose. 
There by the moon thro' rauks of trees they pass, 
Whose verdure crowned their sloping sides of grass. 
It chanced the noble master of the dome 
Still made liis house the wandering stranger's home. 
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, 
Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease. 
The pair arrive ; the liveried servants wait ; 
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate. 
The table groans with costly piles of food, 
And all is more than hospitably good ; 
Then, led to rest, the day's long toil they drown. 
Deep suuk in sleep, aud silk, and heaps of down. 

At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day 
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play ; 
Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep. 
And shake the neighboring wood to banish sleep. 
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call : 
An early banquet decked the splendid hall ; 
Rich, luscious wine a golden goblet graced. 
Which the kind master forced the guests to taste. 
Then, pleased aud thankful, from the jjprch they go, 
And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe : 
His cup was vauished, for iu secret guise 
The younger guest pniloiued the glittering prize. 

As one who spies a serpent iu his way. 
Glistening and basking iu the summer ray. 
Disordered, stops to shun the danger near, 
Theu walks with faiutuess on, and looks with fear; 
.So seemed the sire when, far upon the road. 
The shining spoil his wily partner showed. 
He stopped with sileuce, walked with trenibliug 

heart. 
And much he wished, but durst not ask, to part : 
Jlnrmuring, he lifts- his eyes, and thinks it hard 
That generous actions meet a base reward. 



While thus they pass the sun his glory shrouds, 
The changing skies hang out their sable clouds, 
A sound iu air presaged approaching rain. 
And beasts to covert scud across the plain. 
Warned by the signs, the wandering pair re- 
treat. 
To seek for shelter at a neighboring seat. 
'Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground, 
Aud strong, and large, aud unimproved around ; 
Its owner's temper, timorous aud severe, 
Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. 

As near the miser's heavy doors they drew, 
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; 
The nimble lightning, mixed with showers, began, 
And o'er their heads loud-rolling thunders ran. 
Here loug they knock, but call or knock iu vain. 
Driven by the wind, and battered by the rain. 
At length some pity warmed the mastcr'.s breast 
('Twas then his threshold tirst received a guest), 
Slow creaking, turns the door with jealous care, 
And half he welcomes iu the shivering pair. 
One frugal fagot lights the )iaked walls, 
Aud Nature's fervor thro' their limbs recalls ; 
Bread of the coar.sest sort, with eager' wine 
(Each hardly granted), served them both to dine: 
Aud when the tempest first appeared to cease, 
A ready warning bid tbeiu part in peace. 

With still remark the pondering hermit viewed 
In one so rich a life so poor and rude ; 
Aud why should such (within himself he cried) 
Lock the lost we.alth a thousand want beside ? 
But what new marks of wonder soon took place. 
In every settling feature of his face. 
When from his vest the young companion bore 
Th.at cnp the generous landlord owned before, 
xind paid profusely with the precious bowl 
The stinted kiudness of this churlish soul ! 

But now the clouds in airy tumult fly ; 
The sun, emerging, opes an azure sky ; 
A fresher green the smelling leaves display. 
And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day : 
The weather courts them from the poor retreat, 
Aud the glad master bolts the wary gate. 

While hence they walk the pilgrim's bosom 
wrought 
With all the travail of uncert.niu thought. 
His partner's acts without their cause appear; 
'Twas there a vice, and seemed a madness here : 
Detesting that, aud pitying this, he goes, 
Lost and confounded with the various shows. 



1 French, aigre, sharp, acid. "With eager corapouuds we our 
palate urge." — Suakbpkake, Sonuet lis. 



134 



CTCLOP^DIA OF BRITISH JXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Now uigUt's dim sliades again iuvolve tbe sky ; \ 
Again the waiuleiers want a place to lie ; |- 

Again they search, and find a lodging nigh. ) 

The soil improved aronnd, tlie mansion neat, 
And neither poorly low nor idly great : 
It seemed to speak its master's turn of mind, 
Content, and not for praise bnt virtue kind. 

Hither the walkers tnrn ■with weary feet. 
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet. 
Their greeting fair, bestowed with modest gnise, 
The conrteous master hears, and thns replies : 

" Without a vain, withont a grudging heart, 
To Him who gives us all I yield a part ; 
From Him you come, for Him accept it here, 
A frank and sober more than costly clieer." 
He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread, 
Then talked of virtue till the time of bed, 
AVIieu the grave household round his hall repair. 
Warned by a bell, and close tlio hours with prayer. 

At length the world, renewed by calm repose, 
Was strong for toil ; the dappled morn arose. 
Before the jnlgrims part, the younger crept 
Near the closed cradle where an infant slept, 
And writhed his neck: the landlord's little pride 
(Oh strange return!) grew black, and gasped, and 

dic<l. 
Horror of horrors ! What ! his only son ! 
How looked our hermit when the fact was done! 
Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part 
And breathe blue fire, could more assault his 
heart. 

Confused, and struck with silence at the deed, 
He Hies, but, trembling, fails to lly with speed. 
His stops the youth pursues. The country lay 
Perplexed with roads : a servant showed the way. 
A river crossed the path ; the passage o'er 
Was nice to iiud : the servant trod before. 
Long arms of oaliS an open bridge supplied, 
And deep the waves beneath the bending glide. 
The Vouth, who seemed to watch .'i time to sin, 
Apjuoached the careless guide, and thrust him iu : 
Plunging ho falls, and, rising, lifts his head ; 
Then, Hashing, turns, and sinks among the de.id. 

Wild, sparkling rage inllames the father's eyes ; 
He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, 
"Detested wretch!" — But scarce his speech began 
When the strange partner seemed no longer man. 
His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ; 
His robe turned white, and flowed upon his feet; 
Fair rounds of radiant points iuvest liis hair; 
Celestial odors breathe through jiurpled air; 
And wings, whose colors glittered on the day, 
Wide at his back their gradual )dnmes display. 



The form ethereal bursts upon his sight. 
And moves in all the majesty of light. 

Though loud at first the pilgrinrs passion grew, 
Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do ; 
Surprise iu secret chains his words suspends, 
And iu a calm his settling temper ends. 
But silence here the beauteous angel broke 
(The voice of music ravished as he spoke) : 

"Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice un- 
known, 
111 sweet memorial rise before the Throne. 
These charms success in our bright region find, 
Aud force an angel down to calm thy mind; 
For this commissioned, I forsook the sky : 
Nay, cease to kneel — thy fellow-scrvaiit I. 

"Then know the truth of government divine, 
And let these scruples bo uo longer thine. 

"The Maker justly claims that world he made: 
In this the Right of Providence is laid; 
Its sacred majesty through all depends 
On usiug second means to work his ends. 
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye, 
The Power exerts his attributes on high. 
Your action uses, uor controls your will, 
And bids the doubting sons of men be still. 

"What strange eveuts cau strike with more sur- 
prise 
Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes? 
Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty just, 
And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust ! 

"The great, vain man, who fared on costly food. 
Whose life was too luxurious to be good ; 
Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, 
And forced his guests to morning draughts of 

wine ; 
Has with the cup the graceless custom lost. 
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. 

"The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door 
Ne'er moved, in duty to the wandering poor — 
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind 
That Heaven can bless if mortals will be kind. 
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl. 
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. 
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead 
With heai>ing coals of fire upon its head : 
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow. 
And, loose from dross, the silver runs below. 

"Long had our pious friend in virtue trod; 
But uow the child half-weaned his heart from God: 
Child of his age, for him he lived in pain. 
And measured back his steps to earth again. 
To what excesses had his dotage run ! 
But God, to save tlie father, took the son. 



EDWARD YOUNG. 



135 



To all but tlice in fits he soeiiied to go, 
And 'twas my ministry to ileal tlio blow. 
The poor, foml parent, bumbled in the dust, 
Now owns in tears tbo punishment was just. 

'•Ijut how bad all bis fortuue felt a wrack, 
Had that false servant sped in safety back! 
This night bis treasured heaps bo meant to steal, 
And what a i'lind of charity would fail! 

"Thus Heaven instructs tby mind. This trial 
o'er, 
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more." 

Ou sounding pinions here the youth withdrew ; 
The sago stood wondering as the seraph Hew. 
Thus looked Elisha when to mount on high 
His master took tbo chariot of tlie sky : 
The fiery pomp, ascending, left the view ; 
The prophet gazed, and wished to follow too. 

The bending hermit here a prayer begun — 
"Liud! as in heaven, on earth thy will be done!" 
Then, gladly turning, sought bis ancient place. 
And passed a life of piety and peace. 



(fDaiarb L'ounci. 



The author of the " Night Thoughts " (16S4-176.5) was 
educated at Oxford, and on finishing his education be- 
came, after the example of other poets of the time, an 
assiduous aspirant to court favor. But neitlicr Queen 
Anne nor George I. rewarded his zeal. Tlie patronage 
of the "notorious Wharton," a friend of Young's father, 
did the son no honor. He accompanied Wharton to 
Ireland iu 1716. It was during this visit tliat Young 
took a walk with Dean Swift, when the dean, looking 
at tlie withered upper branches of an elm, remarked, "I 
shall be like that tree ; I shall die at the top." Personal 
acquaintance docs not seem to have warded off the sat- 
ire of Swift; for after Young was appointed a king's 
chaplain iu 1737, Swift described the poet as compelled 
to 

*' Tnrtnre Itis invention 
To flatter knaves, or lose his pcnsiou." 

But it does not appear that there was any other reward 
than the cliaplaincy. When fifty years old. Young mar- 
ried Lady Elizabeth Lee, a widow. By her he had a son. 
She had two children by her former marriage, and to 
tliese Young became warmly attached. Both died; and 
when tlie mother also followed, Young composed bis 
"Niglit Thoughts," a work of unquestionable power, 
exliibiting rare skill iu giving condensed force to lan- 
gu;ige, and, amidst all its gloom, occasionally lit up with 
Hashes of genuine poetical feeling. Sixty years had ele- 
vated and enriched Young's genius, and augmented even 
the brilliancy of his fancy. The extremity of age could 
not arrest his indomitable mental activity. He died 
in the nudst of his literary employments, at the age of 
eighty-four. 



The foundation of his great poem was family misfort- 
une, colored and exaggerated for effect : — 

"Insatiate archer! conid not one soflice? 
Thy shafts flew thrice, and thrice my ])eace was slain ; 
And tin-ice, ere tliiice you inoun had filled her horn." 

This rapid succession of bereavements was a poetical 
license ; for in one of the cases there was an interval of 
four years, and in another of seven months. 

In s]iite of the artlHcial, antithetical, and epigrammatic 
style of parts of the great poem — in spite of what Haz- 
litt calls "its glitter and lofty piretousious" — it still 
leaves for our admiration many noble passages, where 
the poet speaks, as from inspiration, of life, death, and 
immortality. The more carefully it is studied the more 
extraordinary and weighty with thought will it appear. 
But there is uo plot or progressive interest in the poem. 
Each of the nine books is independent of the other. 
Ilazlitt thinks it "has been much over-rated from tlie 
popularity of the subject;" but this we do not admit. 
The wonder is in that mastery of language that could 
iloat a theme so vast and so uupromisiiig. 

Young wrote satires under the title of the "Love of 
Fame, the Universal Passion ;" also I'lays, among which 
"Busiris" and "The Revenge" had considerable suc- 
cess on the stage. But his "Night Thouglits" is a 
work that so towers above them all, as to leave his other 
poems in merited obscurity. Tlie lapse of time has en- 
hanced rather than detracted from the fame of this e.x- 
traordiuary production. Lord Lytton has left liis tes- 
timony to its greatness. 

Young, who had become acquainted with Voltaire 
(thirteen years his junior) during the latter's residence 
iu England (about the year 1728), dedicated some of his 
vci-ses to him iu a poem of fifty-four lines, highly com- 
plimentary to the rising French author. 



INVOCATION TO THE AUTHOR OF LIGHT. 



Tboti who did'st put to flight 

Primeval silence, when the morning stars, 

Exulting, shouted o'er the rising vale ; — • 

O thoti ! whose word from solid darkness struck 

That spark, the sun, — strike wisdom from my soul ; 

My soul wbieb flies to thee, her trust, her treasnre, 

As misers to their gold wliile others rest. 

Through this opaqne of nature and of soul. 
This double night, transmit one pitying ray. 
To lighten and to cheer. Oh, lead my mind 
(A mind that fain would wander from its woe). 
Lead it through various scenes of life and death, 
And from each scene the noblest truths inspire. 
Nor less inspire my conduct than my song ; 
Teach my best reason, reason ; my best will, 
Teach rectitude ; and fix my firm resolve 
Wisdom to wed, and jiay her long arrear : 



136 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BEITISU AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Nor let the vial of thy vengeance, poured 
On this devoted head, bo poured in vain. 

The bell strilies one. We take no note of time 
But from its loss: to give it then a tongue 
Is wise in m.-in. As if an angel spoke, 
I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, 
It is the knell of my departed hours. 
Where are they ? With the years beyond the flood. 
It is the signal that demands despatch : 
How much is to be done ! Mj' hopes and fears 
Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge 
Look down — on what? A fathomless abyss; 
A dread eternity ! how surely mine ! 
And can eternity belong to me, 
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour! 

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, 
How complicate, how wonderful is man ! 
How passing wonder He who made him such ! 
Who centred in our make such strange extremes ! 
From diifereut natures, marvellouslj' mixed, 
Connection exquisite of distant worlds! 
Distinguished link in being's endless chain ! 
Midway from nothing to the Deity ! 
A beam ethereal, sullied and absorpt ! 
Though sullied and dishonored, still divine ! 
Dim miniature of greatness absolute! 
An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust ! 
Helpless immortal ! insect infinite ! 
A worm ! a god ! — I tremble at myself. 
And in my.self am lost. At home a stranger, 
Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast. 
And wondering at her own. How reason reels! 
Oh ! what a miracle to man is man ! 
Triumphantly distressed! what joy ! what dread! 
Alternately transported and alarmed ! 
What can preserve my life ? or what destroy ? 
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave ; 
Legions of angels can't coiiflne me there. 



THE DEPARTED LIVE. 

Night I. 

E'en silent night proclaims my soul immortal : 
E'en silent night proclaims eternal day ; 
For human weal heaven husbands all events : 
Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams in vain. 

Why then their loss deplore that are not lost? 
Why wanders wretched thought their tombs around 
In infidel distress f Are angels there ? 
i^lnmbers, raked up in dust, ethereal fire ? 

They live, they greatly live — a life ou earth 
LTnkindled, nnconceived — and from an eye 



Of tenderness let heavenly pity fall 

On me, more justly numbered with the dead. 

This is the desert, this the solitude, 

# if if * # » 

The land of apparitions, empty shades ! 
All, all on earth is shadow, all beyond 
Is substance ; the reverse is folly's creed ! 

« # # ff * * 

This is the bud of being, the dim dawn. 
The twilight of our day, the vestibule ; 

Yet man, fool man! here buries all his thoughts, 

Inters celestial hopes without one sigh. 

Prisoner of earth, and pent beneath the moon. 

Here pinions all his wishes; winged by heaven 

To fly at infinite — and reach it there 

Where seraphs gather immortality. 

On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God. 

What golden joys ambrosial clustering glow 

In his full beam, and ripen for the just, 

Where momentary ages are no more ! 

Where time and pain ,and chance and death expire! 

And is it in the flight of threescore years, 

To push eternity from human thought. 

And smother souls immortal in the dust ? — 

A soul immortal, spending all her tires, 
Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness. 
Thrown into tumult, rai)tured or alarmed, 
At aught this scene can threaten or indulge, 
Resembles ocean into tempest wrought. 
To waft a feather, or to drown a fly. 



HOMER, MILTON, POPE. 
Night I. 

How often I repeat their rage divine. 

To lull my griefs, and steal my heart from woe ! 

I roll their raptures, but not catch their fire : 

Dark, though not blind, like thee, M^onides! 

Or, Milton ! thee ; ah, could I reach your strain ! 

Or his, who made Majouides' our own : 

Man too lie sung ; immortal man I sing ; 

Oft bursts my song beyond the bounds of life : 

What now but innnortality can please ! 

Oh, had he pressed the theme, pursued the track 

Which opens out of darkness into day ! 

Oh, had he, mounted ou his wings of fire. 

Soared where I sink, and sung immortal man. 

How had it blest mankind, and rescued me! 

' By MiBonides is niennt Ilnmer; and by him "who made 
Mffionides our iiwu" is meant Pope, who wrote the "Essay on 
Man," and translated Uomer. 



ED W AMD JOVNG. 



137 



WELCOME TO DEATH. 

NlGlIT III. 

Then welcome, Death ! thy dreaJeil harbingers, 
Age and disease ; disease, though long my gnest ; 
That phicks my nerves, those tender strings of life, 
■Which, plucked a little more, \Yill toll the bell. 
That calls my few friends to my funeral ; 
Where feeble Nature drops, perhaps, a, tear. 
While Reason and Keligiou, better taught. 
Congratulate the dead, aud crown his tomb 
With wreath triuuiphaut. Death is victory! 
^ * * # * # 

Death is the crown of life : 

Were death denied, poor man would live in vain ; 
Were death denied, to live would not be life ; 
Were death denied, e'en fools would wish to die. 
Death wounds to cure: we fall, we rise, we reigii — 
Spring from our fetters ; fasten in the skies 
Where blooming Edeu withers in our sight: 
Death gives us more than was in Edeu lost ; — ■ 
This king of terrors is the prince of peace. 
When shall I die to vanity, pain, death ? 
When shall I (lief — When shall I live forever? 



I TRUST IX THEE. 

NiGUT IV. 

thou great Arbiter of life and death ! 
Nature's immortal, immaterial Sun ! 
Whose all-prolific beam late called me forth 
From darkness, teeming darkness, where I lay 
The worm's inferior, and, in rank beneath 
The dust I tread on, high to bear my brow. 
To drink the spirit of the golden day, 

Aud triumph iu existence ; aud could know 
No motive but my bliss; aud hast ordained 
A rise in blessing ! — with the patriarch's joy, 
Thy call I follow to the laud unknown ; 

1 trust iu thee, and know in whom I trust : 
Or life or death is equal; neither weiglis : 
All weight is this — O let me live to thee ! 



HUMANITY OF ANGELS. 

NiGUT IV. 

Why donbt we, then, the glorious truth to sing. 

Though yet unsung, as deemed perhaxts too bold i 

Angels are men of a superior kind ; 

Angels are lueu in lighter habit clad. 

High o'er celestial mountains winged in flight ; 



Aud nieu are angels loaded for an hour, 
W^ho w.ado this miry vale, and climb with paiu, 
And slippery step, the bottom of the steep. 
Angels their failings, mortals have their praise ; 
While here, of corps ethereal, such enrolled, 
Aud summoned to the glorious standard soon. 
Which llames eternal erimsou through the skies. 
Nor are our brothers thoughtless of their 'kin. 
Yet absent ; but not absent from their love. 
Michael has fought our battles ; Raphael suug 
Our triumphs ; Gabriel on our errands flown. 
Sent by the So^'ereigu ; and are these, O uum ! 
Thy friends, thy warm allies? and thou (shame 

burn 
Tliy cheek to cinder!) rival to the brute? 



NO ATOM LOST. 



Night VI. 



The world of matter, with its various forms. 
All dies iuto new life. Life born from death 
Rolls the vast mass, and shall forever roll. 
No single atom, once iu being, lost, 
With change of counsel charges the Most High. 

What hence infers Lorenzo ? Can it be ? 
Matter immortal ? Aud shall spirit die ? 
Above the nobler, shall less noble rise ? 
Imperial man be sown iu barren ground. 
Less privileged than grain on which he feeds ? 



IMMORTALITY DECIPHERS MAN. 

Night VII. 

If man sleeps on, untaught bj' what he sees, 
Can he prove iufidel to what he feels ? 
He, whose blind thought futurity deuics. 
Unconscious bears, Bellerophou, like thee. 
His own indictment ; he condemns himself. 
Who reads his bosom, reads immortal life, 
Or Nature, there, imposing on her sous, 
Has written fables ; man was made a lie. 

# * * * # # 
His imuiortalit}' alone can solve 

Tiie darkest of enigmas, human hope, — 
Of all the darkest, if at death we die I 

* * * * rf * 
Since virtue's recompense is doubtful here. 

If man dies wholly, well may we demand, — 
y * * * # ?f 

Why whispers Nature lies on virtue's part ? 
Or if blind instinct (which assumes the name 



138 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Of sacred coiiscieuce) plays the fool in man, 
Why reason made accomplice in the cheat ? 
Why are the wisest loudest in her praise ? 
Can man liy reason's heam be led astray ? 
Or at his peril imitate his God ? 
Since virtne sometimes ruins us on eartli. 
Or both are true, or man survives the grave ! 

Dive to the bottom of his soul, the base 
Sustaining all, — what find we? Knowledge, love, 
As light and heat essential to the siiu. 
These to the soul. And why, if souls expire ? 

* » » ^ # * 

This cannot be. To love and know, in man 
Is boundless appetite and boundless jiower; 
And tliese demonstrate boundless objects too. 

* T* ^ ^ Tf * 

'Tis immortality deciphers man, 
And opens all the mysteries of his malce : 
Without it, half his instincts are a riddle : 
Witliont it, all his virtues are a dream. 

* .ff *r ^ if # 

Still seems it strange that thou shonld'st live 
forever ? 
Is it less strauge that thou shoukVst live at all? 
This is a miracle ; and that no moie. 
AVIio gave beginning can exclude au end. 
Deny thou art, then doubt if thou shall he. 
A miracle with miracles inclosed. 
Is mau ; and starts his faith at what is strange ? 
AVhat less than wonders from the wonderful ; 
Wliat less than miracles from God can How 1 
Admit a God — that mystery supreme — 
That cause uncaused ! — all other woiulers cease ; 
Nothing is marvellous for him to do : 
Deny him — all is mystery besides : 
Millions of mysteries ! each darker far 
Than that thy wisdom would unwisely shun. 
If weak thj' faith, why choose the harder side ? 
We nothing know but what is marvellous, — 
Yet what is marvellous we can't believe ! 



EXISTENCE OF GOD. 



Retire; — the world shut out; — thy thoughts call 

home ; — 
Imagination's airy wing repress ; — 
Lock up thy senses; — lot no jiassiou stir; 
Wake all to reason ; — let her reign alone ; 
Tlien, in thy soul's deep silence, and the depth 
Of Nature's silence, midnight, thus inquire, 



As I have done ; and shall inquire no more. 
In Nature's channel, thus the questions run : — 
"What am I? and from whence? — I nothing 
know 
But that I am : and, since I am, conclude 
Something eternal : had there e'er been naught, 
Naught still had been ; eternal there must be. — 
But what eternal? — Why not human race? 
And Adam's ancestors without an eud 1 — 
That's hard to be conceived, since every link 
Of that long-chained succession is so frail. 
Can every part depend, and not the whole? 
Yet grant it true; new difficulties rise; 
I'm still quite out at sea, nor see the shore. 
Wlience Earth, and these bright orbs? — Eternal too? 
Grant matter was eternal ; still these orbs 
Would want some other father; — much design 
Is .seen in all their motions, all their makes ; 
Design implies intelligence and art; 
That can't be from themselves — or man : that art 
Man scarce can comprehend, could man bestow? 
And nothing greater yet allowed than man. — 
Who, motion, foreign to the smallest grain. 
Shot through vast masses of enormous weight? 
Who bid brute matter's restive lump assume 
Such various forms, and gave it wings to fly? 
Has matter innate motion? then each atom. 
Asserting its indisputable right 
To dance, would form a universe of dust : 
Has matter none? Then whence these glorious 

forms 
And boundless flights, from shapeless, and rejiosed ? 
Has matter more than motion? has it thought. 
Judgment, and genins ? is it deeply learned 
In mathematics ? Has it framed such laws. 
Which but to guess, a Newton made immortal ? — 
If so, how each sage atom laughs at me, 
Wlio think a clod inferior to a mau! 
If art, to form ; and counsel, to conduct ; 
Aud that with greater far than human skill, 
Resides not in each block ; — a Godhead reigns. 
Grant, then, invisible, eternal Mind ; 
Tlutt granted, all is solved." 



(£'Eorgc BcrK'clni. 



Altlion™)! Berkeley (168i-17.53) is known in poetical 
literature by only a single piece, yet that seems to have 
in it the cleuieiits of a persistent vitality. Boni in Kil- 
kenny County, IreUnul, he was educated at Trinity Col- 
lcu;e, Dublin. He was intimate with Sivift, Pope, Steele, 
and their "set,"'iuul Pope assigned to liim "every virtue 
under heaven." By these friends he seems to have been 



GEORGE BEBEELET.— ALLAN RAMSAY. 



139 



sinceix-ly beloved. lu 1713, be piibUshed liis most iin- 
porUint philosopbical work, "Three Dialogues between 
Hylns and Pliilonous," in wliicb liis system of ideality 
is developed with singnlar felieity of illustration, purity 
of style, and subtlety of tlionglit. It gave liim a reputa- 
tion that is still upon the inerease. In 1739, lie sailed 
for Rhode Island, fixed his residenec at Newport, and re- 
mained there, or on the farm of Whitehall in the vieiui- 
ty, some two years. To the libraries of Harvard and 
Yale he made important donations of books. Returning 
to Euirland, he was appointed, in 1734, Bishop of Cloyne. 
In 17.53, he removed to Oxford to superintend the educa- 
tion of one of his sons, and died there very suddenly the 
next year while sitting on a eouch in the midst of his 
fouiily, while his wife was reading to liim. 



VERSES ON THE PEOSPECT OF PLANTING 
ARTS AND LEARNING IN AJIERICA. 

TIio mnse, disgusted at an age and clime, 

Barren of every glorious theme, 
In distant lauds now waits a Ijctter time, 

Producing subjects worthy fame. 

In liappy climes, wbere from tlie geni.al suu 
And virgin earth such scenes eusne, 

The force of art by nature seems outdoue, 
And fancied beauties by the trne : 

In happy climes, the seat of innocence, 
Where nature guides, and virtue rules ; 

Where men shall not impose for truth and sense 
The jiedautry of courts and schools : 

There shall be snng another golden age, 

The rise of empire and of arts. 
The good and great inspiring epic rage, 

Tlie wisest heads and noblest hearts. 

Not such as Europe breeds in ber decay ; 

Such as she bred when fresh and youug. 
When heavenly flame did animate her clay. 

By future poets shall be snng. 

Westward the course of empire takes its way ; 

The four first acts already past, 
A fifth shall close the drama with the day; 

Time's noblest offspring is the last. 



211Uau Uamsaij. 

Ramsay (1686-17.')S) was a native of Lanarkshire, Scot- 
land. Most of liis long life was passed in Edinburgh, 
where he was a wig-maker, and then a book-seller and 



keeper of a circulating library. His pastoral drama, 
" The Gentle Shepherd," flrst published in 1735, and 
written in the strong, broad Doric of North Britain, is 
the fmest existing specimen of its class. His songs, too, 
have endeared him to the Scottish heart. 



THE CLOCK AND DIAL. 

Ae day a Clock wad brag a Dial, 
And put bis qualities to trial ; 
Spake to liim thus, " My neighbor, pray, 
C'aii'st tell me what's the time of day f" 
The Dial said, " I dinna ken." — 
"Alake! what stand ye there for, then f — 
" I wait here till the suu shines bright, 
For naught I keu but by his light :" 
"Wait on," quoth Clock, "I scorn bis help, 
Baith night and day my lane'. I skclp.' 
Wind up my weights but aiies a week. 
Without him I can gang and speak ; 
Nor like an useless suinjih I stand. 
But constantly wheel ronnd my hand : 
Hark, hark, I strike just now the hour ; 
And I am right, ane — twa — three — four." 

Whilst thus the Clock was boasting loud, 
The bleezing sun br.ak throw a cloud ; 
The Dial, faithfn' to bis guide. 
Spake truth, and laid the thumper's pride. 
"Ye see," said he, "I've dung yon fair; 
'Tis four hours and three-quarters mair. 
M,y friend," he added, " count again. 
And learn a wee to be less vain : 
Ne'er brag of constant clavering cant. 
And that you answers never want ; 
For you're not aye to be believed : 
W'ha trusts to you may be decei^•ed. 
Be counselled to behave like me ; 
For when I dinna clearly see 
I always own I dinna keu, 
And that's the way of wi.sest men." 



FAREWELL TO LOCHABER. 

Farewell to Lochaber! and farewell, my Jean, 
Where heartsome with thee I ha'e niony day 

been ! 
For Lochaber no more, Lochal)er no more. 
We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more ! 
These tears that I .shed they are a' for my dear, 
And no for the dangers attending on war, 



' By myself. 



= Beat as a clock. 



140 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH ASD AMERICAX POKTRY. 



Though boi-ue on rough seas to a far bloody shore, 
Ma J be to return to Lochaber uo more. 

Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, 
They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind ; 
Though loudest of thunder ou louder waves roar, 
That's naethiug like leaving my love on the shore. 
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained ; 
By ease that's iuglorious no fame can be gained ; 
Aud beauty and love's the reward of the brave, 
And I must deserve it before I can crave. 

Then glory, my Jeanie. maun plead my excuse : 
Since honor commands me, how can I refuse ? 
Withont it I ne'er can have merit for thee, 
Aud without thy favor I'd better not be. 
I gae, then, ray lass, to win honor aud fame ; 
And if I shonUl luck to come gloriously hame, 
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, 
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. 



^niic, (Countess of llHncljclsca. 

Daui;hter of Sir Richard Kingsmill, and wife of Hene- 
nsc. Earl of Winchelsca, this lady (cimx ieC0-lT20) pub- 
lished a volume of poems in 1713, and left many in man- 
uscript. Her fable of "The Atheist aud the Acorn" is 
well known, and is still often reprinted. Wordsworth 
sajs of her: "She is one of the very few original ob- 
servers of nature who appeared in an artiflcial age ;" and 
Leigh Html says: "She deserves to have been gathered 
into collections of English verse far more tlian half of 
our minor poets." She was the friend of Pope, who ad- 
dressed an "Impromptu" to her, complimentary in its 
character. The following beautiful poem is not a con- 
tinuous extract, but is made up of passages, the omis- 
sions in which are not indicated by the usual marks. 



FROM "A WISHED-FOR RETREAT." 

Give me, O indulgent Fate, 

Give me yet, before I die, 

A sweet but absolute retreat, 

'Mong paths so lost, aud trees so high, 

That the world may ne'er invade, 

Through such windings aud such shade, 

My Jinshaken liberty ! 

Xo intruders thither come 
Who visit but to be from home, — 
None who their vain moments pass, 
Only studious of their glass! 



Be no tidings thither brought ! 
But, silent as a midnight thought. 
Where the world may ne'er Invade, 
Be those windings and that shade ! 

Courteous Fate ! afford me there 
A table spread without my care 
With Avhat the neighboring fields impart, 
Whose cleanliness be all its art. — 
Fruits, indeed (would Heaven bestow), 
All that did in Eden grow 
(All but the forbidden tree). 
Would be coveted by me ; — 
Grapes, with juice so crowded up 
As breaking through their native cup ; 
Figs (yet growing) candied o'er 
By the sun's attracting power; 
Cherries, with the downy peach, — 
All within my easy reach .' 
Whilst, creeping near the humble ground. 
Should the strawberry be found. 
Springing wheresoe'er I strayed 
Thi'ongh those wiudiugs aud that shade! 

Give me there (since Heaven has shown 
It was not good to be alone), 
A partner suited to my mind, — 
Solitary, pleased, and kind, — 
AVho, partially, may something see, 
Preferred to all the world, in me ; 
Slighting, by my humble side. 
Fame aud splendor, wealth and pride. 
Rage, and jealousy, and hate, — 
Transports of man's fallen state 
When by Satan's wiles betrayed, — 
Fly those windings and that shade ! 

Let me, then, indulgent Fate, 
Let me, still in my retreat. 
From all roving thoughts be freed, 
Or aims that may contention breed ; 
Nor be my endeavors led 
By goods that perish with the dead ! 
Fitly might the life of man 
Be, indeed, esteemed a span. 
If the present moment were 
Of delight his only share; 
If no other joys he knew 
Than what round about him grew : — 
But, as those who stars would trace 
From a subterranean place. 
Through some engine lift their eyes 
To the outward glorious skies, — 
So the immortal spirit may. 
When descended to our clay, 



THOMAS TICEELL.— ALEXANDER POPE. 



141 



From a rightly governed frame 

View the height from vheiico she came ;- 

To her Paradise be caught, 

And thiugs unutterable taught ! 

Give me, then, in that retreat, — 
Give me, O indulgent Fate! 
For all pleasures left behind 
Contemplations of the mi»(l. 
Let the fair, the gay, the vain 
Courtship and applause obtain ; 
Let the ambitious rule the earth ; 
Let the giddy fool have mirth ; 
Give the epicure his dish, 
Every one his sevei'al wish; 
Whilst mil transports I employ 
On that more extensive joy. 
When all heaven shall be surveyed 
From those windiniis and that shade! 



iJljomas (ticlu-ll. 



Poet and css;\yist, Tickell (1(130-1740) was born near 
C;uiisle, and educated at Oxford. Through the friend- 
ship of Addison, he became Under- secretary of SlMtc, 
and Wiis afterward a|>pointed Secretary to the Lord-jua- 
ticcs of Ireland. He wrote the balhid of "Colin and 
Lucy," one stanza from which is still often quoted : 
"I heiir a voice you canuot hear, 
Which s:iy8 I must not stay : 
I see a hand you cauiiot see, 
Which beckons rae away." 

He wrote an allegorical poem, called " Kensington Gar- 
dens," besides many papers in the Spectator and the 
Guardian. His lines on the death of Addison are the 
best of his poems. Gray calls him "a poor, short-winded 
imitator of Addison." 



FROM LINES "TO THE EARL OF WARWICK," 
ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON. 

If, dumb too long, the dropping Muse hath stayed, 
Aud left her debt to Addison unpaid. 
Blame not her sllcuce, Warwick, but bemoan. 
And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own ! 
What mourner e\er felt poetic fires ? 
Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires : 
Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, 
Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. 
Can I forget the dismal night that gave 
Jly soul's best part forever to the grave ? 
How silent did his old companions tread. 
By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, 
Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, 
Through rows of warriors and through walks of 
kings ! 



What awe did the slow, solemn knell Inspire ; 
The pealing organ and the pausing choir : 
The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid, 
And the last words that dust to dust conveyed ! 

Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone 
(Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown), 
Along the walls where speaking marbles ?ihow 
What worthies form the hallowed uionlct below ; 
Proud names, who once the reins of empire held. 
In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled ; 
Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood ; 
Stern i)atriots, who for sacred freedom stood ; 
Jnst men, by whom impartial laws were given; 
And saints, who taught aud led the way to heaven. 
Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, 
Since their foundation, came a nobler guest ; 
Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed 
A fairer spirit or more welcome shade. 

In what new region to the just assigned, 
What new employments please the uubodied mind? 
A winged Virtue, through the ethereal sky, 
From world to world uuwearied docs he fly? 
Or curious trace the long, laborious maze 
Of Heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze? 
Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell 
How Michael battled, aud the dragon fell; 
Or, mixed with milder cherubim, to glow 
In hymns of love, not ill essayed below ? 
Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, 
A task well suited to thy gentle mind? 
Oh, if sometimes thy spotless form descend, 
To me thy aid, thou guardian Genius, lend! 
When rage misguides me, or wlien fear alarms ; 
When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms. 
In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart. 
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart ; 
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before. 
Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more. 



vllcfanticr ^opc. 



The only chikl of a London linen-draper, Pope (16SS- 
1744) was bred a Roman Catholic: hence he was disqual- 
itied for entering an English university. He spent his 
childhood on the small estate of Binfleld, in Windsor 
Forest. A delicate and deformed youth, he received in- 
struction at two Catholic schools; but after twelve years 
of age became his own instructor, and at fifteen went to 
London alone, to take lessons in French aud Italian. 
He had "lisped in numbers" so early that he could not 
recollect the time when he did not write poetry. Before 
he was twelve, the little invalid had written his " Ode on 



142 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BIllTISH AND AilEBlCAX POETRY. 



Solitiidc.'' His fatlicr encouraged his tastes; and Pope's 
life as an autlior dates from liis sixteentli yeai', wlien he 
wrote liis "Pastorals," whicli were praised far beyond 
their deserts. His "Essay on Criticism," piililished when 
lie was twenty-three, is in a hiirher strain. It has lived, 
and will continue to live, in spite of the depreciatory es- 
timates of De Quincey and Elwin. 

Other works followed in quick succession, the prin- 
cipal of which were his "Messiah," "Odes," "Windsor 
Forest," "Essay on Man," "Rape of the Lock," the 
matchless "Eloisa to Abelard," and "The Dunciad." 
His most laborious literary undertaSiui^ was his transla- 
tion of Homer. Of this the great scholar, Bentley, re- 
marked, in return for a presentation copy, "It is a pret- 
ty poem, Mr. Pope, but you must not call it Homer." 
By this work Pope realized above £5000, part of which 
he laid out in the purchase of a house with five acres at 
Twickenham, to which he removed with his aged moth- 
er in 171.5. He was never married. 

Pope is a poet of the intellect rather than of nature 
and the emotions. The nineteenth century raised tlie 
question, contested by Bowles on the adverse side, and 
Roseoe on tlie other, whether Pope was a poet at all. 
Woi-dsworth thought poorly of him ; but Wordsworth 
had no wit, and wit is the predominant element in Pope. 
" There can be no worse sign for the taste of the times," 
says Byron, " than the depreciation of Pope, the most 
perfect of our poets, and the purest of our moralists. * * * 
In my mind, the highest of all poetry is ethical poetry, 
as the highest of all earthly objects must be moral 
truth." 

"In spite of the influences," says Mr. John Dennis 
(1870), "at work during the earlier years of this century, 
tending to lessen the poetical fame of Pope, his reputa- 
tion has grown, and is still growing." And Mr. John 
Ruskin, in his lectures on Art, after referring to Pope as 
one of the most accomplished artists in literature, adds: 
" Putting Shakspeare aside as rather the world's than 
ours, I hold Pope to be the most perfect representative 
we have, since Cliaueer, of the true English mind." 

The "Rape of the Lock" is a brilliant specimen of the 
mock-heroic style. The "Essay on Man" is a singular- 
ly sucees^ful effort to weave ethical philosophy into poe- 
try. The argument seems directly intended to meet the 
form of doubt prevalent at the time, and which brought 
into question not only the divine justice, but the divine 
existence. 

Jealousy of his marvellous success involved Pope in a 
literary warfare, the evidences of which are abundantly 
exhibited in iiis later writings. By some critics his 
"Uuuciad" is regarded as his greatest cflbrt. Full of 
wit and power as it is, however, it is little read in our 
day. Such a war upon the dunces should have been be- 
neath the nature and the dignity of a true poet. Pope 
ought never to have soiled his hands with the dirt of 
Grub Street. 

A constant stale of excitement, added to a life of 
ceaseless study and contemplation, operating on a fee- 
ble frame, completely exhausted the powers of Pope be- 
fore his tifly-seventh year. He complained of his inabil- 
ity to think ; yet a short time before his death he said, 
"I am so certain of the soul's being immortal that I 
seem to feel it in me, as it were, by intuition." Another 



of his dying remarks was, " There is nothing that is mer- 
itorious but virtue and friendship ; and, indeed, friend- 
ship itself is only a part of virtue." 

Pope's example teaches us that the patient labor of 
the artist must supplement genius for the production 
of works of enduring fame. This is a lesson whicli some 
even of the popular poets of our day, who "say what 
they feel without considering what is tittiug to be said," 
very much need. 



ODE ON SOLITUDE. 

WRITTEN BEFOKE POPE \V.\S TWELVE YE.\KS OI.D. 

Happy the man ■whose wish and care 

A few paternal acres hound, 
Content to breathe his native air 

In his own ground : 

Who.sc herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 

■Whose lloeks supply him with attire ; 
Whose trees iu summer yiehl him shade, 
In winter fire : 

Blest, who can nnoonceru'dly find 

Hours, days, and years slide soft away ; 
111 health of body, peace of mind, 
Quiet by day: 

Sound sleep by night, study and ease, 

Together mixt, sweet recreation; 
And innocence, which most does please, 
With meditation. 

Tims let me live, unseen, unknown ; 

Thus, nnlameuted, let me die, 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. 



FROM "THE ESSAY ON CRITICISM." 



But most by numbers judge a poet's song; 
And smooth or rough with them is right or wrong. 
In the bright Muse though thousand charms con- 
spire, 
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire, 
Who haunt Parna.ssus bnt to please their ear. 
Not mend their minds; as some to church repair, 
Not for the doctrine, bnt the music there. 
These equal syllables alone require. 
Though oft the oar the open vowels tire ; 
While expletives their feeble aid do join. 
And ten low words oft creep iu one dull line : 



ALEXANDER POPE. 



14:? 



While they ring round the same unvaried chimes, 
With sure returns of still-expected rhymes. 
Where'er you find the "cooliug western breeze," 
III the uext line it "whispers through the trees;" 
If crystal streams " with pleasing murmurs creep," 
The reader's threateued (not in vain) with "sleep ;" 
Tiien at the last and only couplet, fraught 
With some unmeaning tiling they call a thought, 
A needless Alexaudriue ends the song. 
That, like a wounded suake, drags its slow length 

along. 
Leave such to tunc their own dull rhymes, and 

know 
Wliat's roundly smooth or langnishingly slow. 
And praise the casj' vigor of .a lino 
Wliere Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness 

join. 
True ease iu writing comes from art, not chance, 
As those move easiest who have learned to dance. 
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence ; 
The souud must seem an echo to the sense : 
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows. 
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; 
lint when loud surges lash the sounding shore, 
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar : 
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw. 
The line too labors, and the words move slow ; 
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain. 
Flics o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the 

main. 



TO HEXRY ST. JOHN, LORD I30LIXGBR0KE. 
From " Tue Essay on Man," Epistle I. 

Awake, my St. John ! leave all meaner things 
To low ambition and the pride of kings. 
Let us (since life can little more supply 
Thau just to look about us and to die) 
Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man : 
A mighty maze ! but uot without a plan ; 
A wild, where weeds and llowers promiscuous shoot; 
Or garden, tempting witli forbidden fruit. 
Together let us beat this ample field, 
Try what the open, what the covert, yield ; 
The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore, 
Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar; 
Eye Nature's walks, shoot Fidly as it flies. 
And catch the manners living as they rise ; 
Laugh where we must, be candid where we can, 
But vindicate the ways of God to man. 

Say, first, of God abovOj or mau below. 
What cau we reason but from what we know ? 



Of man, what see we but his station here 
From which to reason, or to which refer ? 
Through worlds unnumbered though the God be 

known, 
'Tis ours to trace him only in our own. 
He who through vast immensity cau pierce. 
See worlds on worlds compose one universe ; 
Observe how system into system runs, 
Wliat other planets circle other suns, 
What varied being peojjles every star, — 
May tell why Heaveu has made us as we are. 
But of this frame, the bearings and the ties, 
Tlie strong connections, nice dependencies, 
Gradations just, has thy pervading soul 
Looked through ? or cau a part coutaiii the whole ? 
Is the great chain that draws all to agree, 
And, ilrawu, supports, upheld by God or thee ? 

Presumptuous mau ! the reason wouldst thou 
find 
Why formed so weak, so little, and so blind ? 
First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess 
Why formed uo weaker, blinder, and no less. 
Ask of thy mother Earth why oaks are made 
Taller and .stronger than the weeds they shade ; 
Or ask of yonder argent fields above 
Why Jove's satellites are less than Jove. 

Of systems possible, if 'tis coufest 
That Wisdom Infinite must form the best. 
Where all unist full, or uot coherent be, 
Aiul all that rises, rise iu due degree ; 
Then, in the scale of reasoning life, 'tis jdain 
There must be, somewhere, such a rank as man : 
And all the question (wrangle e'er so long) 
Is only this — If God has placed him wrong. 

Respecting man, whatever wrong we call 
May, must, be right, as relative to all. 
In hnmau works, though labored on with pain, 
A thousaud movements scarce one purpose gain ; 
In God's, oue single can its end i>roduce. 
Yet serves to second, too, some other use. 
So mau, who here seems principal alone, 
Perhaps acts secoud to some sphere unknown. 
Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal : 
'Tis but a part we see, and uot .a whole. 

When the jirond steed shall know why man re- 
strains 
His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains ; 
Wlieu the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod. 
Is now .a victim, and uow Egypt's god; 
Then shall man's pride and duluess comprehen<l 
His actions', passions', being's, use and end ; 
Why doing, suffering ; checked, impelled ; and wlij- 
This hcmr a slave, the next a deity. 



144 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BBITISH AXD AMElilCAN rOETRY. 



Then say not man's imperfect, Heaveu in fault ; 
Say, ratlicr, man's as perfect as he oiigbt ; 
His knowledge measiueil to bis state anil place, 
His time a moment, and a point Lis space. 

See, throHgh this air, this ocean, and this earth, 
All matter quick, and bursting into birth. 
Above, how high progressive life may go ! 
Around, how wide ! how deep extend below I 
Vast chain of being, which from God began, — 
Natures ethereal, human, angel, man. 
Beast, bird, tish, insect — what no eye can see, 
No glass can reach, — from infinite to thee, 
From thee to nothing ! On superior powers 
Were we to press, inferior might on ours ; 
Or in the full creatiuii leave a void, 
■\Vhere, one step broken, the great scale's destroyed : 
From Nature's chain whatever link you strike. 
Tenth or ten-thousaudth, breaks the chain alike. 

And if each system in gradation roll. 
Alike essential to the amazing whole, 
The least confusion but in one, not all 
That system only, but the whole, nnist fall. 
Let Earth, unbalanced, from her orbit fly ; 
Planets and suns run lawless through the sky : 
Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurled, 
IJeiug on being wrecked, and world on world ; 
Heaven's whole foundations to their centre nod, 
And Nature trembles to the throne of God ! 
All this dread order break ? For whom ? for thee ? 
Vile worm ! O madness ! pride ! impiety ! 

What if the foot, ordained the dust to tread, 
Or hand, to toil, aspired to be the hea<l ? 
What if the head, the eye, or ear, repined 
To servo mere engines to the ruling mind? 
.Just as absurd for any part to claim 
To be another in this general frame ; 
.Just as absurd to mourn the tasks or pains 
The great directing Mind of all ordains. 

All are but parts of one stupendous whide, 
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul ; 
That, changed through all, and yet in all the same. 
Great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame ; 
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze. 
Glows in the stars, and blossoms iu the trees : 
Lives through all life, extends through all extent, 
Spreads undivided, oi)erates unspent. 
Breathes iu our soul, informs our mortal part, 
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; 
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns 
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns : 
To him no high, no low, no great, no small ; 
He tills, lie bounds, connects, and equals all. 



Cease, then, nor order imperfection name ; 
Our proper bliss depends on what wo blame. 
Know thy own point : this kind, this duo degree 
Of blindness, weakness, He.aven bestows on thee. 
Submit ! — in this or any other sphere 
Secure to bo as blest as thou canst bear; 
Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, 
Or in the natal or the mortal hour. 
All nature is but art unknown to thee ; 
All chance, direction which thou canst not see; 
All discord, harmony not understood ; 
All partial evil, universal good : 
And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, 
One truth is clear — Wn.iTEVEn is, is liiGiiT. 



FROM THE " EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT." 

'■Sliut, shut the door, good John," fatigued I said; 
" Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead !'' 
The dog-star rages ! nay, 'tis past a doubt. 
All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out : 
Fire iu each eye, and i>apcrs in each hand, 
Tliey rave, recite, aud m.adden round the land. 
What walls can guard me, or what shades can 

hide? 
Tluy pierce my thickets, through my grot they 

glide ; 
By laud, by water, they renew the charge; 
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. 
No place is sacred, not tlie church is free. 
Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me ; 
Then from the Mint' walks forth the man of 

rhyme, 
Happy to catch me just at diinier-time. 

Is there a parson, much be-niused in beer, 
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, 
A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross, 
Who pens a stanza when he should engross? 
Is there who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls 
With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls? 
All fly to Twickenham, aud iu humble strain 
Apply to me to keep them mad or vain. 
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws. 
Imputes to me and my dannicd works the cause: 
Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, 
Aud curses wit, and poetry, and Pope. 

Friend to my life (which did not you prolong. 
The world had wanted many an idle song), 



' A pinco to which iusulveut debtors retired to enjciy au il- 
legnl protectiou. 



ALEXANDER POPE. 



145 



'. !;ai drop or nostrum can tliis plague remove? 
wliicli nmst end nie, a fool's wrath or love ! 
iiir. dilemma! either way I'm sped; 
j>(>,, they write; if friends, they read nie dead. 

■ ,cii! and tied down to judge, how wretched I! 
i.> ean't be silent, and who will not lie. 

■ laugh were want of goodness and of grace, 
■1 to bo grave exceeds all power of face. 

■it with sad civility, I read 
With honest anguish and an aching head, 
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, 
This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years." 
" Nino years !" cries he, who, high in Drnry Lane, 
Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, 
I Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, 
Obliged by hunger and request of friends: 
"The piece, you think, is iucorrect ? why take it; 
I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it." 
Tliree things another's modest wishes bound; 
I " My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound." 
f Pitholeon sends to me ; " You know his grace : 
I want a patron ; ask him for a place." 
Pitholeon libelled me, — '' But here's a letter 
Informs you, sir, 'twas when ho knew no better. 
Dare yon refuse him, Cnrll invites to dine? 
He'll write a journal, or he'll tnru divine !" 

Bless me! a packet. — " 'Tis a stranger sues, 
A virgin tragedy, an orphan nmse." 
If I dislike it, "Furies, death, and rage;" 
If I approve, "Commend it to the stage." 
Tliere (thank my stars) my whole commission ends; 
The players and I are, luckily, no friends. 
Fired that the house reject him, "'Sdeath, I'll print 

it, 
And shame the fools, — your interest, sir, with Lin- 
tot." 
Lintot, dull rogue, will think your price too much: 
"Not, sir, if you revise it and retouch." 
All my demurs but double his attacks : 
At last he whispers, " Do, and we go snacks." 
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door, 
" Sir, let me see your works and you no more !" 

* ■ » * * rf » 

Why did I write ? What sin to me unknown 
Dipped me in ink, — my jiarents', or my own ? 
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, 
I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came : 
I left no calling for this idle trade. 
No duty broke, no father disobeyed : 
The Muse but served to ease some friend, not wife; 
To help me through this long disease, my life. 
To second, Arbnthnot ! thy art and care. 
And teach the being you preserved to bear. 
10 



FEOM "THE RAPE OF THE LOCK." 
Canto I. 

And now, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed. 
Each silver vase in mystic order laid. 
First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores. 
With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers. 
A heavenlj' image in the glass appears, , 
To that sho bends, to that her eyes she rears ; 
The inferior priestess, at her altar's side. 
Trembling, begins the sacred rites of Pride. 
Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here 
The various otfcrings of the world appear; 
From each she nicely culls with curious toil. 
And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil. 
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, 
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. 
The tortoise here and elephant unite. 
Transformed to combs, the speckled and the white. 
Here files of pins extend their shining rows, 
Pnifs, powders, patches,' Bibles, billet-doux. 
Now awful Beauty inits on all its arms; 
The fair each moment ri.ses in her charms, 
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace. 
And calls forth all the wonders of her face : 
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, 
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 
The busy sylphs surround their darling care : 
These set the head, and those divide the hair ; 
Some fold the sleeve, while others iilait the gown ; 
Aud Betty's praised for labors not her own. 

Canto II. 

Nor with more glories, in the etliereal plain, 
The sun first rises o'er the jjurpled main, 
Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams 
Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames. 
Fair nymphs and well-dressed youth around her 

shone. 
But every eye was fixed on her alone. 

On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore. 
Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore ; 
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose. 
Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those : 
Favors to none, to all she smiles extends : 
Oft she rejects, but never once offeuds. 
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike. 
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. 
Yet, graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride. 
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide: 



' Strangely amoug onr graiidniothers reckoued oruaments 
to beaiuy. 



146 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AilEIilCAX POETRY. 



It" to lier share some female errors fall, 
Look on her face, aud you'll forget them all. 

This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, 
Nourished two locks, -nhich graceful hung beliind 
In equal curls, and well couspired to deck 
With shining ringlets the smooth ivory neck. 
Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, 
Aud mighty hearts are held in sleuder chains. 
With hairy springes we the birds betray, 
Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey. 
Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare, 
Aud beauty draws us with a single hair. 



THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. 

Father of all! iu every age. 

In every clime, adored. 
By saint, by savage, and by sage, 

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! 

Tliou great First Cause, least understood. 

Who all my sense confined 
To know but this, that thou art good, 

And that myself am blind ; 

Yet gave me, in this dark estate, 

To see the good from ill ; 
And, binding nature fast in fate, 

Left free the human will: — 

What conscience dictates to be done. 

Or warns me not to do. 
This teach me more than hell to shun. 

That more than heaven pursue. 

What blessiugs thy free bouuty gives. 

Let me not cast away ; 
For God is paid when man receives: 

To enjoy is to obey. 

Yet not to earth's contracted span • 
Thy goodness let mo bound ; 

Or think thee Lord alone of man. 
When thousand worlds arc round. 

Lot not tliis weak, unknowing hand 
Presume thy bolts to throw, 

Aud deal danm.itiou round the land 
On each I judge thy foe. 

If 1 am right, thy grace impart 
Still iu the right to stay; 



If I am wrong, oh, teach my heart 
To liiid that better way. 

Save nie alike from foolish pride, 

Or impious discontent ; 
At aught thy wisdom has denied, 

Or aught thy goodness lent. 

Teach me to feel another's woe ; 

To hide the fault I see; 
That mercy I to others show, 

That mercy show to me. 

Mean though I am, not wholly so, 
Since quickened by thy breath ; 

Oh, lead me, wheresoe'er I go, — 
Through this day's life or death. 

This day, be bread and peace my lot: 

All else beneath the sun 
Thou Unow'st if best bestowed or not. 

And let thy will be done. 

To thee, whose temple is all space, 
Who.se altar, earth, sea, skies! 

One chorus let all being raise ; 
All nature's incense rise! 



THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 

This ode was partly suggested by the followiug Hues, written 
by the Emperor Adriau : 

ADRIANI MORIENTIS.— AD ANIMAM SUAM. 

Auimiila, vagula, blaudubi, 
Ilospes Comesque Corporis, 
Qu:e luiuc abibis in loca, 
PnlIi(Uila, rij^ida, nudulaf 
Nee, ul soles, dabis joca. 

Pope's lines were composed at the request of Steele, wlio wrote : 
"This is to desire of you that you would please to make an 
ode as of a cheerful, dying spirit : that is to say, the Emperor 
Adrian's animiila vagula put into two or three stanzas for mu- 
sic." Pope replied with the three stanzas below, and says to 
Steele in a letter, "Yon have it, as Cowley calls it, warm from 
the brain. It came to me the first moment I waked this morn- 
ing." 

Vital spark of heavenly flame. 
Quit, oh ([uit this mortal frame ! 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, iiying, 
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! 
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, 
And let me languish into life. 

Hark! they whisper; angels say, 
Sister spirit, eomo away. 



ALEXANDER POPE. 



147 



Wli:it is tliis absorbs me quite, 

Steals uiy senses, shuts my siglit, 
Drowns my spirits, draws mj' breatli ? 
Tell me, my soul, cau this be death ? 

The world recedes ; it disappears ; 
Heaven opens on my eyes ; my ears 

With sounds seraphic ring : 
Lend, lend your wings! I iiu)uut! I fly! 
O grave ! where is thy victory f 

O death ! where is thy sting ? 



FROM "ELOISA TO ABELARD." 

lu these deep solitudes and awful cells. 
Where heavenly-pensive Contemplation dwells, 
And ever-musing Melancholy reigus ; 
What means this tumult iu a vestal's veins ? 
Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat ? 
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat ? 
Yet, yet I love ! — From Abelard it came, 
And Eloisa yet must kiss the name. 

Dear, fatal name! rest ever unrevealed, 
Xor pass these lips iu holy silence sealed : 
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, 
Where, mixed with God's, his loved idea lies : 
Oh, write it not, my baud — the name appears 
Already written — wash it out, my tears ! 
In vain lost Elo'isa weeps and prays. 
Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys. 

Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains 
Repentant sighs and voluntary i)ains : 
Ye rugged rocks ! which holy knees have worn : 
Ye grots and caverns shagged with horrid thorn ! 
Shrines! where their vigils pale-eyed virgins keep; 
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weeji ! 
Though cold like .you, unmoved and silent grown, 
I have not yet forgot myself to stone. 
All is not Heaven's while Abelard has part. 
Still rebel Nature holds out half my heart ; 
Xor prayers nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain, 
Xor tears, for ages taught to How in vain. 

Soou as thy letters trembling I unclose. 
That well-known name awakens all my woes. 
Oh, name forever sad! forever dear! 
Still breathed in sighs, still ushered with a tear. 
I tremble too, where'er my own I find. 
Some dire misfortune follows close behind. 
Line after line my gushiug eyes o'erflow, 
L.ed through a sad variety of woo : 
Now warm in love, now withering iu my bloom. 
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom! 



There stern Religion quenched th' unwilling flame. 
There died the best of passions, love and fame. 

Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join 
Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine. 
Nor foes uor Fortune take this power away ; 
And is my Abelard less kind than they t 
Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare. 
Love but demands what else were shed iu prayei : 
X'o happier task these faded eyes pursue ; 
To read and weep is all they now cau do. 

Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief; 
Ah, more than share it, give me all thy grief. 
Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid. 
Some b.auished lover, or some captive maid ; 
They live, they speak, thej' breathe what love in- 

sjiires. 
Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires, 
The virgin's wish without her fears impart, 
Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart. 
Speed the soft iutercour.se from soul to soul. 
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole. 



CONCLUSION OF THE "ESSAY ON MAN' 

What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy. 

The soul's calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy, 

Is Virtue's prize : A better would you fix ? 

Then give Humility a coach and six. 

Justice a conqueror's sword, or Truth a gown. 

Or Public Spirit its great cure, a crown. 

Weak, foolish man ! will Heaven reward «s there 

With the same trash mad mortals wish for here ' 

The boy and man an individual makes, 

Y'et sigh'st thou now for apples and for cakes? 

Go, like the Indian, in another life 

Expect thy dog, thy bottle, and thy wife ; 

As well as dream such trifles are assigned. 

As toys and empires, for a godlike mind ; 

Rewards, that either would to virtue bring 

No joy, or be destructive of the thing; 

How oft by these at sixty are undone 

The virtues of a saint at twenty-one ! 

To whom can riches give repute, or trust. 

Content, or pleasure, but the good and just? 

Judges aud senates have been bought for gold ; 

Esteem aud love were never to bo sold. 

O fool ! to think God hates the worthy mind. 

The lover aud the love of humau-kind, 

Whose life is healthful, aud whose conscieuce 

clear. 
Because he wants a thousand pounds a year! 



148 



CTCLOPJ^niA OF BUlTlSn AXD AilEIUCAN POEmV. 



Honor and sbame from no condition rise ; 
Act well your part, tliere all the honor lies. 
Fortune in men has some small diSereuce made, 
One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade ; 
The cobbler aproned, and the parson gowned, 
Tlie friar hooded, and the monarch crowned. 
"What differ more,'' you cry, "than crown and 

cowl .'■' 
I'll tell you, friend ! a wise man and a fool. 
You'll find, if once the mouarcli acts the monk. 
Or, cobbler-like, the parson ■will be drunk. 
Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow ; 
The rest is all but leather or prunella. 

^ * --^ 7? ^ » 

Go! if your ancient, but ignoble blood 

Has crept through scoundrels ever since the Flood, 

Go ! and pretend your family is young ; 

Nor own your fathers have been fools so long. 

What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards ? 

Alas ! not all the blood of all the Howards. 

Look next on greatness ; say, where greatness 
lies : 
"Where but among the heroes and the ■wise?" 
Heroes are much the same, the point's agreed. 
From Macedonia's madman to the Swede ; 
The Avhole strange purpose of their lives, to find. 
Or make, an enemy of all mankind ! 
Not one looks back^^'ard, onw.ard still he goes. 
Yet ne'er looks forward furtlier than his nose. 
No less alike the politic and w-iso : 
All sly slow things, witli circumspective eyes: 
Men in their loose, nngnardi^l hours they take; 
Not that themselves are wise, but others weak. 
But grant that those can conquer, these can 

cheat : 
'Tis phra.se absurd to call a villain great ; 
Wlio wickedly is wise, or madly brave. 
Is but the more a fool, the more a knave. 
Who noble ends by noble means obtains. 
Or, failing, smiles in exile or in chains. 
Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed 
Lilic Socrates, that man is great indeed. 

What's fame ? a fancied life in others' breath, 
A tiling beyond n.s, ev'n before onr deatli. 
.Just what you licar, you liave ; and what's un- 
known, 
Tlie same, my lord, if Tully's, or your own. 
All that we feel of it begins and ends 
In the small circle of our foes or friends ; 
To all beside as much an empty shade 
An Eugene living, as a Cajsar dead; 
Alike or when, or where they shone, or shine. 
Or on the Kubicon, or on the Rhine. 



A wit's a feather, and a chief a rod : 

An honest man's the noblest work of God. 

Fame but from death a villain's name can save, 

As Justice tears his body from the grave ; 

When what t' oblivion better were resigned, 

Is hung on high to poison half mankind. 

All fame is foreign, but of true desert; 

Plays round the head, but coraes not to the heart: 

One self-approving hour wlude years outweighs 

Of stupid starers, and of loud huzzas; 

And more true joy Marcellus exiled feels, 

Than Caisar with a senate at his heels. 

In parts superior what advantage lies? 
Tell (for you can) what is it to be wise? 
'Tis but to know how little can be known ; 
To see all others' faults, and feel our own : 
Condemned in business or in arts to drudge, 
Without a second, or without a judge: 
Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land ? 
All fear, noue aid you, and few understand. 
Painful pre-eminence ! yourself to view 
Above life's weakness, and its comforts too. 

liring, then, these blessings to a strict account; 
Make fair deductions ; see to what they mount : 
How much of other each is sure to cost ; 
How much for other oft is wholly lost ; 
How inconsistent greater goods with these; 
How sometimes life is risked, and always ease : 
Think, and if still the things thy envy call, 
Say, wonldst thou bo the man to whom they fall? 
To sigh for ribbons, if thou art so silly, 
Mark liow they grace Lord Umbra, or Sir Billy. 
Is yellow dirt the passion of thy life? 
Look but on Gripus, or on Gripus' wife. 
If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shined. 
The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind : 
Or, ravished with the whistling of a name. 
See Cromwell, danmed to everlasting fame ! 

* # Jf * i< # 

Know, then, this truth (enough for man to know), 
"Virtue alone is happiness below;" 
The only point where human bliss stands still, 
And tastes the good without the fall to ill; 
Where only merit constant jiay receives. 
Is blest in what it takes, and what it gives; 
The joy nncqualled, if its end it gain. 
And if it lose, attended with uo pain ; 
Without satiety, though e'er so blest. 
And but more relished as the more distressed: 
The broadest mirth nnfeeling Folly wears. 
Less pleasing far than Virtue's very tears ; 
Good, from each object, from each place, acquired, 
Forever exercised, yet never tired ; 



ALEXANDER POPE. 



149 



Never elated while (uio iiiau's oppressed ; 
Never dejected while another's blest; 
And where no wants, no wishes can remain, 
Since bnt to wish more virtue is to gain. 

See the sole bliss Heaven could on all bestow ! 
Which who but feels cau taste, but thinks can 

know? 
Yet poor witli fortune, and with learning blind, 
Tlio bad must miss, the good, uutanght, will lind ; 
Slave to uo sect, who takes uo private road. 
But looks through Nature up to Nature's God ; 
Pursues that chain which links th' immense design. 
Joins heaven and earth, and mortal and divine ; 
Sees that uo being any bliss can know 
But touches some above and some below ; 
Learns from this union of the rising whole 
Tlie tirst, last jiurposo of the human soul ; 
And knows where faith, law, morals all began, 
All end in love of God and love of man. 
For him alone Hope leads from goal to goal, 
And opens still, and opens on his soul ; 
Till, lengthened on to Faith, and unconl'ined. 
It iiours the bliss that fills up all the mind. 
He sees why Nature plants in man alone 
Hope of known bliss, and faith in bliss unkuov.n 
(Nature, whose dictates to uo other kind 
Are given in Yaiu, but what they seek they lind): 
Wise is her present; she connects in this 
His greatest virtue with his greatest bliss ; 
At once his own bright prospect to be blest, 
And strongest motive to assist the rest. 

Self-love, thus puslied to social, to divine, 
Gives thee to make thy neighbor's blessing thine. 
Is this too little for the boundless heart? 
E.vtend it, let thy enemies have part. 
Grasp the whole worlds of reason, life, and sense 
In one close system of benevolence ; 
Happier as kinder, in whate'er degree, 
And height of bliss but height of charity. 

God loves from whole to parts ; but human soul 
Must rise from individual to the whole. 
Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake. 
As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake : 
The centre moved, a, circle straight succeeds, 
Another still, and still another spreads ; 
Friend, parent, neighbor, first it will embrace; 
Ilis conntrj' next, and next all human race ; 
Wide and more wide, th' o'erflowings of the mind 
Take every creature in, of every kind ; 
Earth smiles around, with boundless bounty blest, 
And Heaven beholds its image in his breast. 

Come, then, my friend! my genius! come along! 
Oh master of the poet and the soug! 



And while the Mnse now stoops, or now ascends. 
To man's low passions, or their glorious ends, 
Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise, 
To fall with dignitj', with temper rise ; 
Formed by thy converse, happily to steer, 
From grave to gay, from lively to severe ; 
Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease ; 
Intent to reason, or polite to please. r 
Oh, while along the stream of time thy uame 
Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame, 
Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, 
Pursue the triumph, .ind partake the gale ? 
When statesmen, heroes, kiug.s, in dust repose. 
Whose sous shall blush their fathers were thy foes. 
Shall then this verso to future ago pretend 
Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend? 
That, urged by thee, I turned the tuneful art. 
From sounds to tilings, from fancy to the heart 1 
For Wit's false mirror held up Nature's light ; 
Showed erring Pride, Whatever is, is kigiit ; 
That reason, passion, answer one great aim ; 
That true self-love and social are the same ; 
That virtue only mal;es our bliss below ; 
And all our knowledge is ourselves to know ?' 



OF THE CHARACTERS OF WOMEN. 

I-HOM " To A Lady," Epistle II. 

Ah ! friend, to dazzle let the vain design ; 
To raise tlio thought and touch the heart be thine! 
That charm shall grow, while what fatigues the ring 
Flaunts and goes down, an unregarded thing : 
So, when the Sun's broad beam has tired the sight, 
All mild ascends the Moon's more sober light. 
Serene in virgin modesty she shines, 
And unobserved the glaring orb declines. 

Oh ! blest with temper, whoso unclouded ray 
Can mako to-morrow cheerful as to-day : 
She, who cau love a sister's charms, or hear 
Sighs for a daughter with unwouuded ear ; 
She who ne'er answers till a husband cools, 
Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules ; 
Cliarms by accepting, by submitting sways, 
Yet has her humor most wlieu she obeys ; 
Lets fops or fortune lly which way they will, 
Disdains all loss of tickets or codille ; 
Spleen, vapors, or small-pox, above them all. 
And mistress of herself, though china fall. 

Aud yet, believe me, good as well .as ill, 
Woman's at best a contradiction still. 

^ The "E-'^say on Man" is in fuur epistles, addressed to 
Henry St. John, Lord Bolingbroke. 



150 



CYCLOPJiDIA OF BRlTISn AXD AMEIUCJX PUETllT. 



Heavcu, wIil'h it strives to iiolisli all it cau 

Its last best work, but forms a softer man ; 

Picks froui each sex, to make the favorite blest, 

Vour love of pleasure, our desire of rest: 

Bleuds, iu exception to all general rules, 

Your taste of follies with onr scorn of fools : 

liescrve with frankness, art with truth allieil. 

Courage with softness, modesty with pride; 

Fixed priuciples, with fancy ever new; 

Sliakes all together, and produces — yon. 

lie this a woman's fame! with this unblest. 

Toasts live a scorn, and queens may die a jest. 

Tills Phcebus promised (I forget the year) 

When those blue eyes iirst opened on the sphere ; 

.\seendaut rhoebiis watched that hour 'with care, 

.V verted half your parents' simple prayer ; 

And gave you beauty, but denied the pelf 

That buys your sex a tyrant o'er itself. 

The generous god, who gold and wit reflues. 

And ripens spirits as he ripens mines. 

Kept dross for duchesses, the world shall know it. 

To you gave seuse, good humor, and a poet. 



PROLOGUE TO ilR. ADDLSOX'S TRAGEDY OF 
" CATO." 

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art. 
To rai.se the genius, aud to mend the heart; 
To make mankind in couscious virtue bold. 
Live o'er each .scene, and be what they l)ehold-. 
For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage. 
Commanding tears to stream through every age ; 
Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, 
Aud foes to Virtue woudercd how they wept. 
Our author shuns by vulgar spriugs to move 
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love ; 
In pitying Love, vre bnt our weakness show. 
And wild Ambition well deserves its woe. 
Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause, 
Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws : 
He bids your breasts with ancient ardor vise. 
And calls forth Roman drops from ISritish i-yes. 
Virtue confessed in human shape ho draws, 
"What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was : 
No common object to your sight displays. 
But what witli pleasure Heaven itself surveys, 
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, 
Aud greatly falling with a falling state. 
While Cato givte his little senate laws, 
What bo.som beats not iu his country's canse ? 
Who sees him act, but envies every ileed ? 
WIio hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed? 



Even when proud Caesar midst triumphal cars, 
Tlie spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars. 
Ignobly vain, and impoteutly great. 
Showed Rome her Cato's figure drawn iu state ; 
As her dead father's reverend image ijast, 
The pomp was darkened, aud the day o'ercast ; 
Tlie triumph ceased, tears gushed from every eye ; 
Tlio world's great victor passed unheeded by ; 
Her last good man dejected Rome adored, 
Aud honored C;esar's less than Cato's sword. 

Britons, attend : bo worth like this approved. 
And show yon have the virtue to be moved. 
With honest scorn the first famed Cato viewed 
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued; 
Your scene precariously subsists too long 
On French translatiou, and Italian song. 
Dare to have sense yourselves ; assert the stage, 
Be justly warmed with your own native rage ; 
Such plays alone should win a British ear, 
As Cato's self had not disdained to hear. 



THE MOON. 



Translated from Hosier. 



As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night. 
O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light, 
Wheu not a breath disturbs the deep serene. 
And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene, 
Around her throne the vivid planets roll, 
And stars unnumbered gild the glowing pole; 
O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed, 
And tip with silver every mountain's head ; 
Then shine the vales, the rocks iu prospect rise, 
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies : 
The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight. 
Eye the blue vault, aud bless the useful light. 



FROM "THE TEMPLE OF FAME." 

Nor Fame I slight, nor for her favors call : 

She comes nnlooked for, if she comes at all. 

But if the purchase cost so dear a price 

As soothing folly, or exalting vice, — 

Oh ! if the muse nuist Hatter lawless sway, 

.\ud follow still whore fortune leads the way, — 

Or if no basis bear my rising name. 

But the fallen ruins of another's fame, — 

Then teach me. Heaven ! to scorn the guilty bays. 

Drive from my breast that wretched lust of praise; 

Unblemished let me live, or die unknown : 



ALEXAA'DEB POPE.—JOBN GAY. 



151 



LINES ON ADDISON. 

Wheu Pope first came to town, a boy nnd little known, he 
cnui'ted Addison, and wrote an admirable prolo^^ue fur his 
"Cato." Gradually a coolness arope between them. Some 
think that Addison was jealons of I'ope's brightening fume; 
but it is far more probalde that Pope, whose peevish temper 
Avas the accompaniment of a sickly frame, took ofl'ence at fan- 
cied wrongs. His ''portrait" of Addison must, therefore, be 
regarded more as a literary cariosity than as an honest like- 
ness. The lines are friim the *' Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot." 

Peace to all such ! but were there one whose fires 
Tiiio gcuius kiudles, auil fair fauie iusplres; 
Blest with each talent ami each art to please, 
And Ijorii to write, converse, and live with ease: 
Slioultl such a man, too fond to rule alone. 
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, 
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, 
And hate for arts that caused himself to rise; 
Damn with faint jiraise, assent with civil leer. 
And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; 
Willing to wound, ami yet afraid to strike ; 
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; 
Alike reserved to blame or to commend, 
A timorous foe, and a suspicions friend ; 
Dreading even fools, by llatterers besieged, 
, And so obliging that he ne'er obliged ; 
Like Cato, give his little senate laws, 
And sit attentive to his own appUiuse ; 
Whilst wits and Templars every sentence raise, 
And wonder witli a foolisli face of praise : — 
Who but must laugh if sucli a one there be ? 
Who would not weep if Atticus were he ? 



CONCLUSION OF "THE DUNCIAD." 

Site comes ! she comes ! the sable throne behold 

Of Night primeval, and of Chaos old ! 

Before her Fancy's gilded clouds decay, 

And all its varying rainbows die away. 

Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires, 

Tlie meteor drops, and in a flash expires. 

As one by one, at dread Meilea's strain. 

The sickening stars fade off the ethereal plain ; 

As Argus' eye, by Hermes' wand opprest. 

Closed one by one to everlasting rest; 

Tlius, at her felt approach, and secret miglit. 

Art after art goes out, and all is night. 

See skulking Truth, to her old caveru fled. 

Mountains of casuistry heaped o'er her head ! 

Philosophy, that leaned on Heaven before. 

Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. 

Pliysic of metaphysic begs defence. 

And uietaiihysic calls for aid on sense! 



See mystery to mathematics fly ! 

In vain ! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die. 

Religion, blushing, veils her sacred fires, 

And unawares morality expires. 

Nor public flame, nor private dares to shine : 

Nor hum.au sp.ark is left, nor glimpse divine ! 

Lo ! thy dread empire. Chaos ! is restored ; 

Light dies before thy uncreating word ; 

Tliy hand, great Anarch ! lets the curtain fall, 

Anil universal darkness buries all. 



iJoljn (l^an. 

A Devonsliire man of good family (1088-1732), Gay 
was first apprenticed to a silk-mcrccr in London. Not 
liking the business, he got his discharge, and commenced 
writing poetrj'. As domestic secretary to the Duchess 
of Monmoutli, he found leisure for literary pursuits. He 
is best known by his "Fables" and his "Beggars' Ope- 
ra." This Uist, produced in 1737, was the great success 
of his life. Swift h.id suggested to Gay the idea of a 
Newgate pastoral. Tliis gave rise to the "Beggars' Op- 
era." It was offered to Gibber, at Drury Lane, and re- 
fused. It was then offered to Rich, at Covent Garden, 
and accepted. Its success gave rise to the saying that 
"it made Rich gay, and Gay rich." It was composed in 
ridicule of the Italian Opera, and had such a run that it 
drove the Italians aw.ay for that season. 

As a poet. Gay hardly rises above mediocrity ; but he 
was the inventor of the English Ballad Opera, and some 
of his "Fables" are excellent, having a philosophical 
and moi'al purpose far beyond that of ordinary verses. 
His " Trivia, or The Art of Walking the Streets of Lon- 
don," lias some witty lines; and his "Epistle to Pope 
on the Completion of his Translation of Homer's Iliad " 
is still worth reading as a rapid sketch of Pope's fasli- 
ionablo acquaintances. The fable of "The Hare and 
Many Friends" is supposed to be drawn from Gay's 
own experience; for he sought court favor, and was 
grievously disappointed. 

Pope says that Gay " w.ts a natural man, without de- • 
sign, who spoke wliat he thought, and just as he thought 
it." Swift was deeply attached to him, and Pope char- 
acterizes Gay as 

"Of manners gentle, of affections mild ; 
In wit, a man ; simplicity, a child." 

Gay's mortal remains were interred in Westminster Ab- 
bey, where a handsome monument w.as erected to his 
memory by the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry. 



SWEET WILLIAM'S FAREWELL TO BLACK- 
EYED SUSAN. 

All in tlie Downs the fleet was moored, 
The streamers waving in the wind, 

Wlien blaclc-eyed Sus.au came aboard. 
" Oh, where shall I my true love find ? 



152 



CVCLOPJSDIA OF BUITISH AND AilEIUCJX J'OKTJIT. 



Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true. 

It' my sweet William sails amoug the crew." 

William, who, liigli upon the yard. 

Rocked with the billow to and fio. 
Soon as her wcll-lvnown voice ho heard, 
He sighed, and cast his eyes helow : 
The cord slides swiftly through his glowing 

hands. 
And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. 

So the sweet lark, high poised in air. 

Shuts close ijis pinions to his breast. 
If chance his mate's shrill call he hear. 
And drops at once into her nest : 
The noblest captain in the British fleet 
Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet. 

"O Susan, Susan, lovely dear! 

My vows shall ever true remain ; 
Let me kiss off that falling tear; 
W'e only part to meet again. 
Change as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be 
The faitUful compass that still points to thee. 

" Believe not what the landsmen say. 

Who temjit with doubts thy constant mind. 
They'll tell thee sailor.s. when away, 
In every port a mistress liud : 
Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, 
For tliiiu art present whorcsoe'er I go. 

" If to fair India's coast we sail. 

Thy ejes are seen in diamonds bright ; 
Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, 
Thy skin is ivory so white. 
Thus every beauteous object that I view 
Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. 

"Though battle call mo from thy arms, 

Let not my i)retty Susan mourn ; 
Tiiough cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, 
William shall to liis dear return. 
Love turns aside the balls that rouu<l mi' lly, 
Lest precious tears should drop from Susau'.- 
eye." 

The boatswain gave the dreadful word. 

The sails their swelling bosom spread ; 
No longer must she stay aboard : 

Tliey kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. 
Her Ir.ssening boat niiwilling i-ows to land : 
"Adieu!" she cries, and waved her lily haml. 



THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS. 
From the " Fables." 

Friendship, like love, is bnt a name. 
Unless to one you stint the flame. 
The child whom many fathers share 
Hath seldom known a father's care. 
'Tis thus in friendship : who depend 
On many, rarely find a friend. 

A Hare, who, in a civil way, 
Complied with everything, like Gay, 
Was known by all the bestial train 
Who haunt the wood or graze the pl:iin : 
Her care was never to offend. 
And every creature was her friend. 

As forth she went at early dawn, 
To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn. 
Behind she bears the hunter's cries. 
And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies. 
Slie starts, she stops, she pants for breath ; 
She hears the near advance of deatli ; 
She doubles, to mislead the hound, 
And measures back her raazy round ; 
Till, fainting in the public way, 
Half dead with fear she gasping lay. 

What transjiort in her bosom grew 
When first the Horse appeared in view ! 

"Let me," says she, "your back ascend, 
And owe my safety to a friend. 
Yon know my feet betray my flight: 
To friendship every burden's light." 

The Horse replied, "Poor honest Puss, 
It grieves my heart to see thee thus : 
Be comforted ; relief is near. 
For all your friends are in the rear." 

She next the stately Bull implored, 
And thus replied the mighty lord : 
"Since every beast alive can tell 
That I sincerely wish you well, 
I may without offence pretend 
To take the freedom of a friend. 
Love calls me hence ; a favorite cow 
Expects mo near yon barley-mow ; 
And when a lady's in the case. 
Yon know, all other things give place. 
To leave you thus might seem unkind, 
But, see, the Goat is just behind." 

The Goat remarked her pulse was high, 
Her languid head, her heavy eye: 
" My back," says he, " may do you harm ; 
The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm." 

The Sheep was feeble, and complained 
His sides a load of wool sustaii\ed; 



JOHN BTBOM. 



153 



Sai(l lie was slow ; eoufessed bis fears, 
For liouuds eat sheep as well as hares. 

She uow tlio trotting Calf adJrcssetl 
To save from death a friend distressed. 

"Shall I," says he, "of tender age. 
In this important care engage ? 
Older and abler passed yon by. 
How strong are those ! how weak am 1 ! 
Should I presnmo to bear you hence, 
Those friends of mine may talio oft'eiico. 
Excuse me, tlien ; you know my heart ; 
I!nt dearest friends, alas ! must part. 
How shall we all lament! Adieu; 
For, see, the hounds are just in view." 



3oljn Sjivom. 



Byrom (1C91-17GIH) was born near Manchester, was ed- 
ucated at Cambridi^e, and studied medicine in France. 
His poetical reputation seems to have oilgiuatcd in a 
pastoral poem, "My time, O ye Muses, was liappily 
spent," published in tlie Spectator, October Otii, 1714, 
and mildly commended by Addison. In reading it uow, 
one is surprised to find tliat so slender a literary invest- 
ment could liave produced such returns of fame. By- 
rom, however, proved liimself capable of better things. 
He invented a system of steuograplij', in teacliing which 
he liad Gibbon and Horace Walpolc for pupils. By the 
death of a brother he at last became heir to the family 
property in Manchester, where lie lived much respected. 
His poems were included by Chalmers in his edition of 
the poets. 



MY SPIRIT LONGETH FOR THEE. 

My spirit longeth for thee 
Witliiii my trouliled breast, 

Although I lie uuworthj- 
Of so divine a Gnest. 

Of so divine a Guest 
Unworthy though I be. 

Yet has my heart no rest 
Unless it come from tliee. 

Unless it come from thee. 
In vain I look around; 

In all that I can see 
No rest is to be found. 

No rest is to bo found 
But iu thy blessf'd love: 

Oil, let my wish be crowned, 
And send it fnmi above ! 



THE ANSWER. 

Cheer up, desiiouding snnl ! 

Thy longing pleased I see ; 
'Tis part of tliat great whole 

Wherewitli I longed for thee. 

Wlierewith I longed for thee, ._ 
And left my Father's throne, 

From death to set thee free, 
To claim thee for my own. 

To claim thee for my own 
I suffered on the cross. 

Oh, were my love but known, 
No soul could fear its loss. 

No soul could fear its loss. 
But, filled with love divine, 

Would die on its own cross, 
And rise forever mine. 



AN EPIGRAM ON THE BLESSEDNESS OF 
DIVINE LOVE. 

Faith, Hope, and Love were questioned what they 

thought 
Of fnturo glory, which Religion taught. 
Now, Faith believed it firmly to be true. 
And Hope expected so to find it too; 
Love answered, smiling, with .a conscious glow, 
Believe ? expect ? I ktiow it to bo so. 



ST. PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH. 

St. Philip Neri, as old readings say, 

Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day; 

And, being ever courteously inclined 

To give young folks a sober turn of mind, 

He fell into discourse with him ; and thus 

The dialogue they held conies down to us. 

St. P. N. Tell me what brings yon, gentle youth, 
to Rome f 

Youth. To make myself a scholar, sir, I come. 

St. P. X. And when you are one, what do you in- 
tend ? 

Youth. To be a priest, I hope, sir, iu the end. 

St. P. N. Suppose it so, what have you ue.\t in 
view ? 

Youth. That I may get to be a canon too. 

St. r. X. Well, and liow then ? 



154 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEKICAX POETRT. 



Youth. ^^"''yi tlu'ii, fur aiiglit I know, 

I may be made a bisliop. 

.S7. P. X. Be it so, — 

What then ? 

Youth. Why, cardiual's a liigU degree, 

And yet my lot it possibly may be. 

St. P. X. Suppose it was, — what thcu? 

Youth. ^^ liy> wlio can say 

But I've a cliance of being jiope one day? 

.Sf. P. X. Well, having worn the mitre, and red hat. 
And triple crown, what follows after that ? 

Youth. Nay, there is nothing further, to be sure, 
Upou this earth that wishing can procure : 
When I've enjoyed a dignity so high 
As long as God shall please, then I must die. 

St. P. X. What! must you die, fond youth? and 
at the best 
But wi.sh, and hope, and maijhe all the rest? 
Take my advice — whatever may betide. 
For that which must be, first of all provide; 
Then think of that which maij be ; and, indeed, 
When well prepared, who knows what may succeed? 
Who knows but you may then be, as you hope. 
Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope t 



JACOBITE TOAST. 

Gild bless the king! — I mean the Faith's Defender; 
God bless (no harm in blessing) the Pretender! 
But who Pretender is, or who is king, — 
God bless us all! — that's qnite another thing. 



illattljcu) (5rfcn. 

Little is known of Matthew Green (1690-1737) except 
tliat lie had his education among the Dissenters, and his 
employment in the London Custom-house. He is re- 
nn'nibered by his poem of "The Spleen;" less known 
than it deserves to be to modern readers. It contains 
less than nine hundred lines ; is full of linppj' expres- 
sions, and evidently the production of a profound, origi- 
nal, and independent thinker. Gr.iy recognized his gen- 
ius, and said of him,'" Even his wood-notes often break 
(Hit into strains of real poetry and music." Aikin, while 
naively objecting to Green's speculating " very freely on 
religious topics," remarks : " It is further attested that 
he was a man of great probity and sweetness of dispo- 
sition, and that his conversation iiboiinded with wit, but 
of the most inoffensive kind. * * * He passed his life in 
celibacy. Few jioems will bear more repeated pei-iisals 
than his ; and with those who can fully enter into them, 
they do not fail to become favorites." The motto on 
the title-page of the original edition (1737) of "The 



Spleen " is : " Orandnm est ut sit mens sana in corpore 
sano." It is "inscribed by the author to his particular 
friend, Mr. C. J." 



FROM "THE SPLEEN." 

This motley piece to you I send. 
Who always were a faithful friend ; 
Who, if disputes should happen hence, 
Can best explain the author's sense; 
And, anxions for the public weal, 
Do, what I sing, so often feel. 

The want of method pray excuse, 
Allowing for a vapored Muse ; 
Nor to a narrow path confined. 
Hedge in by rules a roving mind. 

The child is genuine, you may trace 
Thnnighout the sire's transmitted face. 
Nothing is stolen : my Muse, though mean, 
Draws from the spring she finds within ; 
Nor vainly buys what Gildon' sells, 
Poetic buckets for dry wells. 

Such thoughts as love the gloom of night, 
I close examine by the light; 
For who, though briljcd by gain to lie, 
Dare sunbeam-written truths deny. 
Ami execute plain common-sense. 
On faith's mere hearsay evidence? 

That superstition mayn't create. 
And club its ills with those of fate, 
I many a notion take to task, 
Made dreadful by its visor-mask ; 
Thus scruple, spasm of the mind. 
Is cured, and certainty I lind ; 
Since optic reason shows me plain, 
I dreaded spectres of the braiu ; 
And legendary fears are gone. 
Though in tenacious childhood sown. 
Thus in opinions I eomnieuee 
Freeholder, in the proper sense, 
And neither suit nor service do, 
Nor homage to preteuders show, 
Who boast themselves, by spuri(uis roll. 
Lords of the manor of the soul ; 
Preferring sense, from chin that's bare. 
To nonsense throned in whiskered hair. 

" To thee. Creator nncreate, 
O ICiilium Rus! divinely great!" 



' Gildon pul)lislied (1II8) a "Compiele Art of Poeti-y." lie 
eeenis to have beon a lilernry pretender. Mncaulny spenks of 
liini as "a had wi-itei-." mid as pes-'teriiiij: tiie public "with dog- 
i;erel nud shun". ,"' l*opo ineutious him coutenipluunsly. 



MATTHEW GREEN.— ROBERT BLAIR. 



U5 



Hold, Muse, nor un-ltiiig' jiiiiioiis try, 

Xor near the bltizing glory fly ; 

Nor, straining, break tliy feeble bow, 

tlufeatliered arrows far to tbrow 

Througli fiekls unknown, nor madly stray, 

Where uo ideas mark the way. 

With tender eyes, and colors faint, 

And trembling bands forbear to paint. 

Wlio, features veiled by light, can hit? 

Wliere can, what lias no ontline, sit? 

My son], the vain attcniiit forego, 

Tliyself, the fitter subject, know. 

He wisely shuns the bold extreme. 

Who soon lays by the unequal theme, 

Nor runs, with Wisdom's sirens caught, 

On quicksands swallowing shipwrecked thought; 

But, conscious of his distance, gives 

Mute praise, and bumble negatives. 

lu One, no object of our sight, 
Iniiuutable, and infinite. 
Who can't be cruel, or unjust, 
C'nlni and resigned, I lis my trust; 
To Him my past and present state 
I owe, and must my future fate. 
A stranger into life I'm come, 
Dying may be our going home: 
Transijorted here by angry fate, 
Tlie convicts of a prior state. 

Hence, I no anxious thoughts bestow 
On matters I can never know : 
Through life's foul way, like vagrant, passed, 
He'll grant a settlement at last ; 
And with sweet ease the wearied crown, 
By leave to lay bis being down. 
If doomed to dance the eternal round 
Of life, no sooner lost but found, 
And dissolution, soou to come. 
Like sponge, wipes out life's present sum, 
But can't our state of power bereave 
An endless series to receive ; 
Then, if hard dealt with here by fate, 
We balance in anotlier state. 
And consciousness must go along, 
And sign th' acquittance for the wrong. 
He for his creatures must decree 
Jlore happiness than misery, 
Or be suppose to create. 
Curious to try, what 'tis to h.ate : 
And do an act, whicli rage infers, 
'Cause lameness halts, or blinduess crr.s. 

Thus, thus I steer my bark, and sail 
On even keel with gentle gale ; 



At helm I make my reason sit, 

My crew of passions all submit. 

If dark .and blustering prove some nights, 

Philosophy puts forth her lights ; 

Experience holds the cautious glass, 

To shun the breakers as I pass, 

And frequent throws the wary lead, 

To see what dangers may be hid: 

And once in seven years I'm seen 

At Bath or Tunbridge, to careen. 

Though pleased to see the dolphins play, 

I mind my compass and my way: 

Witli store sufficient for relief. 

And wisely still prepared to reef; 

Nor wanting the dispersive bowl 

Of cloudy weather in the soul, 

I make (may Heaven propitious send 

Sncli wind and weatlier to tlie end!). 

Neither becalmed nor overblown, 

Life's voyage to the world unknown. 



Holcrt Blair. 

Blair (ir)9!J-17-J6) was a native of Edinburgh, became a 
clergyman, and wrote a poem, vigorous in execution, en- 
titled "The Grave." In it he ignores the poetical as- 
pects of his subject, and revels much in the physically 
repulsive. It was written before the " Night Thoughts " 
of Young, but has little of tlie condensed force of that 
remarkable work. There are, however, occasion.il flashes 
of poetic fire in Blair's sombre production. He died 
young, of a fever, leaving a numerous family. 



DEATH OF THE STRONG MAN. 

Strength, too ! thou surly, and less gentle boast 
Of tliose that laugh loud at the village ring! 
A fit of common sickness pulls thee down 
With greater ease than e'er thou didst tlie stripling 
That rashly dared thee to the unequal figlit. 
What groan was that I heard? Deep groan, indeed. 
With anguish heavy-laden ! Let me trace it. 
From yonder bed it comes, where the strong man, 
By stronger arm belabored, gasps for breath 
Like a hard-hunted beast. How his great heart 
Beats thick ! his roomy chest by far too scant 
To give the lungs full play! What now avail 
The strong -built, sinewy limbs and well -spread 

shoulders ? 
See how he tugs for life, and laj's about liim. 
Mad with his iiain I Eager he catches hold 
Of what conies next to hand, and grasps it hard. 



156 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISE AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Just like :i creatino iliowniiig. Hideous sight ! 
Oh, how his eyes stand out, aud stare full ghastly ! 
While the distemper's rauk aud deadly veuoui 
Shoots like a buruiug arrow 'cross his bowels, 
Aud drinks his marrow up. — Heard you that groau ? 
It was his last. — See how the great Goliatli, 
Just like a child that brawled itself to rest, 
Lies still. 

vlnoniiinous aub illisccUaucous. 



THE LIXCOLNSHIRE POACHER. 

This old ditty wns a favorite with George IV., and it is said 
that he often hud it snng for liis amusement by a band of 
Beikshire ploughmen. It was once a favorite also at Ameri- 
can theatres, where Henry J. Finn, the estimable comedian, 
used to sing it with great ai)p!anse. 

When I was bound apiiroutice 

In famous Liucolusbeer, 
Fidl well I served my master 

For more than seven year, 
Till I took up with poaching. 

As you sliall quickly hear : — 
Oil ! 'tis my delight of a shiny uight 

In the season of the year. 

As me aud my comrades 

Were setting of a snare, 
'Twjis then we seed the game-keeper — 

For him we did iiot care ; 
For we can wrestle aud fight, my hoys. 

And jump o'er everywhere: — 
Oil ! 'tis my deliglit of a shiny uight 

111 the season of the year. 

As me and my comrades 

Were setting four or five, 
Aud taking on him up again, 

Wo caught the hare alive; 
We caught the hare alive, my boys. 

And through the woods did steer: — 
Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny uight 

lu the season of the year. 

l!ad link to every magistrate 

That lives in Liucolushecr ; 
Success to every poacher 

That wants to sell a hare ; 
liad luck to every game-keeper 

That will not sell liis dcun- : — 
Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night 

In the season of the year. 



THE TWA CORBIES. 

This weird Ifltle ballad belongs, probably, to the 17th centu- 
ry. It was communicated to Scott by Mr. Sharpe, .as written 
down from tradition by a lady. 

As I was walking all alane 

I heard twa corbies' making a maue ; 

The taue unto the t'other say, 

"Where sail wo gang aud dine to-day?" 

"In behint yon anld faiP dyke 
I wot there lies a new-slain knight; 
Aud naebody kens that he lies there 
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair. 

"His lionnd is to the hunting gane. 
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, 
His lady's ta'eu another luate ; 
So we may mak' our dinner sweet. 

"Ye'U sit on his white liause^-bane, 
Aud I'll pick out his bonny blue een : 
Wi' ae lock o' his gowdeu hair 
We'll tlieek* our uest when it grows bare. 

"Mony a one for him makes mane. 
But n.aue sail ken where he is gane ; 
O'er his white bancs, when they arc bare. 
The wind sail blaw for evermair." 



STILL WATER. 

Thomas D'Urfey (1038-17-23). 

Damon, let a friend advise yon, 
Follow Clores, though she Hies you, 
Tliongh her tongue your suit is slighting, 
Her kiud eyes you'll find inviting: 
Women's rage, like shallow water, 
Does but show their hnrtlcss nature ; 
When the stream seems rough aud frowning. 
There is then least fear of drowning. 

Let mo tell the adventurous stranger. 
In our calmness lies our danger ; 
Like a river's silent running. 
Stillness shows our depth ami cunning: 
She that rails you into trembling, 
Only shows her fine dissembling; 
But the fawner to abuse you 
Thinks you fools, and so will use you. 



1 Crows. 



2 Tmf. 



s Neck. 



* Thatch. 



AXOX^TMOUS AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



167 



THE JOVIAL BEGGAES. 

The authorship is 



From "Plnvrord's Choice Aires," lOGO. 
attribulcd to Richard Broine. 



There wns a jovial beggar, 

Ho had a ^voo^U■n leg, 
Lame from his cradle, 
And forced for to beg. 
And a-begging ■we will go, will go, will go. 
And a-begging wc will go. 

A bag for his oatmeal. 
Another for his salt, 
And a pair of criifehes 
To show that ho can halt. 
And a-begging we will go, etc. 

X bag for liis wheat. 

Another for his rye, 
And a little bottle by his side 
To drink when he's a-dry. 
And a-begging we will go, etc. 

Sexx'U years I begged 
For my old master Wild, 

He taught me to beg 
Wheu I was but a child, 
we will go, etc. 

I begged for my master. 
And got him store of pelf, 

But Jove now bo praisdd, 
I'm begging for myself, 
we will go, etc. 

In a hollow tree 

I live, and pay uo rent — 
Providence provides for me, 

And I am well content. 
And a-begging we will go, etc. 

Of all the occupations 

A beggar's life's the best, 
For, whenever he's a-weary, 
Ho can lay him down to rest. 
And a-begging we will go, etc. 

I fear uo plots against me, 

I live in open cell : 
Then who would be a king. 
When beggars live so well ? 
And a-bcggiug we will go, etc. 



HAEVEST-HOME SONG. 
Anonyjious. 

Our oats they are howed, and our barley's reaped ; 
Our hay is mowed, and our hovels heaped: 

Harvest-home ! harvest-home ! 
We'll merrily roar out our harvest-home!/ 

Harvest-home ! harvest-home ! "^ 

We'll merrily roar out our harvest-home ! 

We cheated the parson, we'll cheat him again ; 
For why sliould the vicar have one in ten? 

One in ten ! one in ten ! 
For why should the vicar have one in ten ? 
For why should the vicar have one iu ten? 
For staying while dinner is cold and hot, 
And pudding and dumpling's burnt to pot : 

Burnt to pot ! burnt to pot ! 
The pudding and dumpling's burnt to pot ! 

Burut to pot ! burnt to pot ! 

We'll drink oif the liquor while we can stand. 
And hey for the honor of old England ! 

Old England ! old England ! 
And hey for the honor of old England! 

Old England ! old England ! 



TIME'S CUEE. 



Mourn, O rejoicing heart! 

The hours are flying ! 
Each ono some treasure takes. 
Each one some blossom breaks. 

And leaves it dying. 
The chill, darl\ night draws near; 
The snn will soon depart, 

And leave thee sighing. 
Then mourn, rejoicing heart ! 

The hours are flying ! 

Rejoice, O grieving heart! 

The hours fly fast ! 
With each some sorrow dies, 
With each some shadow flies. 

Until, jit last, 
The red dawn in the east 
Bids weary night depart, 

And pain is past! 
Rejoice, then, grieving heart I 

The hours fly fast ! 



158 



CXCLOP^DIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



'WHEN SHALL WE THREE MEET AGAIN: 



Wlicn shall -n-e three meet again ? 
Whcu shall wo three meet again ? 
Oft shall glowing hope expire, 
Oft shall wearied love retire, 
Oft shall death aud sorrow reign. 
Ere we three shall meet agaiu. 

Tliongh in distant lands we sigh, 
I'arehed heneath a hostile sky; 
Though the deep hetween us rolls. 
Friendship shall unite our souls : 
Still in Fancy's rich domain 
Oft shall we three meet again. 

When the dreams of life are fled, 
AVhen its wasted lamps are dead ; 
When in cold ohlivlon's shade 
Beanty, power, aud fame are laid ; 
Whore immortal spirits reign. 
There shall we three meet again ! 



GOD SAVE THE KING. 

Anonymous. 

The English Nntionnl Authera (which, as a merely liter:iry 
Iji-odnction, is hardly euiilled to notice) is generally attributed 
to Dr. John Unll (15'jl), professor of music, Oxford, aud cham- 
ber musician to James I. Henry Carey's sou claimed it as the 
production of his father, whose grauddaughter, Alice Carey, 
was the mother of Edmund Keau, the actor. The germ of the 
song is to be found in one which Sir Peter Carew used to sing 
before Henry Vlll.—Chorns: 

".\nd I said, Good Lord, dcfeud 
England with thy most holy hand, 
Aud save noble Henry oar King." 

God save our gracious King ! 
Long live our noble King ! 

God save the King! 
Scud him victorious, 
Happj' and glorious, 
Long to reign over us ! 

God save the King! 

O Lord our God, arise ! 

Scatter his enemies, 
And make them fall ; 

Confound their politics, 

Frustrate their knavish tricks : 

On him our hopes we fix- 
God save us all ! 



Thy choicest gifts in store 
On him be pleased to pour; 

Long may he reign ! 
May he defend our laws, 
And ever give us cause 
To sing with heart and voice, 

God save the King ! 



WINIFEEDA. 

This poem Bishop Percy believes to have been first printed 
in a volume of "Jliscellaneous Poems by Different Hauds," by 
David Lewis (IT'iO). The authorship, though much discussed, 
is as yet unknown. 

Away ! let naught to love displeasing. 

My Winifreda, move your care ; 
Let naught delay the heavenly blessing, 

Nor siincamish pride nor gloomy fear. 

AVliat though no grants of royal donors 
With pompons title grace our blood ? 

We'll shine in more substantial honors, 
Aud to be uoble we'll be good. 

Our name, while virtue thus we tender. 
Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis sjioke ; 

And all the great ones they shall wonder 
How they respect such little folk. 

What though from Fortune's lavish bounty 
No mighty treasures we possess? 

We'll find within our pittance plenty. 
And be content without excess. 

Still shall each kind returning season 

Sufficient for our wishes give; 
For wo will live a life of reason, 

Aud that's the ouly life to live. 

Through youth and age in love excelling, 
We'll haud-in-haud together tread ; 

Sweet smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, 
And babes, sweet smiling babes, our be<l. 

How should I love the jirett}' creatures, 
While round my kuecs they fondly clung. 

To see them look their mother's features. 
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue ! 

Aud when with envy Time transported 
Shall think to rob us of our joys, 

You'll in your girls agaiu be courted. 
And I'll go wooing in my boys. 



AXONTMOrS AXD MISCELLANEOUS I'OEMS. 



159 



WHY SHOULD WE QUARREL FOR RICHES. 

The chorns of this old and favorite sod", taken from " Ram- 
say's Tea-Table Miscellany," has become almost proverbial. 

How pleasaut a sailoi''s life passes, 

Who roams o'er the watery main ! 
No treasure he ever amasses, 

But cheerfully spends all his gain. 
We're strangers to liarty and faction, 

To honor aiul houesty true ; 
And would iu>t coiJmit a bad actiou 
For power or profit in view. 
Then "why should we quarrel for riches, 

Or .any such glittering toys ; 
A light heart, and a thin jiair of breeches, 
W'ill go through the world, my bravo bo\s! 

Tlie world is a beautiful garden, 

Enriched with the blessings of life, 
The toiler with plenty rewarding, 

Which plentj' too often breeds strife. 
When terrible tempests assail us. 

And mountainous billows affright. 
No grandeur or wealth can avail us. 

But industry ever steers right. 
Then why should wo quarrel, etc. 

The courtier's more subject to dangers. 

Who rules at the helm of the State, 
Than we that to politics strangers. 

Escape the snares laid for the great. 
The various blessings of nature, 

In various nations wo try ; 
No mortals than us can be greater, 

Who merrily live till we die. 
Then why should we quarrel, etc. 



THE FAIRY QUEENE. 

The?e lines (1G35), from "Percy's Reliqnes," indicate a p^^)!- 
nlar belief got from S.ixtm ancestors long before they left their 
German forests: a belief in a kind of diminntive demons, or 
middle species between men and spirits, \vhom they called 
Duergars or Dwarfs, and to whom they altribnted many wmm- 
dei'ftil performances far exceeding human art. 

Come follow, follow .me. 

Yon, fairy elves that be : 

Which circle on the greene, 

Come follow Mab your qneene. 
Hand in hand let's dance around, 
For this iilace is fairy ground. 



When mortals are at rest, 

And snoring in their nest ; 

Unheard, and nnespied. 

Through Ueylioles we do glide ; 
Over tables, stools, and shelves. 
We trip it with our fairy elves. 

And if the house be foul 

With platter, dish, or bowl. 

Upstairs we nimbly creep, 

And find the sluts asleep : 
There we pinch their armes and thighs ; 
None escapes, nor none espies. 

But if the house be swept. 

And from nncleanness kept. 

We praise the honsehold maid. 

And duly she is paid : 
For we use before we goe 
To drop a tester in her shoe. 

Upon a niushroonie's head 

Our table-cloth we spread ; 

A grain of rye, or wheat. 

Is manchet,' which we eat ; 
Pearly drops of dew we drink 
In acorn cups filled to the brink. 

The brains of nightingales, 
With unctuous fat of snailes, 
Between two cockles stewed. 
Is meat that's easily chewed ; 
Tailes of wormes, and marrow of mice. 
Do make a dish that's wondrons nice. 

The grasshopper, gnat, and fly, 

Serve for our minstrelsie ; 

Grace said, we dance awhile. 

And so the time beguile : 
And if the moon doth hide her head. 
The gloe-worin lights us home to bed. 

On tops of dewie grasse 

So nimbly do we passe ; 

The young and tender stalk 

Ne'er bends when we do walk : 
Yet in the morning may be seen 
Where we the night before have been. 



^ \ loaf or cake of fine bread. Tennyson has this conplet : 

"And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheer, 
-4nd, in her veil infolded, vianchet bread." 



160 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



THE MAIDEN'S CHOICE. 

Henry Fielding (1707-1754). 

Genteel iu personage, 

Conduct, and equipage; 
Noble liy heritage. 

Generous anil free ; 
Brave, not romantic ; 
Learned, not jiedantic ; 
Frolic, not frantic — 

This must he be. 

Honor maintaining, 
Meanness disdaining. 
Still entertaining. 

Engaging and new ; 
Neat, but not finical; 
Sage, but not cynical ; 
Never tyrannical, — 

But ever true .' 



THE AVHITE KOSE : SENT BY A YORKSHIRE 
LOVER TO HIS LANCASTRIAN MISTRESS. 

Anontmocs. 

If this fair rose offend tliy sight, 

Placed in thy bosom bare, 
'Tnill blush to find itself less white. 

And turn Lancastrian there. 

Bnt if thy ruby lip it spy. 
As kiss it thou may'st deign. 

With envy p.ale 'twill lose its dye, 
And Y'orkish turn again. 



FROM MERCILESS INVADERS. 



From fi niannscript bejii-iiijr d.ate 15SS. Probably written nt 
the time of the threuteued invasion of the Spanish Armada. 

From merciless invaders. 

From wicked men's device, 
O God, arise and help us 

To qnell our enemies! 
Siulc deep their potent navies, 

Their strength and courage break ! 
O God, arise and save us, 

For Jesus Christ his sake! 



Though cruel Spain and Parma 

With heathen legions come, 
O God, ari.se and arm us! 

We'll die for our home. 
We will not change our credo 

For pope, nor book, nor bell ; 
And if the devil come himself. 

We'll hound him back to hell. 



WILLIE'S VISIT TQ MELVILLE CASTLE. 

Anonymous. 

We cannot give the origin of this spirited little poem. We 
tind it quoted in William Blacli's novel of *'l\Iadcap Violet," 
where it is mentioned as " the gor)d, old, wholesome ballad of 
'Willie's Visit to Melville Castle.' " 

O Willie's gane to Slelvillc Castle, 

Boots and spurs and a'. 
To bid the ladies a' farewell, 

Before he gacd awa'. 

The first he met was Lady Bet, 
Who led him through the ha'. 

And with a sad and sorry licart 
She let the tears doon fa'. 

Near the fire stood Lady Grace, 

Said ne'er a word ava;' 
She thought that she was sure of him 

Before he gacd aw.V. 

The next he saw was Lady Kate ; 
Guid troth, he aecdna craw, 

"Maybe the lad will fancy me. 
And disappoint ye a'." 

Then down the stair skipped Lady Jean, 

The Hower among them a'; 
Oh, las.scs, trust iu Providence, 

And yc'll get husbands a'. 

As on his steed he galloped off, 

They a' came to the door ; 
Ho g.ayly raised his feathered plume ; 

They set up sic a roar ! 

Their sighs, their cries, brought Willie back. 

He kissed them ane and a' : 
" Oh, lasses, bide till I come hame. 

And then I'll wed ye a' !" 

■ At all. 



ANONYMOUS AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



161 



OUR GUDE-MAN. 

Ill this humorons ballad, the wife hides a rebel relative in 
the house, and endeavors to guard her husbaud's loyalty at the 
esjiense of her own veracity, aud the "gnde-inun's" eense ot 
(tight. 

Our gntle-maii cam' liame at e'en, 

Ami liaiiie caiu' bo ; 
And there he saw a sadtlle-horse, 

Whatir iiae horse should be. 
" Oil, how cam' this horse here, 

How cau this Tie ? 
How cani' this horse here, 
Without tlie leave o' me?" 
"A horse!" quo' she. 
"Ay, a horse," quo' he. 
" Ye auld bliud doited carle, 

Bliuder mat ye he ! 
'Tis naetliing but a milk cow 
My mitinie seut to lue." 
"A milk cow!" quo' ho. 
"Ay, a milk cow," quo' she. 
" Far ha'e I ridden. 

And meikle ha'e I seen ; 
But a sadille ou a cow's back 
Saw I never naue !" 

Our gude-inan cam' h.Tme at e'eu, 

And hame cam' he ; 
He spied a pair o' jack-boots, 

Wbaur nae boots sliould be. 
" What's tliis now, gude-wife ? 

What's this I see f 
How cam' these boots here, 

Without the leave o' me ?" 
" Boots !" quo' slie. 
"Aj', boots," quo' lie. 
" Shame fa' your cuckold face, 

Aud ill mat ye see ! 
It's but a pair o' water-stoups 

The cooper sent to me." 
" Water-stoups !" quo' he. 
" Ay, water-stoups," quo' she. 
" Far ha'e I ridden. 

And fai-'er ha'e I gane ; 
But siller spurs on water-stoups 

Saw I never naue !" 

Our gude-mau cam' liame at e'en. 

And hame cam' he ; 
And there ho saw a sword, 

Whaur nae sword should be. 
"Wliat's this now, gude-wifu ? 

What's this I see? 
11 



Oil, how cam' this sword here, 

Without the leave o' mo?" 

"A sword!" quo' she. 

"Ay, a sword," quo' lie. 

"Shame fa' your cuckold face, 

And ill mat ye see ! 
It's but a parritch spurtle' 
My miuuie sent to me." 
"A spurtle!" quo' he. 
"Ay, a spurtle," quo' she. 
"Weel, far ha'e I ridden, 

And meikle ha'e I seen ; 
But siller-haudled spurtles 
Saw I never naue !" 

Our gude-mau cam' hame at e'en, 

And hame cam' he ; 
There he spied a pouthered wig, 

Whaur nae wig should be. 
" What's this now, gude-wife ? 

What's this I see ? 
How cam' this wig here, 

Without the leave o' me?" 
"A wig I" quo' she. 
"Ay, a wig," quo' he. 
" Shame fa' your cuckold face. 

And ill mat ye see ! 
'Tis uaething but a clockiu' hen 

My miuuie sent to me." 
"A clockiu' lieu !" quo' he. 
"Ay, a clockiu' hen," quo' she. 
"Far ha'e I ridden, 

Aud meikle ha'e I seen ; 
But pouther on a clockiu' hen 

Saw I never naue !" 

Our gude-mau cam' hame at e'en, 

Aud hame cam' he ; 
And there ho saw a riding-coat, 

Whaur nae coat should be. 
" Oh, how cam' this coat here ? 

How can this be ? 
How cam' this coat here. 

Without the leave o' me ?" 
"A coat !" quo' she. 
"Ay, a coat," quo' he. 
"Ye auld blind dotard carle, 

Bliuder m.Tt ye be! 
It's but a pair o' blankets 

My miuuie seut to me." 



' A stick for stirring iiorridge. 



162 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BUITISU AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



"Blankets!" quo' be. 
"Ay, blaukets,-' quo' slie. 
" Far La'e I ridden, 

And meikle ba'c I seen ; 
But buttons upon blankets 
Saw I never nane !" 

Beu went our gnde-man, 

And beu went be ; 
And there be spied a sturdy man, 

Whaur iiae man sbonld be. 
" How cam' this man bere ? 

How can tbis be? 
How cam' tbis man bere, 

Witbout the leave o' me ?" 
"A man !" quo' sbe. 
"Ay, a doited man," quo' be. 
"Puir blind body! 

And blinder mat ye be ! 
It's a new milking-maid 

My minnie sent to me." 
"A maid !" quo' be. 
"Aj', a maid," quo' sbe. 
"Far ha'e I ridden. 

And meiklo ba'e I seen ; 
But lang-bearded niilking-maids 

Saw I never nane 1" 



JOCK O' HAZELGEEEN. 

The foUowiiiir. from Roberts's Collection, is constructed from 
the versions of Kinloclt, Buch.in, anj Chambers. It was a frag- 
ment of this which suggested to Sir Walter Scott his liue ballad 
of "Jock of Hazeldean." 

As I went fortli to take tbo air 

lutill an evening clear, 
I beard a pretty damsel 

JIaking a bcavy bier :' 
Making a beavy bier, I wot, 

But and a jiiteous mean ;" 
And aye sbo sigbed, and said, "Alas, 

For Jock o' Hazelgreen !" 

The sun was sinking in the west, 

The stars were shining ch^ar, 
\Vlien thro' the thickets o' the wood 

An auld knicbt did appear : 
Says, "Wlia has dune you wrang, fair mnid, 

And left yon bere alane ? 
Or wha has kissed your lovely lips, 

That vc ca' Hazelgreen ?" 



1 Lamentation. 



2 Jloan. 



"Haud your tongue, kind sir," she said, 

"Aud do not banter sae. 
Ob, why will ye add affliction 

Unto a lover's wae ? 
For nae man has dune me wrang," sbe said, 

"Nor left me here alane; 
And nane has kissed my lovely lips, 

That I ca' Hazelgreen." 

"Why weep ye by the tide, ladye ? 

Why weep ye by the t ide ? 
How blytbe and bapjiy micht be be 

Gets you to be bis bride ! 
Gets you to be bis bride, fair maid. 

And him I'll uo bemean ; 
But when I tak' my words again, — 

Whom ca' ye Hazelgreen ? 

" What like a man was Hazelgreen ? 

Will ye show bim to me ?" 
"He is a comely, proper youth 

I in my days did see ; 
His shoulders broad, bis annis lang. 

He's comely to be seen :" 
And aye sbe loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock o' Hazelgreen. 

"If ye'll forsake this Hazelgreen, 

And go along wi' me, 
I'll wed ye to my eldest sou — 

Make you a lady free." 
" It's for to wed your eldest son 

I am a maid o'er mean ; 
I'd rather stay at haiiie," she says, 

"And dee for Hazelgreen." 

Then he's ta'en out a siller kaim, 

Kaimed down her yellow hair. 
And lookit in a diamond bricht. 

To see if she were fair. 
" My girl, y6 do all maids surpass 

That ever I ba'e seen ; 
Cheer up your heart, my lovely lass — 

Forget young Hazelgreen." 

" Young Hazelgiven be is my love. 

And evcruiair shall bo ; 
I'll nae forsake young Hazelgreen 

For a' the gowd ye'll gie." 
But aye slie sighed, aud said, "Alas!" 

And made a piteous mean ; 
And aye sbo loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock o' Hazelgreen. 



AXOXTMOrS AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



1C3 



But lio has ta'en licr up beliiiiJ, 

Set her npou liis horse ; 
Auil tliey rode on to Eiiibro'-town, 

Ami liclited at tbe Cross. 
Aud ho has coft her silken chics — 

She looked like any queen : 
"Ye surely now will sigh nae mair 

For Jock o' Hazclgreeu ?" 

" Young Hazclgreeu he is luj- love, 

Aud everraair shall bo ; 
I'll nae forsake young Hazclgreeu 

For a' the gowd ye gie." 
Aud aye she sighed, aud said, "Alas!" 

Aud made a piteous mean ; 
Aud aye she loot tbe tears down fa' 

For Jock o' Hazclgreeu. 

Then ho has coft for that ladye 

A fiuo silk ridiug-gowu ; 
Likewise he coft for that ladyo 

A steed, aud set her ou ; 
Wi' meuji feathers in her hat, 

Silk stockings, siller shoou ; 
Aud they ha'e ridden far athort, 

Seeking young Hazclgreeu. 

Aud when they came to Hazelyetts, 

Tbey lichted down therein : 
Monie were the braw ladyes there, 

Monie ane to be seen. 
Wben she lichted down amaug them a', 

She seemed to be their queen ; 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock o' Hazclgreeu. 

Then forth ho came young Hazelgreeu, 

To welcome his father free : 
" You're welcome here, my father dear. 

An' a' yonr compauie." 
But when he looked o'er his shoulder, 

A licbt langh then ga'e he ; 
Says, "If I getua this ladye, 

It's for her I maun dee. 

"I must confess this is the maid 

I ance saw in a dream, 
A-walkiug thro' a pleasant shade. 

As she had been a queen. 
And for her sake I vowed a vow 

I ne'er would wed but she ; 

' Purchased. 



Should this fair ladye cruel ])rovc, 
I'll lay me down and dee." 

"Now baud your tongue, young Hazelgreeu ; 

Let a' j'our folly be : 
If ye be sick for that ladye. 

She's thrice as sick for thee. 
She's thrice as sick for thee, my soa. 

As bitter doth complean ; 
And a' she wants to heal her waes 

Is Jock o' Hazelgreeu." 

He's ta'en her in his armis twa, 

Led her thro' bower aud ha': 
" Cheer up yonr heart, my dearest May, 

Ye're ladye o'er them a'. 
The morn shall be onr bridal day. 

The nicht's our bridal e'en ; 
Ye sail nae mair ha'e cause to mean 

For Jock o' Hazelgreen." 



LOVE NOT ME FOR COMELY GRACE. 

Anonymous. 

Love not nie for comely grace. 
For my pleasing eye or face. 
Nor for any outward part, 
No, nor for my constant heart ; 

For those may fail or turn to ill, 
So thou aud I shall sever : 
Keep therefore a true woman's eye, 
Aiul love me still, but know not why. 

So hast thou the saiuo reason still 
To dote upon me ever. 



HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND? 

Anontsiocs. 

From a half- sheet song, with the music, printed aboiU tbe 
year ITIO. Tliis has been called General Wolfe's sonjr, aud is 
said to have been suns by him the night before the battle of 
Quebec. 

How stands the glass around ? 

For shame ! ye take no care, my boys, 

How stands the ghiss around ? 

Let mirth aud wine abound ; 

The trumpets sound ! 
The colors flying arc, my boys, 

To fight, kill, or wound. 

May we still be fonntl 
Content with our hard fare, my boys, 

Ou the cold ground. 



164 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMESICAX POETET. 



Why, soldiers, why 
Sboillil «"0 be melanthi)ly, boys ? 

Why, soldiers, why ? 

Whose business 'tis to die ? 

What! sighing? Fie! 
Shun fear, drinlc on, bo jolly, boys! 

'Tis he, yon, or I. 

Cold, hot, wet, or dry, 
We're always l)0iind to follow, boys, 

And scorn to fly. 

'Tis bnt iu vain 
(I mean not to npbraid yon, boys) — 

'Tis but iu vain 

For soldiers to complain. 

Should next campaign 
Send us to Him that made us, boys, 

We're free from pain ; 

Bnt should we remain, 
A bottle and kind landlady 

Cures all again. 



YE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND. 

This song by Martj-n Parker (ICGO) is interesting .is Iiaviu;^ 
prompted much of the lyric force in Campbell's far uubler pio- 
(Inctiou, "Ye Mariners of England." 

Ye gentlemen of England 

That live at home at ease, 
Ah ! little do yon think upon 

The dangers of the seas. 
Give ear unto the mariners, 

And they will plainly show 
All the cares and the fears 

When the stormy winds do blow. 
When the stormy, etc. 

If enemies oppose ns 

W'heu England is at war 
Witli any foreign nation, 

We fear not wound or scar ; 
Our roaring guns shall teach 'em 

Our valor for to know, 
AVliilst they reel on the keel, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 
And the stormy, etc. 

Then eourago, all bravo mariners, 

And never be dismayed ; 
While we have bold adventurers, 

We ne'er shall want a trade : 



Our merchants will employ us 
To fetch them wealth, we know ; 

Tlieu bo bold — work for gold. 
When the stormy winds do blow. 
When the stormy, etc. 



ANNIE LAURIE. 

The original sonjr, which is in two stanzas, and inferior to 
the following version, may be found in Sharpe'a Collection. 
It was composed previous to 16SS by <nie Douglas of Fiug- 
land, in honor of Miss Laurie, of Maxwelton. The bard was 
uusuccessfiil iu his suit, or else the lady jilted him, as she 
married a Mr. Ferguson. 

Maxwelton braes are bonuie, 

Where early fa's the dew ; 
And it's there that Annie Laurie 

Gi'ed me her promise true ; 
Gi'ed me her iiromiso true, 

Which ne'er forgot will be ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 

I'd lay me douue and dee. 

Her brow is like the snaw-drift. 

Her throat is like the swan, 
Her face it is the fairest 

That e'er the sun shone on ; 
That e'er the sun shone ou — 

And dark bine is her ee ; 
And for bonuie Annie Laurie 

I'd lay mo douno and dee. 

Like dew ou tlie gowan lying 

Is the fa' o' her I'aiiy feet ; 
Like the winds iu summer sighing, 

Her voice is low and sweet ; 
Her voice is low and sweet — 

And she's a' the world to me ; 
And for bonuie Annie Laurie 

I'd lay me doune and dee. 



THE SOLDIER'S GLEE. 
From " Dedteromelia ; ou, The Second Part of Musick's 

JlELODIE," ETC (IGOO). 

Anonymous. 

We be soldiers tln'pc, 

(Pardoniu'z moi.je vous on prie!) 
Lately come forth of the Low Country, 

Witli never a (lenny of monie. 



MEXKT CAREY.— JAMES THOMSON. 



Va 



Here, good fellow, I drink to tliec ! 

(Pardouuez moi, je vous eu jirie !) 
To all good fellows, wlierever they be, 

With never a pennj' of monle ! 

And he that will not pledge me this 
(Pardouuez raoi, je vous en prie!) 

Pays for the shot, whatever it is. 
With never a penny of monie. 

Chai-ge it again, boy, charge it again, 
(Pardouuez nioi,je vous eu prie!) 

As long as there is any ink in thy pen, 
With never a peuny of monie. 



I^cnrg (Horcii. 

Carey (:ibout 1700-1743) was a natural sou of George 
Saville, Marquis of Halifiix, from wliom and from his 
lamily ho received a handsome annuity to the time of 
liis unhappy death by liis own hand. He was a musician 
by profession, and composed several songs, dramas, and 
burlesques. His "Sally in our Alley" was highly com- 
mended by Addison. Carey bad been watching an ap- 
prentice and his betrothed in Vauxliall enjoying their 
cakes and ale, when he came home aud wrote the song. 
Edmund Kean, the actor, w.as a descendant of Carey. 
The composition of "God save the King" has been 
claimed for Carey; but it was probably anterior to his 
day. 



SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. 

Of all the girls that are so smart. 

There's none like pretty Sally ; 
She is the darling of nij- heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 
There is no lady iu the land 

Is half so sweet as Sally ; 
She is the darliug of my heart, 

And she lives iu our alley. 

Her father he makes eabbage-nets, 

And through the streets does cry 'em ; 
Her mother she sells laces long 

To such as please to buy 'em : 
But sure such folks eoukl ne'er beget 

So sweet a girl as Sally ! 
She is the darliug of my heart, 

And she lives iu our alley. 

When she is by, I le.ave my work, 
I love her so sincerely ; 



My master comes like auy Turk, 
Aud bangs me most severely : 

But let him bang his bellyful, 
I'll bear it all for Sally ; 

She is the darliug of my heart, 
Aud she lives in our alley. 

Of all the days that's iu the wqpK; 

I dearly love but one day — 
And that's the day that comes betwixt 

A Satnrd.ay aud Monday ; 
For then I'm drest all iu my best 

To walk abroad with Sally ; 
She is the darliug of my heart, 

Aud she lives in our alley. 

My master carries me to church, 

Aud often am I blamt^d 
Because I leave him iu the lurch 

As soon as text is nannSd ; 
I leave the church iu sermon-time, 

And slink away to Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 

Wheu Christmas comes about again, 

Oh then I shall have money ; 
I'll hoard it up, and box it all, 

I'll give it to my houey : 
I would it were ten thousand pound, 

Fd give it all to Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

My m.aster and the neighbors all 

Make game of me and Sally ; 
And, but for her, I'd better be 

A slave and row a galley ; 
But wheu my seven long years are out. 

Oh then I'll marry Sally,— 
Oh then we'll wed, and then we'll bed, 

But not iu our alley. 



Sanies iJljomaou. 



The sou of a Scotch minister, Thomson (1700- 174S) 
was born at Ednam, in Roxburghsliire, Scotland. He 
completed bis education at the University of Edinburgli, 
where in 1719 he was admitted as a student of divinitj'. 
The professor gave him tlie lOitli Psalm to paraphrase, 
and he did it in so poetical a way that he was adiiion- 
ished to curb his imagination if he wished to be useful 



lOG 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEBIC AX POETRY. 



iu tlie ministry. Tliereupon lie resolved to trj' his fort- 
une as an autlioi'. His I'athci' liaving died, James went 
to London, where he had his pocket picked of a hand- 
kerchief containing his letters of introduction. Finding 
himself without money or friends, he fell back on his 
manuscript of "Winter," which he sold to Mr. Millar 
for three jtnineas, and it was published in 1736. It soon 
raised up friends for him, among them Pope, who revised 
and corrected several passages in his verse. "Winter" 
was s.neceeded by "Summer" in 1737; "Spring" in 1728; 
and "Autumn" in 1730. Thomson wrote "Sophonisba," 
a tragedy; also "Agamemnon," and "Edward and Eleo- 
nora," but no one of his dramatic ventures was a suc- 
ces.s. His "Coriolanus" was not produced till after his 
death. In 1733 he published his poem of " Liberty," a 
production now little read. 

After suffering somewhat from narrow means, he got 
a pension of £100 from the Prince of Wales, and was 
appointed Surveyor-general of the Leeward Islands, the 
duties of which he could perform by proxy, and which 
brought him £300 a year. Being now in easy cirenm 
stances', he retired to a cottage near Richmond Hill, on 
the Thames, where he wrote his "Castle of Indolence," 
generally regarded as his masterpiece. It was published 
in 174S. One day in the August of that year, after a 
brisk walk, he took a boat at Hammersmith for Kew. 
On the water he got chilled, neglected the slight cold, 
became feverish, and in a few days departed this life in 
his forty-eighth year. 

As a man, Thomson was generous, affable, and amia- 
ble. His chief fault was indolence, of wliich he was fully 
aware. As a poet, he was remarkable for purity of Ian- 
gu:ige and thought; and the highest eulogy that could 
be pronounced upon a man's writings was Lord Lyttel-' 
ton's assertion that Thomson's contain 

"No line which, tlyinjj, he couUl wish to blot." 

It is not to be denied that his cumbrous style, his 
faded classicalities, and his redundant and somewhat 
turgid diction have injured him with modern readers ; 
but he was a genuine poet notwithstanding. No better 
proof of this could be given than the remarkable lines 
which he wrote at the age of fourteen. Tliis curious 
fragment was first published in 1S41, m a life of Tliom- 
son by Allan Cunningham, and is as follows : 

" Now I surveyed my native faculties. 
And traced iny actions to tlieir teeming source; 
N<>\v I explored the universal frame, 
Gazed nature through, and, with interior lif;ht, 
Conversed with angels and unbodied .saints, 
That tread the courts of the Eternal King ! 
Gladly 1 would declare in lofty strains 
The power of Godhead to the sons of men, 
But thought is lost in its immensity; 

/ luiagiiiatiou wastes its strength in vain, 
And fancy tires and tiirus within itself. 
Struck with the amazing depths of Deity! 
Ah '. my Lord God I iu vain a tender youth, 
Unskilled ni arts of deep i>h!loso|)hy. 
Attempts to search the balky mass of matter, 
To trace the rules of motion, and pursue 
Ttie i)h:uitom Time, too subtle for his grasp : 
Yet may I fi-nm Thy most app;n*ent works 
Form some idea of their woiulrous Author." 



There are passages in his "Se.isons" and his "Castle 
of Indolence" which are not likely to become obsolete 
while high art and genuine devotional feeling find a 
response in the soul. His " Hymn on the Seasons," 
though at times suggesting a reminiscence of Milton, 
has been equalled by nothing iu the same class that any 
succeeding poet has produced; and, in saying this, we 
do not forget Coleridge's " Chaniouni," nor the many 
noble passages in Wordsworth's " Excursion." To 
Thomson we owe in no small measure the revival of 
that enthusiasm for the associations and beauties of ex- 
ternal nature which had been absent from English poetry 
during the predominance of the artificial school. 

One of tlie finest similes in that part of " The Sea- 
sons" entitled "Autumn'" was supplied by Pope, to 
whom Thoinson had given an interleaved copy of the 
edition of 17.36. Describing Lavinia, Thomson wrote: 

"Thoughtless of beauty, she was Beauty's self, 
Recluse among the woods; if city dames 
Will deign their faith; and thus she went, coraitelled 
By strong necessity, with as Berene 
And pleased a look as Patieuce e'er put on. 
To glean Palemou's fields." 

Pope drew his pen through tliis description, and sub- 
stituted the following lines — and so they stand in all 
the subscipiont editions : 

" Thoughtless of beauty, she was Beauty's self. 
Recluse amid the close-embowering woods. 
As in the hollow breast of Apeniiiue, 
Beneath the shelter of eucircliug hills, 
A myrtle rises, far from human eyes. 
And breathes Its balmy fragrance o'er the wild; 
So flourished blooming, and uuseeu by all, 
The sweet Lavinia, till nt Jeugth compelled 
By strong necessity's supreme comm:iud. 
With smiling juitieiicc in her looks, she went 
To gleau r;dcmon's fields." 

"The love of nature," says Coleridge, "seems to have 
led Thomson to a cheerful religion; and a gloomy re- 
ligion to have led Cowper to a love of nature. The one 
would carry his fellow-men along with him into nature; 
the other flies to nature from his fellow-men. In chas- 
tity of diction, however, and the harmony of blank verse, 
Cowper leaves Thomson immeasurably below hiiu; yet 
I still fed the latter to have been the boru poet." 



THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 

From "The Seasons." 

From tho moist meadow to the ■withered hill, 
Led by tho breeze, the vivid vcrdiuo runs, 
And swell.'! and deepens to the cherished eye. 
The hawthorn whileus; and the juicy groves 
Put forth their buds, uiifoldiug by degrees, 
Till the whole leafy forest stands displayed. 
In full Inxiiriance, to the sighing gales; 
Where tho deer rustle through the twining brake, 
And the birds sing concealed. At once arrayeil 
III all the colors of the fliishiug year, 



JAMES THOMSON. 



167 



By Nature's swift ami secret-working liar.d, 

The garden glows, and fills the liberal air 

With lavish fragrance; wliile the promised fruit 

Lies yet a little embryo, uuperceived 

Within its crimson folds. Now from the town, 

Buried in smoke, and sleep, and noisome damps, 

Oft let mo wander o'er the dewy fields, 

Wliere freslmess breathes, and dash the trembling 

drops 
From the bent bush, as through the verdant maze 
Of sweetbrier hedges I pursue my walk ; 
Or taste the smell of dairy; or ascend 
Some eminence, Augusta, in thy plains, 
Aud see the country, far diiTnsed around, 
One boundless blusli, cue white-empnrpled shower 
Of mingled blossoms ; where the raptured eye 
Hurries from joy to joy, and, liid beneath 
The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies. 



SUNRISE IN SUMMER. 

Fbom " TuE Seasons.*' 

But yonder comes the powerful king of day, 
Rejoicing in tlie east. The lessening cloud, 
Tlie kindling azure, aud the mountain's brow 
Illumed Avith lluid gold, his near approach 
Betoken glad. Lo ! now, apparent all. 
Aslant the dew-bright Earth, and colored air, 
Ilo looks in boundless majesty abroad; 
Aiid sheds the shining d.ay, that burnished plays 
On rocks, aud hills, and towers, and wandering 

streams. 
High gleaming from afar. Prime cheerer, Light ! 
Of all material beings first and best ! 
Efflux divine! Nature's resplendent robe! 
Without A\-hose vesting beauty all were wrapt 
In unessential gloom ; and thou, O Sun ! 
Soul of surrounding worlds ! in whom beat seen 
Shines out thy Maker! May I sing of thee? 



HYMN ON THE SEASONS. 

These, as they change. Almighty Father, these, 
Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
Is full of thee. Forth iu the pleasing spring 
Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. 
Wide llusb the fields ; the softening air is balm ; 
Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles ; 
And every sense and every heart is joy. 
Then comes thy glory in the summer months. 
With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun 



Shoots full perfection through the swelling year; 
And oft thy voice in dreadful thnuder speaks ; 
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve. 
By brooks aud groves. In hollow-whispering gales. 
Thy bounty shines iu autumn uncontined. 
And spreads a common feast for all that lives. 
In winter, awful thou ! with clouds aud storms 
Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempesti rolled. 
Majestic darkness! on the whirlwiud's "wiug. 
Riding sublime, thou bidd'st the world adore, 
Aud humblest nature with thy northern blast. 
Mysterious round! What skill, what force di- 
vine. 
Deep felt, iu these appear! .a simple train. 
Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art, 
Such beauty and beneficence combined ; 
Shade, unperceived, so softeniug into shade ; 
And all so forming an harmonious whole. 
That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. 
But wanderiug oft, with brute unconscious gaze, 
M.an marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand. 
That, ever-busy, wheels the silent spheres. 
Works in the secret deep, shoots, steaming, thence 
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring, 
Flings from the sun direct the flaming day. 
Feeds every creature, hurls the tempest forth ; 
And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, 
With transport touches all the springs of life. 

Nature, attend ! join every living soul, 
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky. 
In adoration join, and, ardent, raise 
One general song ! To him, ye vocal gales, 
Breathe soft, whose spirit iu your freshness breathes. 
Oh, talk of him in solitary glooms. 
Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine 
Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. 
And ye, whose bolder note is he.ard afar, 
W^ho shako the astonished world, lift high to 

heaven 
The impetuous song, and say from whom you 

rage. 
His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; 
And let mo catch it as I muse along. 
Y'o headlong torrents, rapid and profound! 
Y'e softer floods, that lead the humid maze 
Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, 
A secret world of wonders in thyself, 
Sound his stupendous praise ; whose greater voice 
Or bids yon roar, or bids your roarings fall. 
Soft roll your incense, herbs, aud fruits, and flowers. 
In miugled clouds to him ; whose sun exalts. 
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil 
paints. 



168 



CrCLOP^DIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to him ; 
Breathe your still sons into the reaper's heart, 
As home be goes beneath the joyous moon. 
Ye that keep watch iu heaven, as earth asleep 
Unconseions lies, effuse yonr mildest beams. 
Ye constellations, while your angels strike, 
Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 
Great source of day! best image here below 
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, 
From world to world, the vital ocean roniul, 
On nature write with every beam his praise. 
The thunder rolls : be hushed the prostrate world ; 
While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. 
Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks. 
Retain the souud : the broad responsive low, 
Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns ; 
And hi.s uusutfering kingdom yet will come. 
Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless song 
Burst from the groves! and when the restless 

day. 
Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, 
Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm 
The listening shades, and teach the night his 

praise. 
Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, 
At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, 
Crowu the great hynm ! iu swarming cities vast. 
Assembled men, to the deep organ join 
The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear, 
At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass ; 
And, as each mingling flame increases each, 
In one united ardor rise to Heaven. 
Or, if you rather choose the rural shade, 
And find a fane iu every secret grove; 
There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, 
The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre. 
Still sing the God of Seasons, as they roll. 
For me, when I forget the d.irling tlieme, 
\Ylicther the blossom blows, the summer-ray 
Russets the plain, inspiring autumn gleams; 
Or winter rises iu the blackening east ; 
Be my tongne mute, my fancy paint no more. 
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat! 

Should fate command me to the fartliest verge 
Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, 
Rivers unknowu to song; where first the sun 
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam 
Flames on the Atlantic isles; 'tis naught to me, 
Since God is ever present, ever felt. 
In the void waste, as in the city full ; 
And where ho vital spreads, there must be joy. 
When even at last the solenni hour shall come, 
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, 



I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers, 
Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go 
Where Universal Love not smiles around. 
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns ; 
From seeming evil still educing good, 
And better thence again, and better still, 
Iu infinite progression. But I lose 
Myself iu him, iu light inettable ; 
Come, then, expressive Silence, muse his praise. 



THE BARD'S SONG. 

From *'Tiie Castle of Indolenxb." 

It was not by vile loitering in ease 
That Greece obtained the brighter palm of art, 
That soft yet ardent Athens learnt to please, 
To keen the wit, and to sublime the heart, 
In all supreme, complete in every part! 
It was not thence majestic Rome arose, 
Aud o'er the nations shook her conquering dart: 
For sluggard's brow the laurel never grows ; 
Renown is not the child of indolent repose. 

Had unambitious mortals minded naught, 
But in loose joy their time to wear away; 
Had they alone the lap of Dalliance sought. 
Pleased on her pillow their dull heads to lay, 
Rude nature's state had been our state to-day ; 
No cities e'er their towery fronts had raised, 
No arts had made us opulent aud gay; 
With brother-brutes the human race had grazed; 
None e'er h.ad soared to fame, none honored been, 
none praised. 

Great Homer's song had never fired the breast 
To thirst of glory, aud heroic deeds ; 
Sweet Maro's' Muse, sunk in inglorious rest. 
Had silent slept amid the Mincian reeds; 
The wits of modern time had told their beads, 
The monkish legends been their only strains; 
Our Milton's Eden had lain wrapt iu weeds, 
Our Shakspeare strolled aud laughed with AVar- 

wiek swains, 
Ne had my master Spenser charmed his Mulla's 

plains. 

Dumb too had been the sago historic Muse, 
And perished all the sons of ancient fame ; 
Those starry lights of virtue, that diffuse 



Viriiil, born on tlie bauks of the Mincins, iu the north of 



Italy. 



JAMES THOMSON. 



169 



I 



Through the dark deiitli of time their vivid 

flame, 
Had all been lost with such as have no uame. 
Who then had scorned his ease for others' 

good f 
Who theu had toiled rapacious men to tame ? 
Who ill the public breach devoted stood, 
Aud for his country's cause been prodigal of 

blood ? 

But should your hearts to fame unfeeling be. 
If right I read, you pleasure all require : 
Theu hear how best may be obtained this fee. 
How best enjoyed this nature's wide desire. 
Toil, and be glad! let Industry inspire 
Into your quickened limbs her buoj'ant breath ! 
Who does uot act is dead ; absorpt entire 
lu miry sloth, no pride, no joy he hath : 
Oh leaden-hearted men, to be in love with death ! 

Ah ! what avail the largest gifts of Heaven, 
When drooping health and spirits go amiss ? 
How tasteless then whatever cau bo given ! 
Health is the vital principle of bliss, 
And exercise of health. In proof of this, 
Behold the wretch who slugs his life away, 
Soon swallowed in disease's sad abyss ; 
While he whom toil has braced, or mauly play. 
Has light as air each limb, each thought as clear 
as day. 

Oh, who can speak the vigorous joys of health ! 
Unclogged the body, unobscured the mind : 
The morning rises gay, with pleasing stealth, 
The temperate evening falls serene and kind, 
lu health the wiser brutes true gladness lind. 
See how the younglings frisk along the meads, 
As May comes on, and wakes the balmy wind ; 
Rampant with life, their joy all joy exceeds : 
Yet what hut high-strung health this dancing 
pleasaunce breeds ? 



RULE, BRITANNIA! 

An Ode, from "Alfbed, a Masque.'* 

Wlieu Britain first, at Heaven's command, 

Arose from out the aznre main, 
This was the charter of the land, 

And guardian angels sung this strain : 
" Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
Brilons never will be slaves." 



The nations not so blessed as thee' 

Must in their turn to tyrants fall ; 
While thou shalt flourish great and free, 
The dread aud envy of them all. 
" Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
Britons never will be slaves." 

Still more majestic sh.alt thou rise. 

More dreadful from each foreign 'stroke ; 
As the loud blast that tears the skies 
Serves but to root thy native oak. 
" Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
Britons never will be slaves." 

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame : 
All their attempts to bend thee down 
Will but arouse thy generous flame, 
But work their woe aud thy renown. 
'•Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
Britons never will be slaves." 

To thee belongs the rural reign ; 

Thy cities shall with commerce shine : 
All thiue shall be the subject main : 
Aiul every shore it circles thine. 
" Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
Britons never will be slaves." 

The Muses, still with freedom found. 

Shall to thy happy coast repair : 
Blessed isle ! with matchless beauty crowned, 
And mauly hearts to guard the fair. 
" Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
Britons never will be slaves." 



LOVE OP NATURE. 

From " The Castle of Indolence." 

I care not. Fortune, what you me deny ; 
You cannot rob nie of free Nature's grace. 
You cannot shut the windows of tho sky. 
Through which Aurora sliows her brightening 

face ; 
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve: 
Let health my nerves and finer fibres bracf. 
Aud I their toys to the great cliildreu leave : 
Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave. 



' " Blessed as thou " would be the conect form ; but rhyme 
is imperious. 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



lol)n Pjier. 



Dyer (1700-1758) was a young Welshman, son of a 
prosperous attorney. He tried to be a painter, and went 
to Rome to study, but gave it up on tiuding lie could 
not rise to his ideal. Grongar Hill was near his birth- 
place, and he sang of it at six-and-twenty. The poem, 
if first published in the nineteenth century, would have 
excited less attention ; but it was a new departure in its 
day from the swelling diction then so prevalent, that 
even Thomson did not escape from it in describing nat- 
ural scenes. Dyer struck a less artificial note, but could 
not wholly cast off nymphs and Muses, gods and god- 
desses, then considered a necessary part of the "prop- 
erties" of the poetical adventurer. He wrote "The 
Fleece," a poem ; also one on " The Ruins of Rome" — 
both in blank verse. Wordsworth addresses a sonnet to 
him, and predicts that "a grateful few" will love Dyer's 
modest lay, 

"Long as the thrash shall pipe on Grongar Dill 1" 



GRONGAK HILL. 

Silent nympli, with curious eye, 

Who, tbe purple evening, lie 

On tbe mountain's lonely van, 

Beyond tlio noise of busy man ; 

Painting fair tbe form of things, 

While the yellow linnet sings, 

Or the tuneful nightingale 

Charms the forest with her tale, — 

Come with all thy various hues. 

Come, and aid thy sister Muse ; 

Now, while Phoebus ricViug high 

Gives lustre to the laud and sky! 

Grongar Hill invites my song. 

Draw the landscape bright and strong ; 

Grongar, lu whose mossy cells 

Sweetly-mnsing Quiet dwells ; 

Grongar, iu whose silent sliade. 

For the modest Muses made, 

So oft I have, the evening still. 

At the fountain of a rill. 

Sate upon a flowery bed, 

With my hand beneath my head. 

While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood, 

Over mead, and over wood. 

From house to house, from hill to hill. 

Till Contemplation had her fill. 

Aluiut his checkered sides I wiud, 
And leave his brooks and meads behind, 
And groves and grottoes where I lay. 
And vistas shooting beams of day : 
Wide and wider spreads the vale. 
As circles on a smooth canal : 



The mountains round, nuhappy fate ! 
Sooner or later of all height. 
Withdraw their summits from the skies. 
And lessen as the others rise : 
Still the prospect wider spreads, 
Adds a thousand woods and meads ; 
Still it widens, widens still. 
And sinks the newly risen hill. 

Now, I gain the mountain's brow, 
What a landscape lies below ! 
No clouds, no vapors intervene. 
But the gay, the open scene 
Does the face of nature show. 
In all the hues of heaven's bow, 
And, swelling to embrace the light, 
Siireads around beneath the sight. 

Old castles on the clifl's arise, 
Proudly towering in the skies ; 
Rushing from the woods, the spires 
Seem from henco ascending fires ; 
Half his beams Apollo sheds 
Ou the yellow mountain-heads. 
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks, 
And glitters ou the broken rocks. 

Below me trees unnumbered rise, 
Beautiful in various dyes : 
The gloomy pine, the poplar bine, 
The yellow beech, the sable yew. 
The slender fir that taper grows. 
The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs. 
And beyond the imrple grove. 
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love ! 
Gaudy as the opening dawn. 
Lies a long and level lawn, 
Ou which a dark hill, steep and high, 
Holds and charms the wandering eye. 
Deep are his feet iu Towy's flood. 
His sides are clothed with waving wood. 
And ancient towers crown his brow. 
That cast an awful look below ; 
Whoso ragged walls the ivy creeps. 
And with her arms from falling keeps; 
So both a safety from the wind 
On mutual dependence find. 
'Tis now the raven's bleak abode ; 
'Tis now the apartment of the toad ; 
And there the fox securely feeds; 
Aiul there the poisonous adder breeds. 
Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds ; 
While ever and anon there falls 
Hugo heaps of hoary mouldered walls. 
Yet Time has seen, — that lifts the low. 
And level lays the lofty brow, — 



JOHN DYER.—PHILIF DODDRIDGE. 



171 



Has seen this broken pile complete, 
Big with tbo vauity of state : 
But transient is the smile of Fate ! 
A little rule, a little sway, 
A sunbeam iu a -n'iufer's day, 
Is all the proud and miglity have 
Between tlie cvadle and tlie grave. 

And see the rivers how they run, 
Tbrongh woods and meads, iu shade and sun, 
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, 
Wave succeeding wave, they go 
A various journey to the deep. 
Like human life to endless sleep. 
Thus is Nature's vesture wrought. 
To instruct our wandering thought ; 
Thus she dresses green and gay. 
To disperse our eares away. 

Ever charming, ever new. 
When will the landscape tire the view ! 
The fountain's fall, the river's tlow. 
The woody valleys, warm and low ; 
The windy summit, wild and high, 
Eonghly rushing on the skj- ! 
Tlie pleasant seat, the ruined tower, 
Tlic naked rock, the shady bower ; 
Tlie town and village, dome and fai'm, 
Each give each a double charm, 
As pearls upon an Etliiop's arm. 

See oil the monutaiii's southern side, 
Wliere the iirospcct opens wide, 
Where the evening gilds the tide. 
How close and small the Ledges lie ! 
What streaks of meadows cross the eye ! 
A step, niethinks, may pass the stream. 
So little distant daugers seem ; 
So we mistake the Future's face. 
Eyed through Hope's deluding glass ; 
As you summits soft and fair. 
Clad in colors of the air, 
Wliiuli to those who journey near, 
Barren, brown, and rough appear ; 
Still we tread the same coarse way. 
The present's still a cloudy day. 

Oh may I with myself agree, 
And never covet what I see ; 
Content me with a humble shade. 
My jiassious tamed, my wishes laid ; 
For while our Avishes wildly roll. 
We banish quiet from the soul : 
'Tis thus the busy beat the air. 
And misers gatlier wealth and care. 

Now, eveu now, my joys run high, 
As on the mountain turf I lie ; 



While the wanton zephyr sings. 
And iu the vale perfumes his wings ; 
While the waters uiurninr deep. 
While the shepherd charms his sheep. 
While the birds unbonuded fly, 
And with music fill the sky. 
Now, eveu now, my joys run high. 

Be full, ye courts ; be great who will ; 
Search for Peace with all your skill : 
Open wide the lofty door. 
Seek her ou the marble floor. 
In vain you search, she is not there; 
Iu vain you search the domes of Care ! 
Grass and flowers Quiet treads, 
Ou the meads, and mouutaiu-beads. 
Along with Pleasure, close allied. 
Ever by each other's side ; 
And often, by the nnirmuring rill, 
Hears the thrush, while all is still, 
Within the groves of Grongar Hill. 



|)l)ilip Dobiiriiigc. 

Dodilridgc (1703-1751) was a native of London. He 
lost botli liis parents at an early age, anj pursued his 
studies for the ministry at an academy for Dissenters ;it 
Kibwoith. He began his ministry at the agi'. of twenty, 
and became an eminent preacher. As an author of prac- 
tical religions works his reputation is very high. His 
"Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul" is among 
tlie most esteemed of his productions. His hymns, 
which entitle him to a place among English religious 
poets, were unexcelled in tliuir day, and show genuine 
devotional feeling, a good car for versification, and fine 
literary taste. A pulmonary complaint caused Dod- 
dridge to try the climate of Lisbon. He arrived there on 
the 31st of October, 17.51, but survived only five days. 
As a man he was much beloved, and his character shines 
forth iu his writings. 



YE GOLDEN LAMPS. 

Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell, 

With all your feeble light; 
Farewell, thou ever-chaugiiig moon, 

Pale empress of the night ; 

And thou, refulgent orb of day. 

In brighter flames arrayed! 
My soul, that springs beyond thy sphere, 

No more demands thine aid. 

Y'e stars are but the shining dust 
Of my divine abode, — 



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CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



The pavemeut of those heavenly courts 
Where I shall reigu ■with God ! 

The Father of eternal light 
Shall there his beams display, 

Nor shall one moment's darkness mix 
With that unvaried day. 

No more the drops of piercing grief 
Shall swell into mine eyes ; 

Nor the meridian sun decline 
Amid those brighter skies. 

There all the millions of his saints 

Shall iu one song unite, 
And each the bliss of all shall view 

With infinite delight. 



AW^AKE, YE SAINTS. 

Awake, ye saints, and raise your eyes, 
And raise your voices high ; 

Awake and praise that sovereign love 
That shows salvation nigh. 

On all the wings of time it flies, 
Each moment brings it near; 

Then welcome each declining day, 
Welcome each closing year! 

Not many years their round shall run, 

Nor many mornings rise. 
Ere all its glories stand revealed 

To our admiring eyes! 

Ye wheels of nature, speed your course! 

Ye mortal powers, decay ! 
Fast as ye bring the night of death, 

Vc bring eternal day ! 



EPIGRAM. 

Dr. jDhiisnii jnslly pronounces the Pillowing "one of tlie 
finest epigrams iu ilie English langnjige." It is fonndetl on 
Doddridge's owu family motto of "Dam vivimns vivamns" 
(Wliile we live, let us live). 

" Live while you live," the epicure would say, 
" And seize the pleasures of the present day." 
"Live while you live," the sacred preacher cries, 
"And give to God each moment as it flies." 
Lord, in my view let both united be : 
I live in pleasure when I live to Thee ! 



HARK, THE GLAD SOUND. 

Hark, the glad .soiuul ! the Saviour comes, 

Tiie Saviour promised long ; 
Let every heart prepare a throne. 

And every voice a song! 

» vt if # # # 

He comes, the prisoners to release, 

In Satan's bondage held ; 
The gates of brass before him burst, 

The iron fetters yield. 

He comes, from thickest films of vice 

To clear the mental r.ny, 
And on the eyeballs of the blind 

To pour celestial day. 

He comes the broken heart to biiul. 

The bleeding soul to cure. 
And with the treasures of his grace 

To enrich the humble poor. 

Our glad Hosannas, Prince of Peace, 

Thy welcome shall proclaim. 
And heaven's eternal arches ring 

With thy belovdd name. 



3ol)u lUcslcj). 



Son of the rector of Epworth, iu Lincolnshire, John 
Wesley (1703-1791) was educated at Oxford, where he 
and his brotlier Charles, and a few other students, lived 
after a regular system of pious study and discipline, 
whence they were denominated Methodists. James 
Harvey, author of the " Meditations," and George White- 
tield, the great preacher, who died at Newburyport, 
Mass., were members of this association. John and 
Cliarlcs Wesley sailed for Georgia with Oglethorpe, Oc- 
tober 14th, 173.5, and anchored in the Savannah River, 
February 6th, 1736. Charles soon returned to England ; 
John stayed in Georgia a year and nine months. In 1740 
lie began in England that remarkable career as preacher, 
writer, and laborer, which led to the formation of the 
large and powerful Methodist denomination. In 17.50 
he married, but the union was an unhappy one, and sep- 
aration ensued. He continued his ministerial work up 
to his ciglity-eighth year; his apostolic earnestness and 
venerable appearance procuring for him everywhere pro- 
found respect. His religious poems are many of tbem 
paraphrases from the German, but have much of the 
merit of original productions. From phenomena in his 
own family, Wesley became a devout believer in preter- 
natural occurrences and spiritual intercommunication. 
"With my latest breath," he says, "will I bear my tes- 
timony against giving up to infidels one great proof of 
the invisible world." 



JOHN WESLEY. — WILLIAM HAMILTON. 



173 



COMMIT THOU ALL THY GRIEFS. 

From the German of Pall Geruardt. 

Cominit tlioii all tliy griefs 
Ami ways into Iiis hamls, 
To his sure truth and teiuler care, 

AVlio earth aiul hcaveu CDiiimaiuls ; 

Who points the clouds tlirir course, 
Whom winds and seas obey, 
He shall direct thy wandering feet. 
He shall prepare thy way. 

Give to the winds tliy fears; 
Hoiie, and bo nndisniayed ; 
God hears thy sighs, and counts thy tears, 
God shall lift np tliy head. 

Tiirough waves and clouds and storms. 
He gently clears thy way ; 
Wait thou his time; so shall this uight 
Soon end in joyous day. 

Sfill heavy is thy heart ? 
Still sink thy spirits down ? 
Cast off the weight, let fear depart, 
And every care he gone. 

Wliat though thou rulest not ? 
Yet heaveu and eartli and hell 
Proclaim, God sittetU on the Throne, 
Aud ruleth all things well ! 

Leave to his sovereign sway 
To choose and to command ; 
So shalt thou wouderiug own, his way 
How wise, how strong his hand ! 

Far, far above thy thought 
His counsel shall appear, 
When fully he the work hath wrought 
That caused thy needless fear. 

Thou seest our weakness. Lord ! 
Our hearts are known to thee : 
Oh! lift thou up tho sinking hand, 
Confirm the feeble knee ! 

Let us, in life, in death, 
Tby steadfast Truth declare. 
And publish, with our latest breath, 
Thy love and guardian care ! 



lllilUam C)amiltoii. 



A n:\tive of Ayrshire, in Scotland, Hrtmilton of Ban- 
gour (1704-1T54) was a man of fortune and family. An 
unauthorized edition of his poems appeared in Glasgow 
in 1748; a genuine edition was published by his friends 
in 1760; and a still more complete one, edited by James 
Puterson, appeared in 1850. Hamilton was the delight 
of the fashionable circles of Scotland. In 1745 he joined 
the standard of Prince Charles, and, on the downfall of 
the Jacobite party, Bed to France. He was tinally par- 
doned, and bis paternal estate restored to bim; but he 
did not long live to enjoy it. A pulmonary attack com- 
pelled bim to seek a warmer climate, and be died at 
Lyons in the fiftieth year of his age. "The Braes of 
Yarrow " is the best known of Hamilton's poems ; in- 
deed, tlie rest of them are quite worthless. Johnson 
said of bis poems, with some justice, that "they were 
very well for a gentleman to hand about among bis 
frieuds ;" but Johnson must liave overlooked " The 
Braes of Yarrow," or else be was not in a mood to 
feel its marvellous pathos and beauty. It seems to 
have suggested three charming poems to Wordsworth 
— "Yarrow Unvisited," " Yarrow Visited," and " Yar- 
row Revisited." 



THE BHAES OF YARROW. 

A. Bnsk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride ; 

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ; 
Busk ye, bnsk ye, my bonny, bonny bride, 
Aud think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow. 

B. Where gat ye that bonny, bonny bride? 

Where gat ye that winsome marrow ? 

A. I gat her where I dareua well be seen, 

Pu'ing the birks' ou the braes of Yarrow. 

Weep not, weep not, my bonny, bonny bride ; 

Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow! 
Nor let thy heart lament to leave 

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow. 

B. Why does she weep, thy bonny, bonny bride? 

Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow ? 
And why dare ye nae mair well be seen 
Pn'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow ? 

A. Lang maun she weep, laug maun she, maun she 
weep ; 
Lang maun she weep with dnle and sorrow ; 
Aud lang maun I nae mair well be seen 
Pu'ing the birks ou the braes of Yarrow. 

' rulliug the l)irches. 



174 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BUITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



For she has tint lier lover, lover dear, 
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow ; 

Aud I ha'e slaiu the comeliest swain 

That e'er pu'ed birks ou the braes of Yarrow. 

Wliy runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, reiil ? 

Why on thy braes heard the voice of sor- 
row ? 
And why you luehmcholious weeds, 

Hung ou the bonny birks of Yarrow ? 

What's yonder floats ou the rueful, rueful 
flude ? 

Wliat's yonder floats ? Oh, dulo and sorrow ! 
'Tis he, the comely swaiu I slew 

Uiion the dulofnl braes of Yarrow I 

Wash, oh wasli his wounds, bis wounds in tears. 
His wounds in teais with dule and sorrow ; 

And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, 
And lay him on the braes of Yarrow ! 

Then build, then bnild, ye sisters, sisters sad. 
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow ; 

And weep around in waeful wise 

His helpless fate on the braes of Yarrow. 

Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield. 
My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow. 

The fatal spear that pierced his breast, 

His comely breast, on the braes of Yarrow. 

Did I not warn tliee not to, not to love. 
And warn from tight ? but to my sorrow, 

O'er-rashly bauld, a stronger arm 

Thou met'st, and fell ou the braes of Yarrow. 

Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows 
the grass, 

Yellow ou Yarrow's bank the gowan. 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock. 

Sweet the wave of Yarrow llowiii'. 

Flows Yarrow sweet f As sweet, as .sweet flows 
Tweed, 

As green its grass, its gowan as yellow. 
As sweet smells on its braes the birk. 

The apple frae the rock as mellow. 

Fair was thy love, fair, fair indied thy love ! 

In flowery bunds thou him didst fetter: 
Tho' he was fair, and well beloved again, 

Than me he never lo'ed thee bettei'. 



Busk ye, then busk, my bonny, bonny bride ; 

Busk j'e, busk ye, my winsome marrow ; 
Bnsk ye, aud lo'e me on the banks of Tweed, 

Aud think nae mair on the braes of Yaiiow. 

C How can I busk a bonuy, bonny bride ? 
How can I l)nsk a winsome marrow ? 
How lo'e him on the banks of Tweed 

That slew my love on the braes of Yarrow ? 

O Yarrow fields! may never, never rain 
Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover ! 

For there \wis basely slain my love, 
My love, as he had not been a lover! 

The boy put ou his robes, his robes of green ; 

His puri>le vest, 'twas my ain sewiii'. 
Ah, wretched me ! I little, little ken'd 

He was in these to meet his ruin ! 

The boy took out his milk- white, milk- white 
steed, 

Uiiheedfnl of my dule aud sorrow ; 
But ere the to-full of the night, 

He lay a corpse on the braes of Yarrow. 

Mncli I rejoiced that waefiil, waeful day; 

I sang, my voice the woods returning ; 
But lang ere night the spear was flown 

That slew my love, aud left me inoiirniiig. ' 

What can my barbarous, barbarous father do 
But with his cruel rage imrsne met 

JI}' lover's blood is on thy spear; 

How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo mo ? 

5Iy hapjiy sisters may be, may be prond, 
With cruel and ungentle scoffiu', 

May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes 
My lover nailed in his cofBu. 

My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid. 
And strive with threatening words to move me. 

My lover's blood is on thy spear ; 

How canst thou ever bid me love thee ? 

Yes, yes, prepare the bed, tho bed of love ; 

With bridal sheets my body cover ; 
Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door. 

Let in the expected husband lover! 

But who the expected husband, liusband is ? 
His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter : 



JS'ATHAXIEL COTTON.— CHAELES WESLEY. 



175 



All me ! what ghastly spectre's yon, 

Comes, iu bis pale sbroiul, bleeding, after ? 

Pale as be is, bere lay biiii, lay liini ilowu ; 

Oh, lay bis cold head on uiy pillow ! 
Take aft", take aft" these bridal weeds, 

Aud crown my carel'nl bead with willow. 

Pale tho' thon art, yet best, yet best beloved, 
Oh conld my warmth to life restore thee ! 

Ye'd lie all night between my breasts : 
No youth lay ever there before thee. 

Pale, pale indeed, oh lovely, lovely yonth ! 

Forgive, forgive so fonl a slaughter, 
And lie all night between my breasts ; 

No youth shall ever lie there after. 

A. Return, return, oh mournful, mournful bride! 
Return, and dry thy useless sorrow : 
Thy lover heeds naught of thy sighs ; 

Ho lies a corpse on tho braes of Yarrow! 



Natljanicl (Cotton. 

Cotton (1707-1788) published "Visions in Verse" 
(17.51), for children, and "Works in Prose and Verse" 
(1791). He followed the medical profession, and was 
distinguished for liis skill in tlic treatment of cases of 
insanity. Cowper, Hie poet, was his patient, and bears 
testimony to his "well-known huiuauity and sweetness 
of temper." 



TOMORROW. 

PEREUNT ET IlIPUT.^NTUR. 

To-morrow, did.st thou say ? 
Jlethought I heard Horatio say. To-morrow. 
Go to — I will not hear of it. To-morrow! 
'Tis a sharper who stakes his penury 
Against thy plenty; vpho takes thy ready cash, 
Aud pays thee naught but wishes, hopes, and prom- 
ises, 
The currency of idiots. Injurious bankrupt. 
That gulls the easy creditor ! To-morrow ! 
It is a period nowhere to be found 
In all the hoary registers of Time, 
Unless, perclianee, in the fool's calendar ! 
Wisdom disclaims the word, uor holds society 
With those who own it. No, my Horatio, 
'Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its Father; 
Wrought of sueli stnft'as dreams arc, and as baseless 
As the fantastic visions of the evening. 



But soft, my friend; arrest the jiresent moments; 
For, bo assured, they are all arrant tell-tales ; 
Aud though their flight be silent, and their path 
Trackless as the winged couriers of the air, 
They post to lieaven, and there record thy folly ; 
Because, though stationed on tlie important watch, 
Thon, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel, 
Didst let them pass unnoticed, unimproved. 
And know for that thou slumberest ou the guard. 
Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar 
For every fugitive ; and when thou thus 
Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal 
Of hoodwinked Justice, who shall tell thy audit? 

Tlien stay the present instant, dear Horatio ! 
Imprint the marks of wisdom ou its wings. 
'Tis of more worth than kingdoms — far more pre- 
cious 
Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountains! 
Oh, let it not elude thy grasp, but, like 
The good old patriarch upon record, 
Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee ! 



Cljarlcs lUcslcji. 



Charles Wesley, brother of John, was born at Epworth 
in 1708; died in London, 1788. Educated at Oxford, he 
became an able jireacher, and aided Ins brother iu the 
establishment of Methodism. He wrote hymns, full of 
devotional fervor. " The Wrestler" stamps him a poet. 
Two of Wesley's sons, Charles aud Samuel, became emi- 
nent as musicians. 



THE WRESTLER. 

Genesis XXXII. 24-20. 

Come, oil thou traveller unknown. 
Whom still I hold, but cannot see, 

My company before is gone. 

Add I am left alone with thee ; 

With tliee all niglit I mean to stay, 

Aud wrestle till tlie break of day. 

I need not tell thee who I am, 

My misery or sin declare ; 
Tliyself hast called me by my name; 

Look on thy Iiands, and read it there] 
But who, I ask thee, who art thou ? 
Tell mo thy name, aud tell mo now. 

In vain thou strugglest to got free, 
I never will unloose my hold ; 



17o 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AilERICAX POETllT. 



Art tbon the Man that died for me ? 

The secret of thy love uufold. 
Wrestliug, I will uot let thee go, 
Till I thy name, thy nature know. 

Wilt thou not yet to mo reveal 

Thy new, unutterable name ? 
Tell me, I still beseech thee, tell : 

To know it now, resolved I am : 
Wrestling, I will not let thee go. 
Till I thy name, tliy nature know. 

'Tis all in vain to hold thy tongue, 
Or touch tlio hollow of my thigh : 

Though every siuew he unstrung. 
Out of my arms thou shalt not fly: 

Wrestling, I will not let thee go. 

Till I thy name, tliy nature know. 

What thongli my shriukiug ilcsli complain, 
Aud murmur to contend so long ? 

I rise superior to my pain ; 

When I am weak, then I am strong : 

And when my all of strength shall fail, 

I shall with the God-Man prevail. 

My .strength is gone ; ray nature dies ; 

I sink beneath thy weighty hand; 
Faiut to revive, and fall to rise; 

I fall, aud yet by faith I staud : 
I staud, and will not let thee go, 
Till I tliy name, thy nature know. 

Yield to me now, for I am weak. 

But confident in self-despair; 
Speak to my heart, in hlessiugs speak. 

Be conquered by my inst.iut prayer ! 
Speak, or thou never hence shalt move, 
Aud tell mo if thy name be Love ? 

'Tis Love ! 'tis Love ! Thou dicdst for me ! 

I hear thy whisper iu my heart ! 
The morning breaks, the shadows flee ; 

Pure universal Love thou art! 
To me, to all, thy bowels move ; 
Thy nature and thy name is Love! 

My prayer hath power with God ; the grace 

Unspeakalile I now receive ; 
Through faith I see thee face to face, 

I see thee face to face, aud live: 
In vain I h.ave not wept and strove; 
Thy nature aud thy name is Love I 



I know thee. Saviour, who thou art ; 

Jesus, the feeble sinner's friend ! 
Nor wilt thou with the night depart, 

But stay, aud love me to the end ! 
Thy mercies never shall remove, 
Tliy nature and tliy name is Love. 

The 8un of Righteousiu'.ss on nie 

Hath rose, with healing iu his wings ; 

Withered my nature's strength, from thee 
My soul its life aud succor brings; 

My help is all laid up above; 

Thy nature aud thy name is Love. 

Contented now iipcui my thigh 

I halt, till life's short jouruey end; 

All heli)lessuess, all weakness, I 

Ou thee alone for strength depend ; 

Nor have I power from thee to move ; 

Thy nature aud thy name is Love. 

Lame as I am, I take the prey, 

Hell, earth, and sin, with ease o'ercome ; 
I leap for joy, pursue my way. 

And as a houuding hart fly home! 
Through all eternity to prove 
Thy nature and thy name is Love! 



COME, LET US ANEW. 

Come, let us anew our jonrnc)' pursue — 

Roll round with the year, 
Aud never stand still till the Master apjiear : 
His adorable will let us gladly fulfil, 

And our talents improve 
By the patience of hope, and the labor of love. 

Our life is a dream ; our time, as a stream, 

(Slides swiftly away. 
And the fugitive moment refuses to stay : 
The arrow is flown, the moment is gone ; 

The milleuial year 
Rushes on to our view, and eternity's near. 

that each, in the day of his coming, may say, 

" I have fought my way through ; 

1 have finished the work thou didst give me to 

do!" 
O that each from his Lord ni.ay receive the glad ! 

word , 

" Well and faithfully done ! 
Enter iuto my joy, and sit down ou my throne !" 



GEOEGE, LORD LTTTELTOX.— SAMUEL JOHSSON. 



177 



THE OXLY LIGHT. 

Christ, wboso glory fills I ho skies, 
Christ, the true, the only Light, 

Sun of Righteousness, arise, 

Triumph o'er the shades of uight! 

Day-spring from on high, be near ! 

Day-star, in my heart appear ! 

Dark anil cheerless is the nioru 

Unaccompanied by thee ; 
Joyless is the day's return 

Till thy mercy's beams I see ; 
Till they inward light impart, 
Glad my eyes and warm my heart. 

Visit then this soul of mine, 

Pierce the gloom of sin and grief! 

Fill me. Radiancy Divine, 
Scatter all my uubelief ! 

Jlore and more thyself display, 

Shining to the perfect day. 



©corgc, £orb £jittclton. 

Lyttiiton (170!V1773), a native of Haglcy, and the son 
of a baronet, was educated at Oxford, and at nineteen 
tnivelled on the Continent. He is one cl" the poets ad- 
mitted into Aiken's Collection ; but the most buoyant 
of liis produclions is the one little song which we sub- 
join. 



TELL ME, MY HEART. 

When Delia on the plain appears. 
Awed by a thousand tender fears, 
I would approach, but dare not move : 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love 1 

Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear 
No other voice bnt hers can hear. 
No other wit bnt hers approve : 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 

If she some other youth commend, 
Thinigh I was once his fondest friend, 
His instant enemy I prove : 
Tell me. my heart, if this be love ? 

When she is absent, I no more 
Delight in all that pleased before. 
The clearest spring, the shadiest grove: 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 
Vi 



When, fond of power, of beanty vain. 
Her nets she spread for every swain, 
I strove to hate, but vaiuly strove : — 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? 



Samncl JJoIjugou. 

Tlie son of a poor Lichfield bookseller, Jolinson (1709- 
1784) fought his way nobly to literary eminence against 
poverty, disease, and adverse fortune. At nineteen he 
went to Oxford, where he stayed three years, and got a 
reputation for his Latin verses ; but his father becoming 
insolvent, he had to leave without taking a degree. In 
17:56 he married Mrs. Porter, a widow twenty years older 
than himself. To her he showed a true attachment as 
long as she lived. In 1738 he liegan his career in Lon- 
don with a poem upon "London," wliieli drew from 
Pope tlie remark: "The author, whoever he is, will not 
long be concealed." For ten years more Johnson bat- 
tled on, doing job work for Cave, publisher of the Gen- 
tkinaiis Jfagaziiie ; and at the age of forty published 
his "Vanity of Human Wishes," a poem in imitation 
of the Tentli Satire of Juvenal. The following year ap- 
peared "The Rambler." His " Kassehis " was written 
to pay the expenses of his mother's funeral. His "Dic- 
tionary" occupied eight years of his life. The last of 
ills literary labors was " The Lives of tlic Poets." Of 
this almost forgotten work it has been remarked : " Some 
of his dwarfs are giants; many of his giants have dwin- 
dled into dwarfs." He could not appreciate Milton or 
Gray; but he gave importance to versifiers whose very 
names are unfamiliar to the modern reader. 

In 1703 the king conferred on Johnson a pension of 
£.300 a year, partly, it may be inferred, in consequence of 
Ids political services; for he wrote a pamphlet entitled 
"Taxation no Tyranny," to show that Samuel Adams, 
George Washington, and the rest of the American mal- 
contents ought to pay their taxes on tea, etc., without 
grumbling. Henceforth he had a comparatively easy 
time of it, and the Johnson of this period is pretty well 
known. He is as near to us as it is in the power of 
writing to place any man. Everything about him — his 
coat, his wig, his figure, his face, his scrofula, his St. 
Vitus's dance, bis rolling walk, his blinking eye; the 
"flushed face, and the veins swollen on bis bi-uad fore- 
head," outward signs which too clearly marked his ap- 
probation of his dinner; his insatiable appetite for flsh- 
sauee and veal -pie with plums, his thirst for tea, his 
trick of touching the posts as he walked, and his mys- 
terious practice of treasuring up scraps of orange-peel; 
his morning slumbers, his midnight disputatious, his 
contortions, his mutterings, his gruntings, his puffings; 
his vigorous, acute, and ready eloquence ; liis sarcastic 
wit. Ids vehemence, his insolence, his fits of tempestuous 
rage, his queer inmates, shielded by his kindness — old 
Mr. Levett and blind Mrs. Williams, the cat Hodge, and 
the negro Frank — all are as familiar to us as the objects 
by which we have been surrounded from cliildhood. 

For all this knowledge we are indeljted to James Bos- 
well, Esquire," a Scottish advocate, of shallow brain but 



178 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



impcrtuibable conceit, the thickness of wliosc mental 
slciu enabled him to enjoy the great Englishman's soci- 
ety, in spite of sneers and insults hurled by day and 
iiiglit at his empty head. Not a perfect vacuum, hon- 
evcr, was that head; for one fixed idea possessed it — ad- 
miration of Samuel Jolinson, and the resolve to lose no 
words that fell from his idolized lips. To this fussy, 
foolish man, the butt and buffoon of tlic distinguished 
society into wliich lie had pushed himself, wc owe a 
boolv wliicli is .justly held to be the best biography in 
tlie English language." 

Johnson's mortal remains were buried in Westminster 
Abbey, near the foot of Shakspeare's monument, and 
close to the grave of Garriek. 



CHARLES XII. OF SWEDEN. 

On wh.at foundation stands the warrior's pride, 

How just his holies, let Swedish Charles' decide: 

A friime of adamant, a soul of fire. 

No dangers fright Iiini, and no labors tire; 

O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 

Uncouqnercd lord of pleasure and of [lain ; 

No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, 

War sounds the trump, he rushes to the fichl ; 

Behold, surrounding king.s their powers combine. 

And one capitulate, and one resign ; 

Peace courts his hand, hut spreads her charms in 

vain ; 
"Think nothing gained," he cries, "till uanght re- 
main ; 
On Mo.seow's walls till Gothic standards Hy, 
And all be mine beneath the polar .sky." 
The march hegins in military state. 
And nations on his eye suspended wait ; 
Stern Famine guards the solitary coast, 
And Winter barricades the realms of frost; 
He comes, nor want nor cold liis course delay : — 
Hide, bliisliing Glory, hide I'nltowa's day! 
Tho vanriuislied hero leaves his broken bands. 
And shows his miseries in distant lands; 
Condennied a needy supplicant to wait: 
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate, 
lint did not cliance at length her error mend ? 
Did no subverted empire mark his end? 
Did rival nionarehs give the fatal wound ? 
Or hostile millions press Lim to the ground? 
His fall was destined to a barren strand, 
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand : 
He left tho name, at wliieh the world grew pale, 
To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 

' Charles XII. of Sweden, dofenled at llic bnltle orPullnwn, 
in July, 17119, was s-liot .it Frederickshall, i)U tlie coast of Nor- 
way, in Deceml)er, 1718. 



ON THE DEATH OF MR. ROBERT LEVETT,' 
A PRACTISER IN RHYSXC. 

Condemned to Hope's delusive mine, 

As on we toil from day to day, 
By sudden blasts, or slow decline, 

Our social comforts drop away. 

Well tried through many a A-arying year. 
See Levett to the grave descend. 

Officious, innocent, sincere. 

Of every friendless name the friend. 

Yet still ho fills Affection's eye. 
Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind ; 

Nor, lettered Arrogance, deny 
Thy praise to merit unrefined. 

When fainting Nature called for aid. 

And hovering Death prepared the blow, 

His vigorous remedy displayed 

The power of art without the show. 

In Misery's darkest cavern known, 

His useful care was ever nigh, 
Where hopeless Anguish poured his groan. 

And iouoly Want retired to die. 

No summons mocked l>y chill delay, 
No petty gain disdained by pride ; 

The modest wants of every day 
Tlio toil of every day supplied. 

His virtues walked iheir narrow round, 
Nor nuido a pause, nor left a void ; 

And sure the Eternal Master found 
The single talent well employed. 

Tho busy day, the peaceful night, 

Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; 
His frame was firm, his powers were bright, 

Though now Iiis eightieth year was nigh. 

TIn-ii with no fiery throbbing pain. 

No cold gradations of decay. 
Death broke iit once the vital cliain, 

And freed his soul the nearest way. 



1 One of the odd pensioners on Johnson's l)onnty, and an in- 
mate cif liis honse f.ir twenty year.«. Mncanlay was tempted 
to refer to him as " nn old quack doctor, named Levett, who 
bU'd and dosed conl-heavers and hackney-coachmen, and re- 
ceived for fees cnisis of brend, bits of liacon, glasses of gin, 
and sometimes a little coppor." Possibly all this luay be a 
trifle unjust. 



SAMUEL JOENSON.^IilCHAED GLOFEJi. 



179 



CARDINAL WOLSEY. 

From "The Vanity of IIcman Wishes." 

Ill fiill-blowu dignity see Wolscy stand, 
Law iu Uis voice, and fortune iu liis hand : 
To him tlio ehnrch, tlie reahn, their powers consign, 
Throngli him the rays of regal bounty sliine, 
Turned by his nod the stream of honor flows, 
His smile alone security bestows : 
Still to new heights his restless wishes tower, 
Claim leads to claim, and power advances power: 
Till conquest unresisted ceased to please. 
And rights submitted, left him none to seize. 
At length his sovereign frowns — the train of state 
Mark the keen glance, and watcli the sign to hate. 
Where'er he turns, he meets a stranger's eye, 
His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly: 
Now drops at oiieo the pride of awful state, 
The golden canopy, the glittering plate. 
The regiil palace, the liisnrions board, 
The liveried aruiy, and tlie menial lord. 
With age, with cares, with maladies oppressed, 
He seeks a refuge of monastic rest ; 
Grief aids disease, remembered folly stings, 
Au<l liis last sighs reproach the faith of kings. 
Siie:ilc thou, whose thoughts at humble peace 
repine, 
Sliall Wolsey's wealth, witli Wolsey's end, bo thine? 
Or liv'st thou now, with safer pride content, 
Tlie wisest justice on tlie banks of Trent? 
For wliy did Wolsey, near the steejis of fate, 
I'll weak foundations raise tli* enormous weight? 
Why but to sink beneath niisfiutnne's blow, 
With louder ruin to the gulfs below? 



NOR DEEM RELIGION VAIN. 

Wliere, tlien, shall Hope and Fear their objects 

fiiiil ? 
Must dull suspense coiTupt the stagnant mind? 
Must liel[dess man, in ignorance sedate, 
Roll darkling down the torrent of liis fate ? 
Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise, 
Xo cries invoke the mercies of the .skies? 
Inquirer, cease; petitions yet remain 
Which Heaven may hear, nor deem religion vain. 
Still raise for good the supplicating voice. 
But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice. 
.Safe iu his jiower, whose eyes discern afar 
Tlie secret ambush of a specious prayer, 
Implore his aid, iu his decisions rest, 
Seciue whate'er he gives, he gives the best. 



Yet when the sense of sacred presence tires, 
Aud strong devotion to the skies aspires. 
Pour forth tliy fervors for a healthful uiiud, 
Obedient passions, aud a will resigned ; 
For love, whicli scarce collective man can fill ; 
For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill ; 
For faith, that panting for a happier seat, 
Counts death kind Nature's signal of retre'at : 
These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain. 
These goods he grauts.who grants the power to gain ; 
With these celestial W^isdom calms the mind. 
And makes the happiness she does not find. 



ON CLAUDE PHILLIPS, AN ITINERANT 
MUSICIAN IN WALKS. 

Phillips! whose touch harmonious could remove 
Tlic pangs of guilty power and hapless love, 
Rest here, distressed by poverty no more, 
Find here that calm thou gavest so oft before; 
Sleep undisturbed witliin this peaceful shrine. 
Till angels wake tliee with a note like thine. 



IVicljart (J?loner. 



Glover (1713-178.5), the son of a London merchant, and 
liimself a mereliant, published two elaborate poems in 
lilnnk verse — "Leonidas," and " The Atlicnaid." He was 
a member of Piirliainent for several year?, and was es- 
teemed eloquent, intrepid, and incorruptiljle. He wrote 
two or three tragedies, but tliey were not successful oil 
the stage. He edited tlie poems of Matthew Green, and 
seems to have appreciated the peculiar genius of that 
neglected poet. The ballad which we publish from 
Glover's [len is likely to outlast all his epics and plays. 



ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST. 

Ill 1727 the Englisli admirat, Hosier, blockatled Porto-Bello 
with twenty ships, but was not allowed to attack it, war not 
liaving actnal]y brolien ont between England and Spain ; aud 
a peace being patched up, his squadron was withdrawn. In 
1T40, Admiral Vernon (after whom Washingtmi's "Jlount Ver- 
non " was named) took Porto-Bello wiih sis ships. It was ap- 
liarolitly a very creditalilc exploit : but Vernon being au enemy 
of Walpolc's, and a member of the Opposition, it was glorified 
liy them beyond its merits. Glover is here the mouth-piece of 
t!ic Opposition, who, while they exalted Vernon, aflected to pity 
Hosier, who had died, as they declared, of a broken heart, and 
(if whose losses by disease during the blockade they did not 
fail to make the most. 

As near Porto-Bello lying, 

On the gently swelling flood. 

At midnight, witli streamers flying. 
Our triumphant navy rode; 



1?0 



CTCLOl'^DIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEIUCAX POETRY. 



There, while Vernon sat, all glorious 
From the Siiiiiiiards' late defeat, 

And his crews with shonts victorious 
Drank success to England's fleet ; — 

On a suililen, shrilly sounding, 

Hideous yells and shrieks were heard ; 
Then, each heart with fear confounding, 

A sad troop of ghosts appeared ; 
All in dreary hammocks shrouded. 

Which for winding-sheets they woi'e, 
And with looks by sorrow clouded 

Frowning on that hostile shore. 

On them gleamed th<' moon's wan lustre. 

When the shade of Hosier brave 
His pale bands was seen to muster, 

Rising from their watery grave. 
O'er the glimmering wave he hied him 

Where the ISurford reared her sail, 
With three thousand ghosts beside him, 

And in groans did Vernon hail : 

"Heed, oh heed, our fatal story, — 

I am Hosier's injured ghost, — 
Yon who now have iiurchased glory 

At this place where I was lost : 
Though in Porto-Bello's ruin 

You now triumph free from fears, 
When you think on onr undoing, 

Y'ou will mix your joy with tears. 

" See these mournful spectres, sweeping 

Ghastly o'er this hated wave, 
Whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping : 

These were English captains brave. 
Mark those niimbers pale and liorrid ; 

Those were (mce my sailors Ixdd : 
Lo ! each hangs his drooping forehead 

While his dismal tale is tuld. 

" I, by twenty sail attended, 

Did this Spanish town attVight; 
Nothing then its wealth defended 

Hut my orders not to fight. 
Oh that in this rolling ocean 

I had cast them with disdain, 
And obeyed my hi'art's warm motion 

To have (]uelled th(^ pride of Spain ! 

"For resistance I could fear ncuie, 
15ut with twenty ships had done 



What thou, brave aiul happy Vernon, 
Hast achieved with six aloue. 

Then the bastimeutos' never 
Had our foul dishonor seen. 

Nor the sea the sad receiver 
Of this gallant train had been. 

"Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying. 

And her g.alleons leading home. 
Though, condemned for disobeying, 

I had met a traitor's doom. 
To have falleuj my country crying, 

'He has played an English part!' 
Had been better far than dying 

Of a grieved and broken heart. 

'•Unrcpiuing at thy glory, 

Tliy successful arms we hail ! 
But retnember our sad story. 

And let Hosier's wrongs prevail. 
Sent in this foul clime to languish. 

Think what thousands fell in vain. 
Wasted with disease and anguish, 

Not in glorious battle slain! 

" Hence, with all my train attending 

From their oozy tombs below. 
Through the hoary foam ascending, 

Here 1 feed my constant woe ; 
Here the bastimeutos viewing. 

We recall onr shameful doom. 
And our plaintive cries renewing. 

Wander through the midnight gloom. 

" O'er these waves forever mourning 

Shall we roam, deprived of rest, 
If, to Britain's shores returning, 

You neglect my just request. 
After this proud foe subduing. 

When your patriot friends you see, 
Think oil vengeance for my ruin. 

And for England shamed in. me!'' 



lHUliam Sljcnstouc. 

Shcnstonc (1714-170.S) wns liorn at Lcasowes, In Shrop- 
shire. He received his hiijhcr education at Pembroke 
College, Oxford, but did not take a degree. lu 1745 the 
paternul csUite fell to his care, and, as Jolmson cliarac- 
teristically describes it, he began " to point his pros- 

' Ctitliinento (Ilnliuii), a sbip. 



WILLIAM SHEXSTOXE. 



181 



pects, to diversify his surface, to entangle liis walUs, imd 
to wind liis waters." Descriptions of tlie Lcasowes liave 
tx'cn written by Dodsley and Goldsmitli. Tlie property 
was altosretlier not wortli more tlian £300 per annum, 
and Slienstone liad devoted so mucli of liis means to ex- 
ternal embellisliment, tliat lie liad to live in a dilapidated 
liouse liardly rain-proof. He had wasted liis substance 
in temples, inscriptions, and artitieial walks. At every 
turn tliere was a bust or a seat with on inscription. 

Amoni; tlie inscriptions, that to Miss Dolman is mem- 
oraljle because of a felicitous sentiment in Latin, often 
([noted : " Peramabili sua; consobrinsc M. D. All ! Maria I 
puellarnm elegantissima 1 ab flore venustatis abrepta, 
vale ! i/fw quanio minus est cum reliqult versari, quam lui 
tmniiiiiisf.'" In En^lisli : "Sacred to the memory of a 
most amiable liinswoman, M. D. Ah! Maria', most ele- 
gant of nymphs I snatelied from us in the bloom of 
beaut}' — ah! farewell! AJasI how much less precious is 
it to converse U'ith others than to remember thee T'' 

Shenstone's liighest effort is "The Seliool-mistress," 
said to have been written at eolleee iu 1736. It is still 
read with pleasure. It is in imitation of Spenser, and 
" so delightfully quaint and hidicrous, yet true to nat- 
ure, that it has all the force and vividness of a paintini; 
by Teniers or Wilkie." Of his other poems, comprising 
odes, elegies, and pastorals, few of them are likely to 
endure in the survival of the fittest. 



FROM " THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS." 

In Imitation of Spenseii. 

All me ! fnll sorely is my heart forlorn, 
To think how nioilest worth iieglfcteil lies, 
While partial Fame doth with her blasts adorn 
Sncli deed.s aloue as pride and pomp di,sgiiise ; 
Deeds of ill sort, and iniscLievous eniprize : 
Lend Die tliy clarion, goddess! let me try 
To sound the praise of merit ere it dies, 
Such as I oft have chauc(5d to espy 
Lost iu the dreary shades of dull obscurity. 

In every village marked with little spire. 
Embowered in trees, and hardly known to fame. 
There dwells, iu lowly shades and mean attire, 
A matron old, whom we School-mi.stress name ; 
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tamo ; 
They grieveu sore, iu piteous durance pent. 
Awed by the iiower of this relentless dame, 
And ofttimes, ou vagaries idly bent. 
For unkempt hair, or task unconned, are sorely 
shent. 

And all iu sight doth rise a birehen-tree. 
Which learning uear her little dome did stow, 
Whilom a twig of small regard to see. 
Though now so wide its waving branches flow ; 
And work the simple vassals niickle woe ; 



Fin- not a wind might curl the leaves that blew, 
But their limbs shuddered, and their pulse beat 

low ; 
And, as they looked, tbcy fiuuid their horror grev,'. 

And shaped it into roils, and tingled at the view. 
# * ^ ^ ^ # 

Near to this dome is found a patch so greeu, 
On which the tribe their gambols do ^i'splay, 
Aud at the door imprisouiiig board is seen, 
Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray. 
Eager, perdie, to bask iu sunny day! 
The noises iiiteruiixed, which thence resoniul. 
Do learning's little tenement betray : 
Where sits the dame, di.sguised in look profonml. 

And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel 
around. 

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, 
Emblem right meet of decency does yield ; 
Her apron, dyed in grain, as blue, I trow, 
As is the harebell that adorns the held ; 
And iu her hand, for sceptre, she does wield 
Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear en- 
twined. 
With dark mistrust and sad repentance filled : 
And steadfast hate, and sliarp affliction joined. 
And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind. 

# * # 7f # # 

One ancient hen she took delight to feed, 
The plodding pattern of the busy dame. 
Which ever and anon, impelled by need, 
Into her school, begirt with chickens, came ; 
Such favor did her past deportment claim : 
And if neglect had lavished on the ground 
Fragment of bre.ad, she would collect the same ; 
For well she knew, and quaintly could expound. 

What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she 
fimud. 
^ # jf # # *f 

Right well she knew each temper to descry ; 
To thwart the proud, aud the snbmiss to raise ; 
Some with vile copper prize exalt on bigli, 
And some entice with pittance small of praise ; 
Aud other some with baleful sprig she 'frays: 
E'en absent, she the reins of power doth hold, 
W'hile with quaint arts the giddy crowd she 

sways ; 
Forewarned, if little bird their pranks behold. 

'Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold 

Lo ! now with state she utters the command ! 
Efrsoons the urchins to their tasks repair. 
Their books, of stature small, they take in hand, 



182 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEHICJX POETRY. 



Which with pellucid horn 8ecur<S<l are, 
To save from finger Tvet the letters fair ; 
The work so gay, that on their hack is seen, 
St. George's high aehievemeiits does declare, 
Oa which thilk wight that has y-gaziug been, 
Keus the forth-coming rod, nnpleasing sight, I ween. 



WKITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY. 

To thee, fair Freedom, I retire 

From flattery, cards, and dice, and din ; 
Nor art thou found in mansions higher 

Thau the low cot or humble inn. 

"Tis here with boundless power I reign, 
And every health which I begin 

Converts dull port to bright champagne ; 
Such freedom crowns it at an inn. 

I fly from pomp, I fly from plate, 
I fly from falsehood-s specious grin ; 

Freedom I love, and form I hate. 
And choose my lodgings at au inn. 

Here, waiter! take my sordid ore, 

Which lackeys else might hope to win ; 

It buys what courts have not iu store. 
It buys me freedom at au inn. 

Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round, 
Where'er his stages may have been. 

May sigh to think he still has found 
The warmest welcome at au inn. 



(LljoinaG (f^raij. 



Tlie son of a London scrivener in noisy Cornliill, Gniy 
(lTlfl-1771) was nnrortunate in his paternal relations. 
His fatlier w:i.s of a liarsli, despotic disposition ; and 
Mrs, Gray was obliged to separate from him, and open a 
millinery shop for her maintenance. To the love of this 
good mother, wlio lived to witness the eminence of her 
son, Thomas owed his superior education. Her brother 
being a master at Eton, the lad went there to school, and 
founil among his classmates young Horace Walpole, with 
whom he became intimate, and afterward travelled on 
the Continent. At (;aml)riclgc Gray .seems to have found 
college-life irksome. He bated matlicmalics and mcta- 
pliysics. He passed his time principally in the study of 
languages and history, leaving in 1738 without taking a 
degree. He iixcd his residence at Cambridge. Severe 
as a stuilent, he was indolent as an author. His charm- 



ing letters, and his splendid but scanty poetry, leave the 
world to regret his laclv of productive industry. He was 
a man of ardent affections, of sincere piety, and practical 
benevolence ; but his sequestered student-life, and an af- 
fectation of the character of a geutlcnian who studied 
from choice, gave a tinge of effeminacy and ])edaniiy to 
his manners that incurred the ridicule of the wilder spir- 
its of Cambridge. 

The secnei-y of the Grande Chartreuse in Dauphin^ 
awakened all his enthusiasm. He wrote of it : " Not a 
precipice, not a torrent, not a elitf, but is pregnant with 
religion and poetry. There are certain scenes that would 
awe an atheist into belief, without the help of other ar- 
gument. One need not have a very fantastic imagina- 
tion to see spirits there at noonday." 

Charles Dickens remarked of Gray tliat no poet ever 
gained a i)laec among the immortals with so small a vol- 
ume under his arm. Gray's first public appearance as 
a poet was in 1747, when his "Ode to Eton College" 
(written in 1742) was published by Dodsley. In 17.51 liis 
"Elegy written in a Country Chureli-yard" was printed, 
and immediately attained a popularity which has gone 
on iuereasiug up to the present time. Tlie " Pindaric 
Odes" appeared in 17.57, but met with little success. 
Gray was offered the appointment of poet-laureate, va- 
cant by the death of Colley Cibber, but declined it, and 
accepted the lucrative situation of Professor of Modern 
History, which brought him in about £'400 per annum. 
He died of gout in the stomach, in the flfty-liltb year of 
his age. 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH- 
YARD. 

In a letter to his jmblishcr (17.51), Gray requested that the 
Eletry sliouUl be "i>riutetl without any interval between the 
stanzas, becanse the seuse is in some places continned beyond 
them." In th<ise stanzas to which he refers we liave here en- 
deavored to confoim to his wish by not dividing them. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day. 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 

The ploughiuau homeward plods his weary way. 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering land.scape ou the sight. 

And all the air a solemn stilltie.ss holds. 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 

And drowsy titiklings lull the distant folds; 
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 

The moping owl does to the moon complain 
Of such as, wandering uear her secret bower. 

Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, tlnit yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf iu many a mouldering 
heap. 

Each in his narrow cell forever l.iid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 



THOMAS GHAT. 



183 



riie breezy call of iiiceiise-brcatbing morn, 

Tbc swallow twittering from tbo straw - built 
slied, 

The cock's slirill clarion, or the echoing born. 
No more shall rouse tbem from tbeir lowly bed. 

For tbem no more tbe blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife \Ay her evening care ; 

Ko children run to lisp their sire's return. 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to shai'e. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 

Tlieir furrow oft the stubborn glebe has br(die : 

How jocund did they drive their team a-fiebl I 
How bowed the woods lieiieatli their sturdy 
stroke ! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Xnr Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short aud simple annals of the poor. 

Tlie boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 

And all that beauty, all tliat wealth e'er gave. 

Await alike the inevitable hour: 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise. 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted 
vault 
Tbe pealing anthem swells the uote of praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 
Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dnst. 

Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of Death? 
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnaut with celestial fire ; 
Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed. 

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page. 

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, 

And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of jmrest ray serene 

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
The little tyrant of bis fields withstood: 



Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest, 

Sinni' Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 

Tlie applause of listening senates to command. 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling hand. 

And read their history in a nation's eyes, 
Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alou6 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 
Foi-bade to wade through slaughter to a throne. 

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; — 
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. 

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. 
Or heap the shrine of Lu.\ury and Pride 

With incense kindled at the Muse's tlanie.' 

Far from the nnidding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet even the.se bones from insult to protect. 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh. 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 
decked, 
Imphu-es the jiassing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, 
Tbe place of fame .and elegy supply; 

And many a holy text around she strews 
That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb Forget fulness a prey. 
This pleasing, anxions being e'er resigned, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? 



1 Between tliis st.aiiza .ind tli.at beginniiitr, "F:u' from the 
mridilinix crowd's i^^noble strife, " came, in Gray's earlier MS. 
draft, Ihcse four st.inzas ninrked nt the side for omission, of 
w liich one is used, iu .111 altered form, lower down : 

"The thonshtless World to Majesty may bow, 
E.^alt the brave, and idolize success ; 
Bnt more to Innocence tlieir safety owe 
Than Power and Genius e'er conspired to bless. 

"And thoii who, miudfnl of th' nuhonnred dead, 
Dost in these notes their artless tale relate, 
By Nii^ht and lonely Contemplation led 
To linger iu the gloomy walks of Fate, 

"Hark how the s.icred calm that broods aronud 
Bids every tierce, tumultuous passion cease, 
In still small accents whispering from the gronnd 
A jirnteful earnest of eternal pence. 

"No more, with Reason and thyself at strife. 
Give anxious cares and endless wishes room ; 
But thnnij;h the cool, sequestered vale of life 
Pursue the silent tenor of thy doom." 



184 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



On some fond breast tlie parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops tbe closing eye requires ; 

Even from the tomb tbe voice of Nature cries, 
Even in our asbes live tbeir wouted fires. 

For tbee, wlio, mindful of tbe uubonored dead, 

Dost in tbese lines tbeir artless tale relate, 
If cLance, by lonely Contemplation led. 

Some kindred spirit sball inquire tby fate. 
Haply some boary-beaded swain may say, 

" Ot't bave we seen bim at tbe peep of dawn 
Brusbiiig witb basty steps tlie dews away 

To meet tbe sun upon tlie upland lawn. 

"Tlicro, at tbe foot of yonder nodding bcecb, 
That wreatbes its old fantastic roots so bigb, 

His listless lengtb at noontide would be stretch, 
And pore upon tbe brook that babbles by. 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering bis wayward fancies, be would rove. 

Now drooping wofiil-wan, like one forlorn, 

Or crazed witb care, or crossed in Iiopcless 
love. 

"One morn I missed bim on tbe 'customed bill. 
Along the beatb, and near his favorite tree ; 

Another came, nor yet beside tbe rill. 

Nor up tbe lawn, nor at tbe wood was be. 

"Tbe nest with dirges due in sad array 

Slow tbroiigb the church-way path we saw hin\ 
borne. 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) tbe lay 
Graved on tbe stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

THE EP1T.\PH. 

Here rests bis bead upon the lap of Earth, 
A youtb to fortune and to fame unknown. 

Fair Science frowned not on bis humble birth, 
And Melancholy marked bim for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and bis soul sincere ; 

Heaven did a recompense as largely seud : 
He gave to Misery (all he bad) a tear, 

He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a 
friend. 

No farther seek bis merits to disclose. 

Or draw his frailties from tbeir dread abode 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose), 
Tbe busoui of his Father and bis God. 



ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON 
COLLEGE. 

"Ai'f'pwiror' Ixav*/ irpu^affic ets to 6vavx^1i. — MesanDER, 

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers. 

That crown tbe watery glade. 
Where grateful Science still adores 

Her Henry's' boly sbade ! 
And ye that from tbe stately brow 
Of Windsor's heights tbe expanse below 

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, 
Whose turf, whose sbade, whose tlowers among 
Wandeis tbe hoary Thames along 

His silver-winding way : 

Ah, happy bills! ab, pleasing shade! 

Ah, tields beloved in vain ! 
Where once mj' careless cbiblhood strayed, 

A stranger yet to pain ! 
1 feel tbe gales tbat from ye blow 
A momentary bliss bestow. 

As, waving fresb their gladsome wing, 
My weary soul they seem to soothe. 
And, redolent of joy and youtb, 

To breathe a secoud spring. 

Say, Father Thames, — for thou hast seen 

Full many a sprightly race. 
Disporting on tby luargent green, 

The paths of pleasure trace, — 
Who foremost now deligbt to cleave 
With pliant arm tby glassy wave f 

Tbe captive linnet which inthrall ? 
What idle progeny succeed 
To chase tbe rolling circle's speed. 

Or urge the tlying ball ? 

While some, on earnest business bent. 

Their nnirmnriug labors ply 
'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint 

To sweeten liberty, — 
Some bold adventurers disdain 
The limits of their little reign. 

And unknown regions dare descry: 
Still as they run they look behind. 
They bear a voice in every wind, 

And snatch a fearful joy. 

Gay hope is theirs, by Fancy fed. 

Less pleasing when possessed ; 
The tear forgot iis soon as shed, 

The sunshine of tbe breast ; 

' King Uenry VI.-, founder of the college. 



THOMAS GBJY.—JAilES MERRICK. 



185 



Theirs buxom Lealtli, of rosy hue ; 
WiUl wit, inveutiou ever new, 

And lively cheei' of vigor born ; 
The thoughtless (lay, the easy night, 
The siiirits pure, the slumbers light, 

That fly the iipproach of morn. 

Alas ! reganlless of their iloora, 

The little victims phiy I 
No sense have they of ills to come. 

Nor care beyond to-day. 
Yet see how all around them wait 
The ministers of hnuian fate, 

Aud black Misfortune's baleful train! 
Ah, show them where in ambush stand, 
To seize their prey, the nutrd'rous band ! 

Ah, tell them they are men ! 

These shall the fury Passions tear, 

The vultures of the mind — 
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 

And Shame, that skulks behind ; 
Or pining Love shall waste their youth, 
Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth, 

That inly gnaws the secret heart. 
And Envy wan, and faded Care, 
Grim-visaged, comfortless Despair, 

And Sorrow's piercing dart. 

Ambition this shall tempt to rise, 

Then whirl the wretch from high, 
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, 

Aud grinning Infamy. 
The stiugs of Falsehood those shall try. 
And hard Unkindness' altered eye. 

That mocks the tear it forced to flow ; 
And keen Remorse, with blood defiled, 
Aud moody Madness, laughing wihl 

Amid severest woe. 

Lo ; in the vale of years beneath 

A grisly troop are seen, 
Tlie painful family of Death, 

More hideous than their queen : 
This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 
That every laboring sinew strains. 

Those in the deeper vitals rage : 
Lo, Poverty, to fill the band. 
That numbs the soul with icy hand, 

And slow-consuming Age. 

To each his sufferings : all arc men. 
Condemned alike to groan : 



The tender for another's paiu, 

The unfeeling for his own. 
Yet ah ! why should they know their fate. 
Since sorrow never comes too late, 

And happiness too swiftly flies ? 
Thought would destroy their Paradise. 
No more : where ignorauce is bliss, 

'Tis folly to be wise. 

V 



lam£0 illcrriclf. 

Merrick (1720-1769) was a clergyman, as well as a 
writer of verse. He produced a version of the Psalms, 
a Collection of Hymns, and a few miscellaneous poems. 
His "Chameleon" is still buoyant among the produc- 
tions that the world does not willingly let die. At Ox- 
foi'd, Merrick was tutor to Lord North. Owing to in- 
cessant pains in the head, he was obliged to abandon 
his vocation of clergyman. 



THE CHAMELEON. 

Oft has it been my lot to mark 
A prond, conceited, talking spark. 
With eyes that hardly served at most 
To guard their master 'gainst a post; 
Yet round the world the blade has been, 
To see whatever could be seen. 
Returning from his finished tour, 
Grown ten times perter than before, — 
Whatever word you chance to drop. 
The travelled fool your mouth will stop: 
" Sir, if my judgment you'll allow — 
I've seen — aud sure I ought to know."— 
So begs you'd pay a due submission, 
And acquiesce in his decision. 

Two travellers of such a cast. 
As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed. 
And on their way, in friendly chat. 
Now talked of this, and then of that, 
Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter. 
Of the chameleon's form and nature. 
"A stranger animal," cries one, 
" Sure never lived beneath the sun : 
A lizard's body, lean and long, 
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue. 
Its foot with triple claw disjoined ; 
Aud what a length of tail behind ! 
Hew slow its pace! and then its hne — 
Wlio ever saw so fine a blue !" 

"Hold, there!" the other quick replies: 
" 'Tis green ; I saw it with these eyes, 



ISG 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAX I'OETET. 



As late vith open mouth it lay, 
And warmed it iu the sunny ray ; 
Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed. 
And saw it eat the air for food." 

" I've seen it, sir, as well as you, 
And must again afilirm it blue. 
At leisure I the beast surveyed. 
Extended iu the cooling shade." 

" 'Tis green, 'tis gi'een, sir, I assure ye." — 
" Green I" cries the other, in a fury ; 
" Wliy, sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes ?" — 
" 'T« ere no great loss," the frieiul replies : 
'•For if they always use you thus, 
You'll find theni but of little use." 

So high at last the coutest rose, 
Fnmi w<uds they almost came to blows : 
When luckily came by a third : 
To him the question they referred ; 
And begged he'd tell them, if he knew. 
Whether the thing was green or bine. 

"Sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your pother, 
The creature's neither one nor t'other. 
I caught the animal last night. 
And viewed it o'er by candle-light: 
I marked it well — 'twas black as jet. 
You stare ; but, sirs, I've got it yet, 
And can produce it." — "Pray, sir, do^ 
I II lay my life the thing is blue." — 
"And I'll be sworn that when you've seen 
The reptile, you'll prououuce him green." — 
" Well, then, at once to end the doubt," 
Keplies the man, "I'll turn him out; 
And when before your eyes I've set him. 
If yon don't find him black, I'll eat him." 

He sai<l : then full before their sight 
Produced the beast; and lo! 'twas white. 

Both stared ; the man looked wondrous wise. 
" My children," the chameleou cries 
(Then first the creature found a tongue), 
" You .all are right, and all arc wrong. 
When next yon talk of what you view. 
Think others see as well as you, 
Nor wouder if you find that uoue 
Prefers your eyesight to his own." 



lllark ^kcusibc. 

The author of " Pleasures of Imagination" (17:21-1770) 
was the son of .1 butcher at Newcastle-upon-Tyne. An 
accident in Ids early years — the fall of one of his father's 
cleavers on his foot^romU'rcd liitn lame for life. His 
parents were Dissenters, and Mark was sent to the Uni- 



versity of Edinburgh to be educated lor the Presbyterian 
ministry. He entered, however, the lanks of medicine, 
and received in 17-14 the degree of M.D. from the Uni- 
versity of Leydcn. As a boy of sixteen, he had con- 
tributed pieces of some merit to the Gentknmn''s Mii<]n- 
ziiie. His "Pleasures of Imagination," published when 
he was twenty-three years old, placed him iu the list of 
conspicuous poets. Instead of pressing forward to bet- 
ter things, he passed several years in altering and re- 
modelling his first successful poem ; but he gained noth- 
ing in reputation by the attempt, and died before it was 
completed. His Hymns and Odes are deservedly for- 
gotten. 

Removing to Loudon, Akcnsidc took a house iu 
Bloomsbury Sipiarc, where he resided till his death. As 
a physician, he never rose to eminence. His manner iu 
a sick-room was depressing and unsympathetic. His 
chief means of support were derived from the liljerality 
of his friend Jeremiah Dyson, a man of fortune, who se- 
cured to liim an income of £300 a year. As a poet, 
Akenside may not have reached the highest mark ; but 
his "Pleasures of Imagination " will always be regarded 
as a remarkable production for a youth of twenty-three. 
In our extracts we have preferred the original text. Few 
of the author's subsequent alterations are iniproveincnts. 
Gray ccnsiu-cs the tone of false philosophy which he 
foimd in the ^\■ork. 



THE SOUL'S TENDENCIES TO THE INFINITE. 

From **Tue Pleasuhes of hi.\GixATioN,'* 

Say, why was man so eminently raised 

Amid the vast creation ; why <irdained 

Through life and death to dart his piercing eye, 

With thonglits bej'ond the limit of bis frame; — 

But that the Omnipotent might send him forth 

In sight of mortal and immortal powers. 

As on a boundless theatre, to run 

The great career of justice; to exalt 

His generous aim to all diviner deeds ; 

To chase each partial purpose from his breast: 

And through the mists of passi<ui and of sense, 

And through the tossing tide of chance ami pain, 

To hold his conrse unfaltering, while the voice 

Of Truth and Virtue, up the steeji ascent 

Of Nature, calls him to his higU reward, 

Tlie applauding smile of Heaven? Else wlurel'cuo 

burns 
In mortal bosoms this unqucnch^d hope, 
That breathes from day to day sublimer things, 
And mocks possession? wherefore darts the mind. 
With such resistless ardor to embrace 
Majestic forms ; impatient to bo free, 
Spurning the gross control of wilful nnght ; 
Prond of the strong contcntiou of her toils; 
Proud to be daring f » » » 



MA UK AKESSWE. 



187 



THE HIGH-BORN SOUL. 

From " The Pleascres of Imagination." 

* * * Tbo liigli-bom soul 
Disdains to rest her lieaveii-aspiriDg wiiij; 
Beiieatli its native quarry. Tired of Earth 
Ami this diurnal seeue, she sjirings aloft 
Tliroiigh tields of air ; pursues the flying .storm ; 
Kides ou the volleyed lightning through tlie 

Heavens ; 
Or, yoked with wliirlwinds and the uortheru blast, 
Sweeps tlio long tract of day. Then liigh she soars 
The blue profound, and, hovering round the sun, 
Beholds him pouring the redundant stream 
Of light ; beholds his unrelenting sway 
Bend the reluctant iilanets to absolve 
The fated rouuds of Time. Thence far effused 
She darts her swiftness up the long career 
Of devious comets; through its l)urning signs 
Exulting measures the i)crennial wlieel 
Of Nature, and looks back on all the stars. 
Whose blended light, as witli a milky zone. 
Invests the orieut. Now amazed she views 
Tlie empyreal waste, where li.ippy spirits hold, 
Beyond this concave Heaven, their calm abode ; 
And lields of radiance, whose unfading light 
Has travelled the profound sis thousand years. 
Nor yet arrives in sight of mortal things. 
Even on the barriers of the world iintircd 
^<he meditates the eternal depth below ; 
Till half recoiling, down the headlong steep 
She plunges; soou o'erwhelmed and swallowed up 
In that immense of being. There lier hopes 
Rest at the fated goal. For from tlie birth 
Of mortal man, the sovereign Maker said. 
That not in humble nor in brief delight, 
Not in the fading echoes of Renown, 
Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery hq), 
The soul should lind enjoyment ; but from these 
Turning disdainful to an equal good, 
Througli all the ascent of things enlarge her view, 
Till every bound at length should disappear, 
And infinite perfection close the scene. 



MIND, THE FOUNT OF BEAUTY. 

From " Tue Tleasures of Isiagination." 

* * * Thns dotb Beauty dwell 
There most conspicuous, even in outward sliape, 
Where dawns the high expression of a mind : 
By steps conducting our eni-aptnred search 
To that eternal origin, whose jiower, 



Through all the unbounded symmetry of things, 

Like rays efl'ulging from the parent sun. 

This endless mixture of her charms diffused. 

Mind, mind alone (bear witness, Earth and Heaven) 

The living fountains in it.self contains 

Of beauteous and sublime: here, hand in hand. 

Sit paramount the Graces ; here enthroned. 

Celestial Venus, with divincst airs, ' 

Invites the soul to never-fading joy. 

Look then abroad through Nature, to the range 

Of planet.s, suns, and adamantine spheres, 

Wliceling nushakeu through the void immense; 

And speak, O num ! does this capacious scene 

With half that kindling majesty dilate 

Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose 

Refulgent from the stroke of Ca;sar's fate, 

Amid the crowd of patriots ; and liis arm 

Aloft extending, like eternal Jove, 

When guilt brings down the thunder, called .ihmd 

Ou Tally's name, and shook his crimson steel. 

And bade the father of his country hail ? 

For lo ! the tyrant prostrate on the dust. 

And Rome again is free! * * * 



THE ASCENT OF BEING. 
From " The Pleasures of Imagination." 

* * * Through every nge. 
Through every moment up the tract of time. 
His parent-hand, with ever-new increase 
Of happiness and virtue, has adorned 
The vast harmonious frame : Iiis xiarent-hand. 
From the mnte shell-fish gasping on the shore, 
To men, to angels, to celestial minds, 
Forever leads the generations on 
To higher scenes of being; while, supplied 
From day to day with his enlivening breath, 
Inferior orders in succession rise 
To fill the void below. As flame ascends. 
As bodies to their proper centre move. 
As the poised ocean to the attracting Moon 
Obedient swells, and every headlong stream 
Devolves its winding waters to the main ; — 
So all things which have life aspire to God, 
The Sun of being, boundless, unimpaired. 
Centre of souls! Nor does the faithful voice 
Of Nature cease to prompt their eager steps 
Aright ; nor is the care of Heaven withheld 
From granting to tho task proportioned aid ; 
That in their stations all may persevere 
To climb the ascent of being, and approach 
Forever nearer to the Life Divine. 



188 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BItlTISH AXD AillCHICAX POETRY. 



THROUGH NATURE UP TO NATURE'S GOU. 

Froji " The Pleascres of Imagination." 

Oil blest of Heaven ! whom not tlie languid songs 

Of Luxnry, the siren ! not tlie bribes 

Of sordid Wealth, nor all the gandy spoils 

Of pageant Honor, can sednce to leave 

Those ever-blooMiing sweets, whieh from the store 

Of Nature fair Imagination enlls 

To ehariii the eidiveued soul 1 What thongh not 

all 
Of mortal offspring can attain the licights 
Of envied life ; though only few possess 
Patrician treasures or imperial state ; — 
Yet Nature's care, to all her children just, 
With richer treasures and an ampler state. 
Endows at large whatever happy man 
Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp, 
The rural honors his. Whate'er adorns 
The princely dome, the column and the arch. 
The breatlnng marbles and the sculptured gidd, 
Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, 
His tuneful bi'east enjoys. For him, the spring 
Distils her dews, and from the silken gem 
Its lucid leaves unfolds; for him, the han<l 
Of Autunm tinges every fertile branch 
With blooming gold, and bln.shes like the morn. 
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings. 
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, 
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze 
Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes 
The setting Sun's clfulgence, not a striiiu 
From all the tenants of the warbling shade 
A.scends, but whence his bosom can partake 
Fresh pleasure, unreproved. Nor thence par- 
takes 
Fresh pleasure only; for the attentive mind. 
By this harmonious action on her jiowers, 
Becomes herself harmonious : wont so oft 
III outward things to meditate the charm 
Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home 
To find a kindred order, to exert 
Within herself this elegance of love, 
This fair inspired delight : her tempered poweis 
Refine at length, aud every passion wears 
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. 

* " * Thus the men 
Whom Nature's works can charm, witli God him- 
self 
Hold converse ; grow familiar, day by day. 
With his conceptions, act upon his plan ; 
And form to his. the relish of their souls. 



Ulilliam Collins. 



Four years younger than Gray, Collins (17il-lT.5Il) died 
insane at the aire of tliirty-mne. The son of a hatter, lie 
was born at Chichester on Christmas-day, was educated 
at Winchester aud Oxford, and gave early proofs of poet- 
ical ability. He went to London full of hiijh hopes aud 
magnificent schemes. Ambitious and well-educated, he 
wanted that steadiness of application by which a man 
of genius may hope to rise. In 17-10 he published his 
"Odes," whieh had been bought by Millar, the book- 
seller. They failed to attract attention. Collins sank 
under the disappointment. He is said to have purchased 
the unsold copies of the edition, .and burnt thein. He 
became still more indolent and dissipated. In 1750 his 
reason began to fail, and in 17.54 he had become hope- 
lessly insane, 

Residing for a time at Richmond, Collins knew and 
loved Thomson, who is sujiposed to have sketched his 
friend in the following lines from "The Castle of Indo- 
lence:" 

"Of all the gentle tenauts of the place, 
There was a ni.in of special grave remark; 
A corlniu tender gloom o'er.=pread liis face, 
Pensive, not sad; in thought involved, not dark. 

Ten thousand glorious systems would he build, 

Ten thous.ind great ideas filled his mind; 

But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace Ijehiud.'' 

Johnson met Collins one day, carrying with him an 
English Testament. "I have but one book," said the 
unhappy poet, " but it is the best." Though neglected 
on their first appearance, the "Odes" gradually won 
their way to the reputation of being the best things of 
the kind in the language. The "Ode on the Passion.s," 
and that to " Evening," are the finest of his lyrical 
works; but his "Ode on the Death of Thomson," in 
its tenderness and pathos, is worthy of being associated 
with them. After his death there was found among liis 
papers an ode on the "Superstitions of the Highlaiuls," 
dedicated to Home, tlie future author of "Douglas." 
Either through fastidiousness or madness, Collins com- 
mittcd to the flames many unpublished pieces. 



ODE, WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 174(5. 

How sleep the brave who sink to rest. 
By all their couutry's wishes blest ! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Keturns to deck their hallowed mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is mug. 
By forms nnseeu their dirge is sung; 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray. 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay : 
And Freedom shall awhile repair, 
To dwell a weeping hermit tliere ! 



WILLIAM COLLINS. 



180 



ODE TO EVENING. 

If auglit of oaten stop or pastoi'al song 
May liojie, cliaste Eve, to soothe tliy modest ear, 
Like thy own solemn springs. 

Thy springs, and dying gales ; 

O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired Snn 
Sits in yon western tent, whose clondy skirts, 

With hrede ethereal wove, 

0"erhang his wavy bed, — 

Now air is hnshed, save where the weak-eyed bat 
With short, shrill shriek Hits by on leathern wing; 

Or where the beetle winds 

His small but sullen horn. 

As oft he rises 'mid the twilight path. 
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum ; — 

Now teach me, maid compose<l, 

To breathe some softened strain. 

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening 

vale, 
May not unseemly with its stillness suit, 

As, musing slow, I hail 

Thy genial, loved return ! 

For when thy folding-star, arising, shows 
His paly circlet, — at his warning lamp 

The fragrant Hours, and Elves 

Who slejit in buds the day, 

And many a Njmph who wreathes her brows witli 

sedge, 
And sheds the fresheuing dew, and, lovelier still, 

Tlie pensive Pleasures sweet. 

Prepare thy shadowy car. 

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene, 
Or find some rnin 'mid its dreary dells, 

Whose walls more awfnl nod 

By thy religious gleams ; 

Or, if chill, blustering winds, or driving rain. 
Prevent my willing feet, be mine tlie hut 

Tliat, from the mountain's side, 

Views wilds, and swelling flooils. 

And handets brown, and dim-discovered spires. 
And hears their simple bell, and uuirks o'er all 

Thy dewy fingers draw 

The gradual dusky veil. 



While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, 
And liathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! 

While Snnnner loves to sport 

Beneath thy lingering light ; 

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; 
Or Wiuter, yelling tln'ongh the troublous air, 

AtFrights thy shrinking train, 

And rudely rends tliy robes ; 

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, 

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, snuling Peace, 

Tliy gentlest influence own. 

And love thy favorite uame ! 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON. 

The scene of the following stauzas is supposed to lie ou the 
Thames, near Richmoud. 

In yonder grave a Druid lies, 

W^liere slowly winds the stealing wave : 
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise. 

To deck its poet's sylvau grave. 

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds 
His airy harp' shall now be laid, 

That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds 

May love through life the soothing shade. 

Then maids and youths shall linger here, 
And, while its sounds at distance swell, 

Shall sadly seem, in Pity's e.ar. 

To hear the woodland iiilgrim's knell. 

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore 
Wlien Thames in summer wreaths is drest. 

And oft suspend the dashing oar 
To bid his gentle spirit rest ! 

And oft, as Ease and Health retire 

To breezy lawn or forest deep, 
The friend shall view you whitening spire,' 

And 'mid the varied landscape weep. 

But thou, who ow-n'st that earthly bed. 

Ah, what will every dirge avail ? 
Or tears which Love and Pity shed, 

Tliat mourn beneath the gliding sail ? 



' Tlie har|) nf Mollis, of which see a desciiption in "The Cas- 
tle of IndoliTice." 
"^ Mr. Thoiiisim was buried iu Richmond Church. 



190 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEIUCAN POETRY. 



Yet lives there oue ^\bose lieedless eye 

Shall scoru thy pale sliiiue gliniineriiijj; near? 

AVith him, sweet bard, may Fancy die, 
Aiul Joy desert the blooming year. 

IJut thon, loru stream, whose sullen tide 
No sedge-crowned sisters now attend, 

Now waft me from tlie green hill's side 
Whose cold turf hides the buried frieud ! 

And sec, the fairy valleys fade : 

Dun Night has veiled tlie solemn view ! 

Yet once again, dear jiarted shade, 
Meek Nature's child, again adieu ! 

The genial meads' assigned to bless 
Thy life shall mouru thy early doom I 

Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress 
Witli simple hands thy rural tomb. 

Loug, long thy stone aud poiuted clay 
Shall melt the niusiug Britou's eyes : 

"O vales aud wild woods!" shall he say, 
"In yonder grave your Druid lies!'' 



THE PASSIONS. 

AN ODE FOR MUSIC. 

When Music, heavenly maid, was yoiiug, 
While yet in early Greece .she snug, 
The Passious oft, to hear lier shell. 
Thronged around her magic cell, 
Exulting, trembliug, laging, fainting. 
Possessed beyond the Muse's paiutiug. 
By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refiued ; 
Till ouce, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired. 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatched her instruments of sound ; 
Aud, as they oft had heard a|iart 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art. 
Each (for Madne.ss ruled the hour) 
Woulil prove his own expressive pov.er. 

First, Fear his liand, its skill to try, 
Amid the chords bewildered l.iiil, 

And back recoiled, he knew not why. 
E'en at the sound himself had made. 



' yu. Thnmson resided in tlic neighborhood of Richrnoii:! 
eoine lime before his deiitli. 



Next Anger rushed: his eyes on firo 

III lightniugs owned his secret stings ; 
In one rude clash he struck the lyre, 

Aiul swept with hurried hand the strings. 

With wofiil measures wan Despair, 

Low, sullen souuds his grief beguiled; 

A solemu, strange, aud mingled air, 

'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 

But thou, Hope, with eyes so fair. 

What was thy delighted measure 1 

Still It whispered iiromised pleasure. 

And bade the lovely seeues at distance liail ! 
Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 
She called on Echo still, through all the song: 
Aud where her sweetest theme she chose, 
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; 
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden 

hair. 
And longer had she sung, — but, with a frown. 

Revenge impatient rose. 
He threw his blood-stained sword iu thnud;/r iliv.vu, 
And, with a withering look, 
The war-denouncing trumpet took. 
And blew a blast so loud and dread. 
Were ne'er jirophetic sounds so full of woe! 
Aud ever and anon he beat 
The doubling drum with furious heat: 
And though soiuetini;>s, each dreary pause be- 
tween. 
Dejected Pity, at his side, 
Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien. 
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting 
from his head. 

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were lixed — 

Sad proof of thy distressful state ; 
Of dill'eriug themes the veering song was mixed, 

And now it courted Love, now, i-aviug, called oil 
Hate. 

With eyes upraised, as one iuspircd. 

Pale Melancholy .sat retired, 

Aud, from her wild, sequestered seat, 

In notes by distance made more sweet. 

Poured through the nudlow horn her pensive soul ; 

And, dashing soft from rocks around. 

Bubbling runnels joined the .sound. 
Through glades aud glooms the mingled measure 
stole ; 



WILLIAM COLLINS.— TOBIAS GEORGE SMOLLETT. 



191 



I 



\ 



Or, o'er some liatintoil stream, -nith foiiil delay, 
Eouml a boly calm difiiising. 
Love of peace, and lonely musing, 
lu hollow murmurs died away. 
But oh, how altered was its sprightlier tone 
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of Iiealthiest hue. 
Her bow across her shoulder flung. 
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, 
Blew an inspiring air that dale and thicket rung, 
Tlie hunter's call, to Fauu and Dryad known ! 
The oak-crowned Sisters and tlieir chaste-eyed 

Queen,' 
Satyrs and Sylvan Boys were seen. 
Peeping from forth their alleys green : 
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, 

And Sport leaped nji and seized his beechcn 
spear. 
Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : 
He, with viuy crown advancing, 

First to the lively pipe his hand addressed ; 
But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, 

Wliose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best: 
They would have thought who heard the strain 
They saw, in Tempo's vale, her native maids, 
Amid the festal-sounding shades, 
To some unwearied minstrel dancing. 

While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, 
Love framed with Mirth a gay, fantastic round: 
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound ; 
And he, amid his frolic play, 
As if he would the charming air repay, 
Sliook thousand odms from his dewy wings. 

O Music! sphere-descended maid. 
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid ! 
Why, goddess, why, to ns denied, 
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ? 
As, in that loved Athenian bower. 
You learned an all-commanding power, 
Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endeared, 
Can well recall what then it heard. 
Where is thy native simple heart, 
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art ? 
Arise, as in that elder time, 
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime! 
Thy wonders in that godlike age 
Fill thy recording Sister's page. 
'Tis said — and I believe the tale — 
Tliy humblest reed could more prevail. 
Had uKU-e of strength, diviner rage, 
Than all which charms this laggard age ; 

' The Dryiids and Diaun. 



E'en all at once together found 
Cecilia's mingled world of sound — 
Oil, bid our vaiu endeavor cease ; 
Revive the just designs of Greece; 
Return in all thy simple state ; 
Confirm the tales her sons relate! 



(Lobias (Pcovgc Smollett. 

Better known as a novelist than as a poet, Smollett 
(1731-1771), a native of Cardross, in Scotland, was edu- 
cated at Dumbarton, and thence proceeded to Glasgow 
to study medicine. Literature and histoiy, however, be- 
came Ills passion. At eighteen he wrote a tragedy, en- 
titled "The Regicide." It never got possession of the 
stage. In 1741 he sailed as surgeon's mate in a ship of 
the line in the expedition to Carthagena, which he de- 
scribes in " Roderick Random." Having quitted the 
service, he resided for a time in Jamaica, where he fell 
in love with Miss LasccUcs, whom he married in 1747. 
He wrote, in 1740, " The Tears of Scotland," his principal 
poem. After passing some time in France and Italy, he 
established himself as a physician at Bath. His health 
declining, he took up his residence at Leghorn, in Italy, 
where he died, aged fifty. 



THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. 

Written on tlie l^arbarities committed in tlie Higlilands I)y 
the Eiii^lish forces under tlie Dalve of C'nmberland, after the 
battle ofCulIoden, I74C. It is said that Smollett originally fin- 
ished the poem in six stanzas ; when, some one remarking that 
sncli a diatribe against government might injiue his prospect-, 
he sat down and added the still more pointed invective of the 
seventh stanza. 

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, monrn 

Thy banished peace, thy laurels torn ! 

Thy sons, for valor long renowned. 

Lie slaughtered on their native ground; 

Thy hospitable roofs no more 

Invite the stranger to the door; 

In smidiy ruins sunk they lie, 

The monuments of cruelty. 

The wretched owner sees afar 
His all become the prey of war ; 
Bethinks him of his babes and wife. 
Then smites his breast, and curses life. 
Thy swains are famished ou the rocks. 
Where once they fed their wanton flocks : 
Thy ravished virgins shriek in vain ; 
Thy infants perish on tho plain. 

What boots it, then, in every clime. 
Through the wide-siucading waste of linn', 



192 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEBICAN POETRY. 



Thy martial glory, crowned witli praise, 
Still sliono with imdimiuished blaze? 
Thy towering spirit now is broke. 
Thy ueeli is beuded to the yoke. 
What foreign arms could never quell, 
By civil rage aii<l rancor fell. 

Tlie rural pipe and merry lay 
No more shall cheer the happy day : 
No social scenes of gay deliglit 
Beguile the dreary wiuter night : 
No strains but tliose of sorrow flow, 
And uangbt be heard but sounds of woe. 
While the pale phantoms of the slain 
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain. 

Oh baneful cause, oh fatal morn, 
Accursed to ages yet nnborn ! 
The sous against their fathers stood. 
The pareut shed his children's blood. 
Yet, when the rage of battle ceased, 
The victor's soul was not appeased : 
The naked and forlorn nuist feel 
Devonriug flames and murdering steel ! 

The pious mnthcr, doomed to death, 

Forsaken wanders o'er the heath, 

The bleak wind whistles round her head, 

Her helpless orphans ciy for bread ; 

Bereft of shelter, food, and friend. 

She views the shades of night descend. 

And, stretched beneath the inclement skies, 

Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies. 

While tlie warm blood bedews my veins, 
And unimpaired remembrance reigns, 
Eesentment of my country'.s fate 
Within my filial breast shall beat; 
And, .spite of her insulting foe, 
My sympathizing verse shall How : 
" Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 
Thy banished peace, thy laurels torn !" 



ODE TO LEVEN -WATER. 

On Leven's liaidis, while free to rove, 
And tune tlie rural pipe to love; 
I envied not the luappiest swain 
That ever trod the Arcadian plain. 

Pure stream ! in whose transparent wave 
My youthful limbs I wont to lave ; 



No torrents stain thy limpid source; 
No rocks impede thy dimpling course. 
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed. 
With white, round, polished pebbles spread ; 
While, lightly poised, the scaly brood 
In myriads cleave tliy crystal flood; 
The springing trout in speckled pride ; 
The salmon, monarch of the tide ; 
Tlie ruthless pike, intent on war; 
The silver eel, and mottled par. 
Devolving from thy parent lake, 
A charming maze tliy wuters make. 
By bowers of birch, and groves of pine. 
And hedges flowered with eglantine. 
Still on thy banks so gayly green, 
May numerous herds and flocks be seen, 
And lasses chanting o'er the pail. 
And shepherds piping in the dale ; 
And ancient Faith that knows no guile. 
And Industry embrowned with toil ; 
Aud hearts resolved, and hands prepared, 
The blessings they enjoy to guard ! 



2q\]\\ f)omc. 



Home (1723-1808), autlior of "Douglas," was a native 
of Leitli, Scotland, where liis father was town-clerk. He 
entered the Church, and succeeded Blair, author of " The 
Grave," as minister of Athelstaneford. Previous to this 
he had had some niilitiiry experience, and tMkeii up arms 
as a volunteer against the Chevalier. After the defeat 
at Falkirk, he was imprisoned, but effected liis escape by 
cutting his blanket into shretls, and letting himself down 
on the ground. Great indignation was raised against 
him by the Scotch Presbyterians because of his writing 
a play, aud he was obliged to resign his living. Lord 
Bute rewarded him with a sinecure office in 17(iO, and he 
received a pension of £300 per annum. lie wrote other 
tr.agedies, which soon passed into obliviou; but with an 
income of about £600 per annum, and with an easy, 
eliecrful disposition, and distinguished f^iend^hips, he 
lived happily to the age of eighty-six. 



THE SOLDIER-HERMIT. 

!■ itoM " Douglas," a Tragedy. 

Beneath a mountain's brow, the most remote 

Aud inaccessible by shi^pherds trod. 

In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand, 

A hermit lived; a melancludy man. 

Who was the wonder of our wandering swains. 

Austere and lonely, cruel to himself, 

Did they report him ; the cold earth his bed. 

Water his drink, his food the shepherd's alms. 



WILLIAM MASON.—MISS JANE ELLIOT. 



193 



I weut to see him, and my heart was touched 

AVith reverence and with pity. MiM he spalie ; 

And, entering on discourse, such stories told, 

As made mo oft revisit his sad cell ; 

For lie had been a soldier in his youth. 

And fought in famous hattles, when the peers 

Of Europe, by the old Godl'redo led 

Against the usurping infidel, displayed 

The hless^d cross, and won the Holy Land. 

Pleased with my admiration and the fire 

His speech struck from me, the old man would shake 

His years away, and act his young encounters. 

Then, having showed his wounds, he'd sit him down. 

And all the live-long day discourse of war. 

To help my fancy, in the smooth green turf 

He cut the figures of the marshalled hosts ; 

Described the motions and exijlained the use 

Of the deep column and the lengthened line. 

The square, the crescent, and the plialanx firm ; 

For all that Saracen or Christian knew 

Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known. 

Why this brave soldier iu a desert hid 
Those qualities that should have graced a camp. 
At last I also learned. Unhappy man ! 
Retnroing homeward by Messina's port. 
Loaded with wealth and honors, bravely won, 
A rude and boisterous caj)tain of the sea 
Fastened a quarrel on him. Fierce thej' fought: 
The stranger fell ; and, with his dying breath. 
Declared his name and lineage. "Mighty heaven!" 
The soldier cried — "My brother! oh, my brother!" 
They exchanged forgiveness. 
And happy, iu my miud, was he that died ; 
For many deaths has the survivor suffered. 
In the wild desert, on a rock, he sits, 
Or on some nameless stream's untrodden banks, 
And ruminates all day his dreadful fate : 
At times, alas! not in his perfect mind. 
Holds dialogues with his loved brother's ghost ; 
And oft, each night, forsakes his sullen couch. 
To make sad orisons for him he slew. 



InUliam iUason. 

Mason, a native of Yorkshire (1735-1797), was the 
friend and literary executor of Gray, whose acquaint- 
ance lie made at Cambridge. He became chaplain to 
the liing, and wrote plays and odes after Greek models; 
but they lack vitality. In 1781 he published a didactic 
poem, "The English Garden," in blank verse, a stiff and 
much padded production. In one genuine little poem, 
an epitaph on his wife, he seems to be betrayed into 
true feeling, and to escape from that "statelincss and as- 
13 



suraed superiority of manner" which Aikin refers to as 
characteristic of Mason's external demeanor, but which 
seems to have influenced his interior nature so fiir .is to 
have deadened all spontancousness in his poetical utter- 
ances. It should be remarked that the last four lines of 
the "Epitaph on Mrs. Mason" were supplied by Gray. 



EPITAPH ON MRS. MASON, IN THE- CATHE- 
DRAL OF BRISTOL. 

Take, holy earth, all that my soul holds dear ; 

Take that best gift which Heaven so lately gave! 
To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care 

Her faded form ; she bowed to taste the wave. 
And died. Does youth, does beauty, read the line ? 

Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm ? 
Speak, dead Maria ! breathe a straiu divine ! 

Even from the grave thou shalt have power to 
charm. 
Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee ; 

Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move ; 
And if so fair, from vanity as free, 

As firm in friendship, and as fond in love, — 
Tell them, though 'tis an awful thing to die 

('Twas even to thee), yet, the dread path once 
trod. 
Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high. 

And bids the pure in heart behold their God. 



flliss I&wt C5lliot. 

Two Scottish national ballads, bearing the narae of 
"The Flowers of the Forest," both the composition of 
ladies, are among the curiosities of literature. The first 
of the two versions, bewailing the losses sustained at 
Flodden, was written by Miss .Jane Elliot (1727-1S05), 
daughter of Sir Gilbert Elliot, of Miuto. 

The second song, which appears to be on the same 
subject, but was in reality suggested (according to 
Chambers) by the bankruptcy of certain gentlemen in 
Selkirkshire, is by Alicia Rutherford, of Fairnalie, who 
was aftci-ward married to Mr. Patrick Coekburn, advo- 
cate, and died iu Edinburgh in 1794. She foresaw and 
proclaimed the promise of Walter Scott. 



THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 

LAMENT FOR FLODDEN. 

I've heard them liltiug' at our yowe-milking, 
Lasses a-lilting before the dawn o' diiy ; 

But now they are moaning in ilka green loaning' — 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 



' Singin;; cheerfully. 



' A broad laue. 



194 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



At l)uclits' in the moruiiig, uau blithe lads are 
scorning,' 

Tbe lasses are lonely ami ilowie^ and wae ; 
Nae daffiuV nae gabbin',' but sighing and sabbing; 

Ilk ane lifts her leglen," and hies her away. 

Ill hairst, at the shearing,' uao youths now are 
jeering; 

The bandsters' are lyart' and runkled" and gi'ay; 
At fair or at preaching nae wooing, nae fleeching" — 

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede awaj'. 

At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming, 
'BoHt stacks wi' the lasses at bogle" to play ; 

But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie — 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 

Dulo" and wae for the order, sent our lads to the 

Border ! 

The English, for ance, by guile wan the day ; 

The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the 

foremost. 

The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. 

We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milkiug; 

Women and bairns are heartless and Avae : 
Sighing and moaning iu ilka green loaning — 

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 



illrs. aiifia (Uutl)crforb) Cockbuni. 

Mrs. Cockbiiru (1713-1794) was a native of Fairnalie, in 
Selkirkshire. Her fatlicr was Robert Rutherford. There 
seems to be some iluutit whetlier her oue fine lyric was 
not written prior to that of Miss Elliot. Sec further 
particulars, page 193. 



THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 

I"ve seen the smiling 

Of Fortune beguiling; 
I've felt all its favors, and found its decay: 

Sweet was its blessing, 

Kind its caressing ; 
Bnt now 'tis fled — fled far away. 

I've seen the forest 
AdornfSd the foremost 



> Peii3 for sheep. 

* Jr)kil)g. 

' Kenpiitii. 
>» Wrinkled. 
>3 Sorrow. 



5 Rnllying. 
' Chiifflng. 
^ Shcaf-bindurg. 
" Coaxiug. 



3 Dre.arv. 
• Mitk-piiil. 
» Giizzled. 
" Ghosu 



With flowers of the fairest, most pleasant and gay ; 

Sae bonny was their blooming. 

Their scent the air perfuming ! 
But now they are withered and weeded away. 

I've seen the morning 

With gold the hills adorning. 
And loud tempest storming before the mid-day; 

I've seen Tweed's silver streams, 

Shining in the sunny beams, 
Grow dniuily and dark as he rowed on his way. 

O fickle Fortune ! 

Why this cruel sporting ? 
Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day ? 

Nae mair your smiles can cheer nie, 

Nae mair your frowns can fear me ; 
For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 



©lion- (!?olt)6mitlj. 



Tlie son of a humble Irish curate, Goldsmith (1728- 
1774) was born in Longford Couuty, Ireland. He re- 
ceived his education at the universities of Dublin and 
Edinburgh, aud passed a winter at Leydeu, where he 
lived chiefly by teaching English. After spending nc;ir- 
ly all the money he had just borrowed from a fricud iu 
buying a parcel of rare tulip-roots for his uncle Cont.i- 
riue, who had befriended him, he left Leyclen, "with a 
guinea in his pocket, but one shirt to his back, and a 
flute in his baud," to make the grand tour of Europe, 
and seek for his medical degree. He travelled through 
FUuulers, France, Gerraauy, Switzerland, and Italy — of- 
ten trudging all day on foot, aud at night playing merry 
tunes on his flute before a peasant's cottage, in the liope 
of a supper and a bed; for a time acting as companion 
to the rich young nephew of a pawnbroker; and in Italy 
winning a shelter, a little money, and a plate of maca- 
roni by disputing in tlie universities. 

In 1756 he arrived poor in London, and made a desper- 
ate attempt to gain a footing in the medical profession. 
After working for awhile with mortar and pesfle as an 
apothecary's drudge, he commenced practice among the 
poor of Soutliwark. Here we catch two glimpses of his 
little figure— ouce, iu fiuled green aud gold, talking to an 
old school-fellow in the street; and again, in rusty black 
velvet, with second-hand cane and wig, trying to conceal 
a great patch iu his coat by pressing his old hat fashion- 
ably against his side. 

In 1759 he published his " Present State of Literature 
in Europe:" he also began a series of light essays, enti- 
tled "The Bee;" but tbe "Bee" did not make houey for 
him ; it expired in eight weeks. At Newberry's book- 
store he became acquainted with Bishop Percy, who in- 
troduced him to Dr. Johnson, May 31st, 17G1. About 
tliat time Goldsmith lodged willi a Mrs. Fleming. It 
was iu her lodgings that, being pressed either to pay 
his bill or to marry his landlady, he applied for help to 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



195 



Dr. Johnson. On that occasion the MS. of "The Vicar 
of Walcetielil " was produced. Johnson was so much 
struclv with it that he negotiated its sale, and obtained 
£C0 for tlie worlv, whereby Goldsmith was extricated 
from his dilHeulties, and from Mrs. Fleming. 

In 170.5 "The Traveller" was published. Its success 
was inmiediate, and its author was at once recognized as 
a man of mark in all literary circles. The following year 
"The Vicar of Wakefield," which Newberry had not yet 
ventured to publish, appeared, and was welcomed as the 
most delightful of domestic novels. " The Good-uatured 
Man," a comedy, was brought out at Covent Garden in 
ITGS ; and in 17T3 Goldsraith's great dramatic success 
was made in the production of " She Stoops to Con- 
quer," an admirable and well -constructed play, which 
still keeps possession of the stage. The year 1770 saw 
the publication of the most famous poem from his pen, 
"The Deserted Village." 

lu mntnrer age, as in youth. Goldsmith was careless, 
improvident, and unable to keep the money he earned. 
He hung loosely on society, without wife or domestic 
tie. He received £8.50 for "The History of Animated 
Nature," largely a translation from Buffon. But debt 
had him in its talons. Still he would give away to any 
needy person the last penny he had in liis own pocket. 
His cliambers were the resort of a congregation of poor 
people whom he habitually relieved. At last Goldsmith 
grew to be abrupt, odd, and abstracted. The alarm of 
his friends was excited. At that date a literary associa- 
tion used to meet at St. James's Coffee-house. Garriek, 
Burke, Cumberland, Reynolds, and others were regular 
attendants. A night of meeting having arrived, and 
Goldsmith being late, as usual, the members amused 
themselves by writing epitaphs on him as " the late Dr. 
Goldsmith." When he came, these effusions were read 
to him. On returning home, he commenced his poem 
entitled "Retaliation." It was never completed, for fe- 
ver seized him at his work. A doctor being called in, 
asked, "Is your mind at ease?" "No, it is not," were 
the last words Goldsmith uttered. He was seized with 
convulsions on the morning of April 4th, 1774, and died, 
at the age of forty-six. He was £2000 in debt. "Was 
ever poet so trusted before!" exclaimed Johnson. 

Goldsmith is described by a lady who knew him— the 
dauglitcr of his friend, Lord Clare — as one "who was a 
strong republican in principle, and who would have been 
a very dangerous writer if he had lived to tlie times of 
tlie French Revolution." His " Deserted Village " shows 
his profound sensibilities in behalf of the poor and un- 
friended. The verse of this exquisite poem is the con- 
ventionally stiff heroic couplet, but it assumes an ease 
and grace in Goldsmith's hauds which relieves it of all 
artificial monotony. 

The monument to Goldsmith in Poet's Corner, West- 
minster Abbey, bears an inscription in Latin from the 
pen of Dr. Johnson, which says: "He left scarcely any 
style of writing untouched, and touched uotliing that he 
did not adorn; of all the passions (whether smiles were 
to be moved or tears) a powerful yet gentle master; in 
genius sublime, vivid, versatile ; in style elevated, clear, 
elegant. The love of companions, the fidelity of friends, 
and the veneration of readers, have by this monumeut 
honored his memory." 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of tbo plain ! 
Where health and plenty clieereil the laboring 

swain ; 
Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, 
And parting Summer's lingering blooms tlelayed I 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and e^ie, 
Seats of my youth, when every sport coulil please. 
How often have I loitered o'er thy green, 
Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! 
How often have I paused on every charm — 
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm. 
The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
The decent church that topped the neighboring hill, 
The hawtlioru bush, with seats beneath the shade. 
For talking age and whispering lovers made! 
How often have I blessed the coming day, 
When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
And all the village train, from labor free, 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree; 
While many a pastime circled in the shade. 
The young contending as the old surveyed ; 
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground. 
And sleights of art and feats of strength went 

round ; 
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired. 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired. 
The dancing pair that simply sought renown, 
By holding out to tire each other down ; 
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 
While secret laughter tittered round the place ; 
The bashful virgin's .sidelong looks of love. 
The matron's glance that wouhl those looks reprove : 
Tliese were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like 

these, 
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence 

shed. 
These were thy charms — but all these charms are 

fled. 
Sweet, smiling village, loveliest of the lawn ! 
Thy sports are fled, and all thj' cliarras withdrawn ; 
Amid thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green : 
One only master grasps the whole domain. 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 
No more thy glassy brooli reflects the day, 
But, cliolied with sedges, works its weary way ; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
Amid thy desert-walks the lapwing flies. 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 



li)o 



CTCLOPJSDIA OF ERiriSH AXD AilERICAX POETRY. 



Sunk are tliy bowers iu shapeless ruin all, 
Auil the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; 
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
Far, iax away thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates and men decay. 
Princes and lords may flourish or may fade ; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made : 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride. 
When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 

A time there was, e'er England's griefs beg.an, 
When every rood of ground maintained its man ; 
For him light labor spread her ■wholesome store. 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more; 
His best comp.anions innocence and health, 
And his best riches ignorance of wealth. 

But times are altered: trade's nufccling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose. 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp reiiose, 
And every want to luxury allied. 
And every pang that folly jiays to pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom. 
Those cabn desires that asked but little room, 
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful 

scene, 
Lived iu each look, and brightened all the green ; 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
And rux-al mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour '. 
Tliy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds. 
Amid thy tangling walks and ruined grounds. 
And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where ouco the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew. 
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
Iu all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown. 
Amid these humble bowers to lay mo down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close, 
And keep the llame from wasting, by repose ; 
1 still h.ad hopes (for pride attends us still) 
Amid the swains to show my book-learued skill ; 
Around my firo an evening group to draw, 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw : 
And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue 
Pants to the jdace from whence at first she flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return — and die at home at last. 

O blest retirement! friend to life's decline! 
Retreats from care that never must be mine ! 



How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, 
A youth of labor with an age of ease I 
Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; 
No surly porter stands, iu guilty state, 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate : 
But on he moves to meet his latter end. 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; 
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay. 
While resiguation gently slopes the way ; 
And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
His heaven commences ere the world be iiast. 
Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's 

close, 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, 
The mingling notes came softened from below : 
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, 
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young. 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
The playful children just let loose from school, 
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering 

wind, 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; 
These all iu sweet confusion sought the shade. 
And filled each pause the uightingale had made. 
But now the sounds of i>opulation fail, 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate iu the gale, 
No husy steps the grass-grown footway tread. 
But all the blooming flush of life is fled : 
All but you widowed, solitary thing. 
That feebly bends beside the x>lasby spring; 
She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread. 
To iiick her wintry fagot from the thorn, 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn : 
She only left of all the harmless train, 
The sad historiau of the pensive plain. 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
And still where many a gardeu-flower grow-s wild. 
There, where a few torn shrubs the iilace disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A mau he was to all the country dear. 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his 

place ; 
Unskilful he to fawn or seek for power 
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; 
Far other aims his heart had learued to jirizo, 
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



197 



His lioiise was kuowu to iiU tlio vngrant train — 
He chill their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; 
Tlie long-remembered beggar was his gnest, 
Whose beard, descending, swe^jt his age'd breast ; 
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud. 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away ; 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done. 
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were 

won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to 

glow. 
And (luite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus, to relieve the wretched was his pride ; 
And even his failings leaned to virtue's side ; 
But in his duty prompt, at every call. 
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all : 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led tlio way. 

Beside the bed Avhere jiarting life was laid, 
And .sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed. 
The reverend champion stood. At his control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 

At church, with meek and nuatiected grace. 
His looks adorued the veuerable idace ; 
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 
And fools who came to scoff reraaiued to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man. 
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran : 
Even children followed with endearing wile. 
And plucked his gown to share the good man's 

smile ; 
Ilis ready smile a parent's warmth ex^iressed — 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares dis- 
tressed : 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given. 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven. 
.\s some tall clift", that lifts its awful form. 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are 

spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
With blossomed furze nnprofitably gay, 
Tlu'ie, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule. 
The village master taught his little school. 



A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
I knew him well, and every truant kuew: 
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 
At all his jokes (for many a joke had he); 
Full well the bus3' whisper, circliug round, 
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frwwned. 

Yet ho was kind, or, if severe iu aught. 
The love he bore to learning was iu fault : 
The village all declared how much he knew — 
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 
And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. 
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill. 
For e'en, though vanquished, he could argue still; 
W^hile words of learned length and thundering 

sound 
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew 
That one small head could carry all lie knew. 

But past is all his fame. The very spot 
Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. 

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its he.ad on high. 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye. 
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts 

inspired. 
Where gray-be.ard mirth and smiling toil retired ; 
Where village statesmen talked with looks pro- 
found. 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlor splendors of that festive place : 
The whitewashed wall, the nicely-sanded floor, 
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door ; 
The chest contrived a double debt to pay — 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
The pictures iilaced for ornament and use. 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, 
With aspen boughs and flowers and feuuel gay ; 
While broken teacnps, wisely kept for show. 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 

Vain transitory splendors ! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ! 
Obscure it sinks, nor sh.all it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart : 
Thitlier no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily eare ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Eelas his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; 



l'J3 



CYCLOrJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEIUCAX I'OETRT. 



The host himself uo lunger shall be fcmiiil, 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Xor the coy maid, half willing to be pressed, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes ! let the ricli deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
One native charm than all the gloss of art; 
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play. 
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
I'ncnvied, nnmoleated, uuconfined. 
Bnt the long pomp, the midnight masquerade. 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed, 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
An<l, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy. 
The heart, distrusting, asks if tliis be joy. 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
The rich man's jnys increase, the poor's decay, 
"Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and a hiippy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 
And shouting Folly hails them from her shoie ; 
Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound, 
And rich men flock from all the world around; 
Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a name 
That leaves onr useful jiroducts still the same. 
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 
Takes np a space that many poor supplied — 
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 
Space for his horses, equipage and hounds: 
The robe that wraps his limbs iu silken .sloth 
Has robbed the neighboring fields of half their 

growth : 
His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
Around the world each needful product flies. 
For all the luxuries the world supplies. 
AVhile thus the laud adorned for pleasure, all 
In barren splendor feeblj- waits the fall. 

As some fair female, unadorned and ]daiu, 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. 
Slights every borrowed charm that dress sup- 
plies. 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; 
But when those charms are i)ast (for charms arc 

frail), 
When time advances, and when lovers fail. 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
In all the glaring impotence of dress: 
Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed, 
In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed; 



But, verging to decline, its splendors rise, 

Its vistas strike, its iialaces surprise ; 

While, scourged by famine, from the smiling land 

The mournful peasant leads his humble baud ; 

And while he sinks, without one arm to save. 

The country blooms — a garden and a grave ! 

Where, then, ah, where shall Poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
If to some common's fenceless limits strayed. 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide. 
And e'en the bare-worn common is denied. 

If to the city sped — what waits him there? • 
To see profusion that he must not share ; 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know 
Extorted froni his fellow-creature's woe. 
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomp dis- 
play. 
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way; 
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign, 
Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train : 
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square. 
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
Sure, scenes like these uo troubles e'er annoy! 
Sure, these denote one iniiversal joy! 
Are these thy serious thoughts? Ah, turn thine 

eyes 
Where the poor houseless, shivering female lies: 
She, once perhaps iu village jilenty blessed. 
Has wept at tales of innocence distressed ; 
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn : 
Now lost to all ; her friends, her virtue, fled. 
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head ; 
And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the 

shower. 
With hcavj' h^art deplores that luckless hour 
When idly first, ambitions of the town, 
She left her wheel and robes of country brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train. 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread I 

Ah nil. To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
Through torrid tracts with fixinting steps they go. 
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
Far ditferent there from all that charmed before, 
The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



199 



TiiDsc blazing suns that ilart a dowuward ray, 
And Ijei'ci'ly shcid intolerable day; 
Tliose matted woods where birds forget to sing, 
Hnt sileut bats iu drowsy clusters cling; 
Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned. 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey. 
And savage men, more murd'rous still than they ; 
While oft iu whirls the mad tornado flies, 
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
Far different these from every former scene — 
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
Tliat only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 

Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloomed that part- 
ing day, 
Tliat called them from their native walks away. 
When tlie poor exiles, every pleasure past. 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, 
Aud took a long farewell, and wished in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main. 
And, shuddering still to face the distant deep, 
Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. 
The good old sire the first prepared to go 
To new-found worlds, .and wept for others' woe ; 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
The fond companion of his helpless years, 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
And left a lover's for her father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes. 
And blessed the cot where every ple.asure rose ; 
And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear. 
And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly de.ar ; 
While her fond husband strove to lend relief 
111 all the silent manliness of grief. 

O Luxury ! thou cursed by Heaven's decree. 
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy. 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy! 
Kiugiloms, by thee, to sickly greatness grown. 
Boast of a florid vigor not their own : 
At every draught more large and large they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe; 
Till, sapped their strength, and every part unsound, 
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 

E'en now the devastation is begun, 
And half the business of destruction done ; 
E'en now, methinks, as x>ondering here I stand, 
I see the rural virtues leave the land. 



Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, 
That idly waiting flaps with every gale. 
Downward they move, a melancholy band. 
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
Contented toil, and hospitable care, 
And kind connubial tenderness, are there ; 
And piety with wishes placed above, 
And steady loyalty, aud faithful love. 

And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 
Still first to fly where seusual joys invade ! 
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame, 
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame. 
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried. 
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 
Thou source of all my bliss, aud all my woe. 
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; 
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, 
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well; 
Farewell ! aud oh, where'er thy voice be tried. 
Oil Torno's cliffs, or Panibamarca's side. 
Whether where equinoctial fervors glow. 
Or winter wraps tlio polar world in snow, 
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
Redress the rigors of th' inclement clime ; 
Aid slighted Truth with thy persuasive strain, 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gaiu ; 
Teach him that states, of native strength possessed, 
Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
That trade'.s proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
As ocean sweeps the labored mole away ; 
While self-dependent power can time defy. 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 



FROM "THE TRAVELLER; OR, A PROSPECT 
OF SOCIETY." 

Of the plnii of this poem, Mjicaiilny snys : "An En2:listi wan- 
derer, seated on a crag among the Alps near tlie point where 
three great conntries meet, loolis down on the boundless pros- 
pect, reviews his lon^r pilgrimage, recalls the variations of 
sceneiy, of climate, of government, of religion, of national char- 
acter which he has observed, and comes to the conclusion, just 
or unjust, that our happiness depends little on political insti- 
tutions, and much on the temper and regulation of our own 
minds." Johnson is said to have contributed the last ten lines 
of the poem, excepting the last couplet but one. 

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 
Or by the lazy Schelil, or wandering Po ; 
Or onward, where the rude Cariuthiau boor 
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door ; 
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
A weary waste expanding to the skies ; 
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see. 
My heart, untravelled, fondly turns to thee : 



•200 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEUICAN POETRY. 



Still to my biotlier turns with coiiscless pain, 
Aud drags at each remove a lengtheuiug cliaiu. 

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, 
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ; 
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
To pause from toil, aud trim their evening lire ; 
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair. 
And every stranger finds a ready chair; 
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crowned, 
Where all the ruddy family around 
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail. 
Or sigh with l)ity at some mournful tale; 
Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
And learn the luxury of doing good. 

But me, not destined sneh deliglits to share. 
My prime of life in wandering spent and care; 
Impelled with steps unceasing to pursue 
Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view 
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, 
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ; 
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, 
Aud find no spot of all the world my own. 

Even now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend; 
And placed on high above the storm's career. 
Look dowuward where a hundred realms appear ; 
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, 
The iionqi of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 

When thus creation's charms around combine, 
Amid the store, should thankless i)ride re[)iue f 
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 
That good which makes each luunbler bosciin 

vain ? 
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, 
These little things are great to little man ; 
Aud wiser lie, whose sympathetic mind 
Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
Ye glittering towns, with wealth and siilendor 

crowned ; 
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round ; 
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; 
Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale. 
For me your tributary stores combine ; 
Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine. 

As some lone miser, visiting his store, 
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er, 
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, 
Y'et still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still; ' 
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 
Pleased with each good that Heaven to man sup- 
plies ; 
Y'et oft a sigh prevails, and scu'rows fall, 
To see the hoard of human bliss so small; 



And oft I wish, amid the scene to find 

Some sjjot to real hapiiiuess consigned. 

Where my woru soul, each wandering hope at rest. 

May gather bliss, to see my fellows blest. 

But where to find that happiest spot below. 
Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? 

if * T* # # # 

Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
That bliss which only centres in the mind. 
Why have 1 strayed from pleasure and repose, 
To seek a good each government bestows? 
In every government, though terrors reign. 
Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain, 
How small, of all that human hearts endure. 
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure! 
Still to our.selves in every place con.sigiied, 
Our own felicity we make or find: 
Willi secret course, which no loud storms annoy, 
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
Luke's iron crown, and Damiens' bed of steel,' 
To men remote from power but rarely known. 
Leave reason, faith, aud conscience all our own. 



RETALIATION : 

INCLUDING EPIT.^PIIS ON THE MOST DISTINGUISHED 
WHS OF THE JSIETItOl'OLIS. 

Of old, when Scarron his coinpanions invited, 
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was 

united ; 
If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish. 
Let each guest bring hini.self — and he brings the 

best dish : 
Our dean" shall be venison, just fresh from the 

plains ; 
Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains; 
Our Will^ shall be wild-fowl of excellent flavor, 
And Dick' with his pepper shall heighten their savor; 
Our Cundicrlaud's sweetbread its place shall obtain. 
And Douglas'' is jiudding, substantial and jilain ; 
Our Garrick's a sal.-id ; for in him we see 
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree; 
To make out the dinner, full certain I am. 
That Kidge" is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb; 

* George and Luke Dosa were two brothers who headed n 
revolt against the Ilniigariau iiol)les in 1.^14; and George, imt 
Jjike, underwent tlie torture of tlie red-hot iron crown as a 
j)nnishnient for allowing himself to he prochiinied King nf 
Hungary by the rebels. ISoswell gives Zec.k as ilieir name. 

Dainiciis (Uobcrt Frani'ois) was put to death with frightful 
tortures, in IT.'"!, for an allempt to assassinate Louis XV. 

a Doctor Barnard of Derry. a William Hurke. 

■' Uicliard Burke. ' C'anou ot Windsor. • An Irish lawyer. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



201 



Tliat Hickoy's' a caimii ; and, by tlie siuiie rule, 
ilagiiiuiimotis Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. 
At a dinner so various, at such a repast. 
Who'd not be a glntton, and stiek to the last? 
Here, waiter, more wind let me sit while I'm able, 
Till all my companions sink under the table ; 
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, 
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. 

Here lies the good dean, reunited to earth, 
AVlio mixed reason with pleasure, and wisdom with 

mirth : 
If ho had any faults, ho has left ns in doubt — 
At least, in six weeks, I could not iiud 'em out; 
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em, 
That sly-boots was cnrsedly cunning to hide 'cm. 
Here lies our good Edmund," whose genius was 

such. 
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; 
Who, boru for the nuiverse, narrowed his miud. 
And to party gave up wh.at was meant for mankind ; 
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his 

throat 
To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote ; 
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on relining, 
And thought of conviucing, while they thought of 

dining ; 
Though equal to all things, for all tliings unfit; 
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; 
For a patriot too cool, for a drudge disobedient. 
And too fond of the riijht to pursue the vxpedkiit. 
In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed, or in place, sir. 
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 
Here lies honest William, whose heart was a 

mint, [was in't : 

^\^liIo the owner ne'er knew half the good that 
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along. 
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; 
Still aiming at honor, yet fearing to roam — 
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home. 
Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none; 
What was good was spontaneous; his faults were 

his own. [at ; 

* Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh 
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet! 
What spirits were his! what wit and what whim! 
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb ; 
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball ; 
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all! 
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, 
That we wished him full ten times a day at Old 

Nick ; 



^ Au emiiieut attoruey. 



» EdDuuid Carke. 



But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, 
As often we wished to have Dick back again. 

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, 
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; 
A nattering painter, who made it his care 
To draw nieu as they ought to be, not as they are. 
His g.allants are all faultless, his women divine, 
And comedy wonders at being so iine; i 
Like a tragedy queen he has dizened her out, 
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. 
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd 
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud ; 
A.\\A coxcombs, alike in their failings alone. 
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. 
Say, where has our poet this malady caught? 
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault? 
Say, was it that vainly directing his view 
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few. 
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, 
Ho grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? 

Here Donglas retires, from his toils to relax, — 
The scourge of impostors, tho terror of quacks. 
Come, all ye qnaok bards, and ye quacking divines, 
CiMue, .and dance on the spot where your tyrant 

reclines ! 
Wlieu satire and censure encircled his throne, 
I feared for your safety, I feared for my owu ; 
But now ho is gone, and we want a detector; 
Our Dodds shall be pious, our Keuricks shall lecture, 
Macphcrson write bombast, and call it a style, 
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile ! 
New Landers and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over, 
No eountryman living their tricks to discover; 
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark. 
And Scotehman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the 
dark. 

Here lies David Garrick, describe mo who can, 
Au abridgment of all that was pleasant in man : 
As au actor, confessed without rival to shine ; 
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line; 
Yet, with taleuts like these, and an excellent heart, 
Tho man had his failings, a dupe to his art. 
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colors ho spread 
And beplastered with rouge his own uatural red. 
Ou the stage he was natural, simple, afi'ecting ; 
'Twas only that when he was off he was acting. 
With no reason on e.arth to go out of his way. 
Ho turned and he varied full ten times a day. 
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick 
If they were not his own by finessing and trick ; 
Ho cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, 
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle 
them back. 



■i02 



CYCLOPEDIA OF bhitish axd ameiucax poetry. 



Of praise a mere glutton, lie swallowed what eaiiie, 
And the puti' of a duuce he mistook it for fame ; 
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease, 
Who peppered the highest was surest to please. 
But let us he candid, aud speak ont our mind, 
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kiud. 
Ye Keuriuks, ye Kellys, ye Woodfalls so grave. 
What a commerce was yours while you got and 

you gave. 
How did Grub Street re-eclio the sliouts that you 

raised. 
While he was be - Rosciused, and you were be- 

praised I 
liut peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, 
To act as an angel, and mix witli tlie skies: 
Tliose poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, 
Shall still be his flatterers, go where lie will ; 
Old Shakspeare receive Lira with praise aud with 

love. 
And Beaumonts and Bens bo his Kellys above. 
Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, jileasant 

creature, 
And slander itself must allow him good-nature; 
He cherished his friend, and he relished a bumper; 
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. 
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ? 
I answer. No, no — for he always was wiser. 
Too court^Us, perhaps, or obligingly flat? 
His very worst foe can't accuse; lum of that. 
Perhaps he confided in men as they go. 
And so was too foolishly honest? Ah no! 
Tlien what was his failing ? come, tell it, and 

burn ye ! 
He was — could he Iielp it ? — a special attorney. 

Here Reynolds is laid, aud, to tell you my mind. 
He has not left a wiser or lietter behind : 
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ; 
His manners were gentle, complying, aud bland ; 
Still born to improve us in every part, 
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart. 
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering. 
When they judged without skill he was still hard 

of hearing ; 
When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, 

and stutf. 
He shifted his trumpet, aud only took snutf. 
By flattery unspoiled — 

POSTSCltlPT. 

Here Whitefoord reclines, and, deny it who can. 
Though he meirili/ lived, he is now a grave man. 
Rare eompomid of oddity, frolic, and fun ! 
Who relished a joke, and rejoiced in a pun; 



Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ; 
A stranger to flattery, a stranger to fear ; 
Who scattered around wit and humor at will; 
Whose daily hons-mota half a column might fill ; 
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free ; 
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he. 

What pity, alas! that so liberal a mind 
Should so long be to newspaper essays confined ; 
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, 
Yet content "if the table he set on a roar;" 
Whose talents to fill any station were fit. 
Yet hapjiy if Woodfall confessed him a wit. 

Y'e newspaper witlings! yo pert scribbling folks! 
Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes! 
Yti tame imitators ! ye servile herd ! come. 
Still follow yonr master, and visit his tomb. 
To deck it bring with yon festoons of the vine, 
And copious libations bestow on his shrine ; 
Then strew all around it — you can do no less^ 
Cross-rcadiiifis, sliijMiews, and mistalcs of the pres8. 

Merry Whitefoord, farewell ! for thji sake I admit 
That a Scot may have humor; I had almost said wit: 
This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse, 
"Thou best-humored man, with the worst-humored 
muse."' 



iLljomas ycni). 



Percy, bishop of Uromore (172S-1811), was the son of 
a grocer, anil a native of Bridgnorth, in Shropsliire. Ho 
was educated at Oxford, and liaving taken holy orders, be- 
came successively chaplain to the kiug, a dean, and then 
a bishop. In 1765 he published his "Reliques of English 
Poetry," the work by which lie is chiefly known. It was 
hirgely inthicntial in awakening a taste for natural de- 
scriptions, simplicity, and true passion, in opposition to 
the coldly correct and falsely sentimental style which 
was then predominant in English literature. Percy al- 
tered and supplemented many of these old pieces, copied 
as they were mostly from illiterate transcripts or the 
imperfect recitation of itinerant ballad-singers. 



THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.' 

It was a friar of orders gray 
Walked forth to tell his beads, 

Aud he met with a lady fair, 
Clail in a pilgrim's weeds. 

"Now Christ theo save, thou reverend friar, 
I pray thee tell to me, 



1 r;ild) Whitofoord. a wriler for the Adrrrtiacr. 

2 Composed mostly of fragmeuts of aucieut ballads. 



THOMAS PERCY. 



203 



If ever at you holy sliriuo 
My true love tboii ditlst see." 

"And how sUoiild I know your true love 

From many auotlier one ?" 
" Oil, by Lis cockle hat and staff, 

And by his saudal shoou : 

'■ But chiefly by his face and luion, 

That were so fair to view ; 
His flaxen locks that sweetly curled. 

And eyes of lovely blue." 

'• lady, ho is dead and gone ! 

Lady, he's dead and goue ! 
At his he;ul a green-grass turf, 

And at his heels a stone. 

" Within these holy cloisters long 

He languished, and he died, 
Lamenting of a lady's love. 

And 'plaining of her pride. 

•• Here bore him barefaced on his bier 

Six proper youths and tall ; 
And many a tear bedewed his grave 

Within you kirk-yard wall." 

"And art tlinn dead, thou gentle youth? 

An<l art thou dead and gone ? 
And didst thou die for love of me? 

Break, cruel heart of stone I" 

" Oh, weep not, lady, weep not so. 

Some ghostly comfort seek : 
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, 

Nor tears bedew thy cheek." 

" Oh, do not, do not, holy friar, 

My sorrow now reprove ; 
For I have lost the sweetest youth 

That e'er won lady's love. 

"And now, alas! for thy sad loss 
I'll evermore weep and sigh ; 

For thee I only wished to live, 
For thee I wish to die." 

" Weep no more, lady, weep no more, 

Thy sorrow is in vain ; 
For violets plucked, the sweetest shower 

Will ne'er make grow again. 



"Our joys as wingi5d dreams do fly; 

Why then should sorrow last? 
Since grief but aggravates thy loss, 

Grieve not for what is past." 

"Oh say not so, thon holy friar! 

I pray thee say not so ; 
For since my true love died for me, ' 

'Tis meet my tears should flow, v 

"And will he never come again? 

Will he ne'er come again ? 
Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave. 

Forever to reuiaiii. 

" His cheek was rodder than the rose ; 

The comeliest youth was he ; 
But he is dead and laid in his grave ; 

Alas, and woe is me !" 

" Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more ; 

Men were deceivers ever ; 
One foot ou sea and one on land, 

To one thing constant never. 

" Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, 

And left thee sad and heavy ; 
For young men ever were fickle found, 

Since summer trees were leafy." 

" Now say not so, thou holy friar, 

I pray thee say not so ; 
My love he had the truest heart — 

Oh. he was ever true! 

"And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth. 

And didst thou die for me? 
Then farewell, home ; for evermore 

A pilgrim I will be. 

" But first upon my true love's grave 

My weary limbs I'll lay, 
And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf 

That wraps bis breathless clay." 

"Yet stay, fair lady, rest awhile 

Beneath this cloister wall ; 
The cold wind through the hawthorn blows, 

And drizzly rain doth fall." 

" Oh, stay me not, thou holy friar. 
Oh, ?tay me not, I pray ; 



204 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



No di'izzl}' laiii tbat falls on nie 
Cau wash my fault away." 

" Yft stay, fair lady, turu again, 

And diy those pearly tears ; 
For see, beneath this gown of gray 

Thy own true love appears. 

" Here, forced by grief and hopeless love, 

These holy weeds I sought, 
And here amid these lonely walls 

To end my days I thought. 

" lint haply, for my year of grace 

Is not yet passed away. 
Might I still hope to win thy love. 

No longer would I stay." 

" Now farewell grief, and welcome joy 

Once more nnto my heart ! 
For since I've found thee, lovely youth, 

We never more will part." 



(Tljomas lUiavtou. 

Thomas Warton, the historian of En<;Tish poetry (172S- 
1790), WHS the second son of Dr. Warton, of Magdalen 
College, Oxford, who was twice clioscn Trofessor of 
Poetry by bis university, and who liimself wrote verses 
now happily consigned to oblivion. Joseph (1723-1800), 
the elder brother of Thomas, was also a poet in a small 
way, and wrote an " Ode to Fancy," hardly up to tlic 
standard of a modern school-boy. Thomas began early 
to write verses. Ills " Progress of Discontent," written 
before be was twenty, and in the style of Swift, is a re- 
markably clever production. It gave promise of achieve- 
ments which he never fulfilled. He was made poetry- 
professor at Oxford in 17.57, and, on the death of White- 
liead in 17S.5, was appointed poet-laureate. His " His- 
tory of English Poetry" (1774-1778) forms the basis of 
his reputation, and is a valuable storcliouse of facts and 
criticisms. Hazlilt considered some of Warton's sonnets 
"the finest in the language;" but this is wholly un- 
merited praise. Coleridge and Bowles also commended 
them. We select out of his nine sonnets the two best. 



TO MK. GRAY. 

Not that lier bloonus are marked with beauty's hue. 
My rustic Muse her votive cbaplet brings ; 
Unseen, unheard, O Gray, to thee she sings! — 
While slow ly pacing through the church-yard dew, 
^t curfew-time, beneath the dark-green yew. 
Thy pensive genius strikes the moral strings; 
Or borne sublime on luspiuition's -wing-, 



Hears Caudjria's hards devote the dreadful clew 
Of Edward's race, with nuirders foul dehle<l ; 
Can anght ray pipe to reach thine car essay ? 
No, bard divine! For many a care beguiled 
By the sweet magic of thy soothing lay. 
For many a raptured thought, and vision wild, 
To thee this strain of gratitude I pay. 



TO THE lUVER LODON. 

Hiss Mitfovd, in "Oiu- Village," sa3'S of the Lodou : "Is it 
uot a beautifal liver? ri^illLJ level wiili iis banks, so clear, and 
smooth, and peaceful, {^iviiii^ back the veidant landscape and 
the bviijht blue sky, and bearing on its pellucid stream the 
suowy water-lily, the purest of flowers, which sits enthroned 
on its own cool leaves, looking chastity itself, like the lady in 
' Ctimus.' " 

Ah! what .a weary race my feet li.ave run. 
Since first I trod thy banks with alder.s crowned, 
And thonght my way was all through fairy ground, 
Beneath thy azure sky, and golden snn : 
Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun ! 
While pensive Memory traces hack the round. 
Which fills the varied interval between ; 
Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene. 
Sweet native stream ! those .skies and suns so pure 
No more return, to cheer my evening road ! 
Yet still one joy remains, that uot obscure. 
Nor useless all my vacant days have flowed, 
From youtli's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature; 
Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestoweil. 



3ol)u ^L'unninijljaiii. 

Cunningham (172t>-1773), the son of a wine-cooper in 
Dublin, was an actor by profession. " His pieces," says 
Chambers, "are full of pastoral simplicity and lyrical 
melody. He aimed at nothing high, and seldom failed." 



MAY-EVE ; OK, KATE OF ABERDEEN. 

The silver moon's enamored beam 

Steals softly through the night. 
To wanton with the winding stream, 

And kiss reflected light. 
To beds of state, go, balmy sleep — 

'Tis where you've seldom been — 
May's vigil while the shepherds keep 

With Kate of Aberdeeu. 

Upon the green the virgins wait, 
In rosy eh a plots gay. 



JOHK SCOTT.— WILLIAM FALCONER.— ERASMUS DARWIX. 



205 



Till morn unbars lier golden gate, 
And gives the iironiiscd May. 

MethiulvS I hear the maids declare 
The promised May, when seen. 

Not half so fragrant, half so fair. 
As Kate of Aberdeen. 

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, 

We'll rouse the nodding grove ; 
The nested birds shall raise their throats 

And hail the maid I love. 
And see — the matin lark mistakes, 

He quits the tufted green : 
Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks, 

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. 

Now lightsome o'er the level mead, 

Where midnight fairies rove. 
Like them the jocund dance we'll lead. 

Or tune the reed to love : 
For see, the rosy May draws nigh ; 

She claims a virgin queen ; 
And hark ! the happy shepherds cry, — 

" 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen !" 



JJoljn Scott. 



Scott (1730-178.^), of Quaker descent, was the son of 
a draper in London, who retired to Amwcll, wliere the 
poet spent Iiis d.iys in literary ease. He fondly hoped 
I'D immortalize bis native village, on wliicli he wrote a 
poem, "AmweU" (1776); but of all bis works only the 
subjoined Hues arc remembered. 



ODE ON HEARING THE DRUM. 

I hate that drum's discordant sound, 
Parading round, aud round, and round : 
To thonghtless youth it pleasure yields, 
Aud lures from cities aud from fields. 
To sell their liberty for charms 
Of tawdry lace and glittering arms; 
And when Ambition's voice commands 
To march, aud fight, aud fall in foreign lauds. 

I hate that drum's discordant sound. 
Parading round, and rouud, and round ; 
To me it talks of ravaged plains. 
And burning towns, aud riiincd swains, 
And mangled limbs, aud dying gro.aus, 
Aud widows' tears, aud orphans' moans ; 
Aud all that Misery's hand bestows 
To fill the catalogue of human woes. 



lUilliam i'lxlcoucr. 



Falconer (1732-1709), a native of Edinburgh, was the 
son of a poor barber, who had two other children, both 
of whom were deaf aud dumb. When very young, Wil- 
liam was apprenticed to the merchant-service, aud after- 
ward weut as second mate in a vessel which was wreck- 
ed on the coast of Africa; be aud two others being the 
sole survivors. Tliis led to his famous poem of "Tlic 
Sliipwreck," which he published in 1763. The Duke of 
York, to whom it was dedicated, procured for him the 
following year the appointment of midshipman on board 
the Royal George. He eventually became purser in the 
frigate Aurora, and was lost in her, on the outward voy- 
age to India, in 1709. "The Sliipwreck" has the rare 
merit of being a pleasing and interesting poem, and ap- 
proved by all expei'ieuced mariners for the accuracy of 
its nautical rules aud descriptions. 



FROM "THE SHIPWRECK." 

And now, lashed on by destiny .severe. 
With horror fraught the dreadful scene drew near : 
The ship hangs hovering ou the verge of death. 
Hell yawns, rocks rise, and breakers roar beneath ! 

^ # it n if ii 

lu vaiu the cords and axes were prepaied. 

For now the audacious seas insult the yard ; 

High o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade, 

And o'er her hurst, in terrible cascade. 

Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies, 

Her shattered top half buried in the skies. 

Then headlong plunging, thunders on the ground; 

Earth groans ! air trembles ! and the deeps resound ! 

Her giant bulk the dread concussion feels. 

And quivering with tlie wound, in torment reels ; 

So reels, convulsed with agonizing throes, 

The bleeding bull beneath the murderer's blows; — 

Again she plunges ! hark ! a second shock 

Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock : 

Down on the vale of Death, with dismal cries. 

The fated victims, shuddering, roll their eyes 

In wild despair; while yet another stroke. 

With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak: 

Till like tlie mine, in whoso infernal cell 

The lurking demons of destruction dwell. 

At length asunder torn, her frame divides. 

And crashiug siireads in ruin o'er the tides. 



G;rasmus Daraiin. 



Darwin, the grandsire of the more renowned Charles 
Darwin, identified with wliat is kuown as tlie Darwinian 
theory of natural selection in biology, was born in Elton, 



206 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISn JXD AMEUICAN POETllT. 



Enfjlnud, in 1731, and died in 1802. He studied at Cam- 
bridge and Edinburgh, and established himself as a pliy- 
siciau at Liehfiekl. He was an early advocate of the 
temperance cause. As the author of "The Botanic Gar- 
den," a poem in two parts — Part I., The Economy of 
Vegetation ; Part II., The Loves of the Plants — also of 
"The Temple of Nature," a poem, he obtained distinc- 
tion in literature. Of an original turn of mind, he seems 
to have had glimpses of the theories afterward expanded 
and illustrated by the labor and learning of his grand- 
son. Byron speaksof Darwin's "pompous rhyme." His 
poems were very popular iu their day, and he received 
£900 for his "Botanic Garden." In it he predicts the 
triumphs of steam in these prescient lines: 

"Soon shall thy arm, uiiconqnercd Steam ! afar 
Drag the slow barge, nr drive the rapid car ; 
Or on wide waving wings expanded bear 
The flying chariot through tlie field of air." 

By his command of poetical diction and sonorous ver- 
sification, he gave au imposing effect to much that he 
wrote, and his verses found enthusiastic admirers. The 
effect of tlie whole, however, is artificial, and his verses, 
though metrically correct and often beautiful in con- 
struction, fatigue by the monotony of the cadence. 

"There is a fashion in poetry," says Sir Walter Scott, 
"which, without increasing or diminishing the real value 
of the materials moulded upon it, does wonders in facili- 
tating its currency while it has novelty, and is often 
found to impede its reception when the mode has passed 
away." The transitoriness of fashion seems to account 
for the fate of Darwiu's poetry. The form was novel, 
the substance ephemer.il. As a philosopher, he was 
charged with being too fond of tracing analogies be- 
tween dissimilar objects, and of too readily adopting 
the ingenious views of others without sufficient inquiry. 
He was married twice, and had three sons by his first 
wife. A biography of Darwin, from the German ofErnst 
Krause, was published, 1880, iu New York. Darwin was 
on the side of the American colonists in their war for 
independence. 



THE GODDESS OF BOTANY. 

From " The Botanic Garden." 

"Winds of the north! restrain your icy gales, 
Nor eliill tlio bo.som of these happy vales! 
Hence iu dark heaps, ye gathering clouds, revolve ! 
Disperse, ye lightnings, and ye mists, dissolve ! 
Hither, enievging from yon orient skies. 
Botanic goddess, bend thy radiant eyes ; 
O'er these soft scenes assume thy gentle reign, 
Pomona, Ceres, Flora, iu thy train ; 
O'er the still dawn thy placid smile effuse, 
Aud with thy silver sandals print the dews; 
In noon's bright hlaze thy vermeil vest unfold. 
And wave thy emerald banner starred with gold." 

Thus spoke the Genius as he stepped along, 
Aud bade these lawns to peace and truth belong ; 



Dowu the steep slopes he led with modest skill 
The willing i)athway and the trnaut rill ; 
Sfretched o'er the marshy vale you willowy mound, 
Where shines the lake amid the tnfted ground ; 
Raised the young woodland, smoothed the wavy 

green, 
Aud gave to beauty all the quiet scene. 
She conies! the goddess! through the whispering 

air, 
Bright as the morn descends her blushing car : 
Each circling wheel a wreath of flowers eutwiues, 
Aud, gemmed with flowers, the silkeu harness 

shines ; 
The golden bits with flowery studs are decked, 
Aud knots of flowers the crimson reins counect. 
Aud uow on earth the silver axle rings, 
Aud the shell sinks upon its slender springs ; 
Light from her airy seat the goddess bounds, 
And steps celestial press the pansied groniuls. 
Fair Spring advanciug, calls her feathered riuire, 
And tunes to softer notes her laughing lyre ; 
Bids her gay hours ou purple pinions move. 
And arms her zephyrs with the shafts of love. 



ELIZA AT THE BATTLE OF MIXDEN. 

From " The Botanic Garden." 

Now stood Eliza on the wood-crowned height. 
O'er Mindeu's plaiu, spectatress of the fight ; 
Sought with bold eye amid the bloody strife 
Her dearer self, the partner of her life; 
From hill to hill the rushing host pursued. 
And viewed his banner, or believed she viewed. 
Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker tread. 
Fast by his hand oue lisping boy she led ; 
Aud oue fair girl amid the loud alarm 
Slept on her kerchief, cradled by her arm ; 
While round her brows bright beams of houor dart, 
Aud love's warm eddies circle round her heart. 
— Near aud more near the intrepid beauty pressed, 
Saw through the driving smoke his dancing crest ; 
Saw on his helm, her virgin hands inwove. 
Bright stars of gold, aud mystic knots of love: 
Heard the exulting shont, "They run ! — they run !"' 
"He's safe!" she cried, "he's safe! the battle's won!" 
— A ball now hisses through the airy tides 
(Some Fury wings it, aud some demon guides). 
Parts the tine locks her graceful head that deck, 
W^ouuds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck : 
The red stream issuing from her azure veins, 
Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains. 



CHARLES CEORCHILL. 



207 



"All me!'' slio cried; aud, sinking on the ground, 
Kissed lier dear babes, regardless of the wound : 
" Oh cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn, 
Wait, gushing life, oh wait my love's return !" — 
Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far, 
The angel Pity shuns the walks of war ! — 
" Oh spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age ! 
On me, on me," she cried, "exhaust your rage!" 
Then with weak arms her weeping babes caressed. 
And sighing, hid them iu her blood-stained vest. 
From tent to tent the impatient warrior flies. 
Fear in his heart, aud frenzy in his eyes : 
Eliza's name along the camp ho calls, 
"Eliza" echoes through the canvas walls; 
Quick through the murmuring gloom his footsteps 

tread. 
O'er groaning heaps, the dying and the dead. 
Vault o'er the plain, and in the tangled wood, — 
Lo ! dead Eliza weltering in her blood ! 
Soou hears his listening sou the welcome sounds, 
With open arms and sjiarkliiig eye he bounds. 
"Speak low," he cries, and gives his little hand; 
" Mamma's asleep upon the dew-cold sand." 
Poor weeping babe, with bloody fingers pressed. 
And tried with pouting lips her milkless breast. 
"Alas! we both with cold and hunger quake: 
Why do you weep? Mamma will soon awake." 
— "She'll wake no more!" the hajiless mourner cried, 
Upturned his eyes, and clasped his hands, and 

sighed ; 
Stretched on the ground, awhile entranced he lay, 
Aud pressed warm ki.sses on the lifeless clay ; 
Aud then upsprung with wild, convulsive start, 
Aud all the father kindled in his heart ; 
" Oh heavens !' he cried, "my first rash vow forgive ! 
These bind to earth, for these I pray to live 1" 
Round his chill babes he wrapped his crimson vest, 
Aud clasped them sobbing to his aching breast. 



(Hljarles (!ll)urcl)ill. 



Tlio son of a clergyman in Westminster, Churchill 
(1731-17Ci) was ednciitcd at Cambrkli;c. His father died 
iu 1758, and Charles was appointed his successor in the 
curacy and lectureship of St. John's at Westminster. 
He now launched into a career of dissipation and ex- 
travagance, and was compelled to resign his situation. 
He assisted Wilkes in editing the Xorth Britmi, aud wrote 
a somewhat forcible satire directed against the Scottish 
nation, and entitled "The Prophecy of Famine." But 
his satirical poem, "The Rosciad," gave him his princi- 
pal fame. In this work, criticising the lending actors of 
the day, he evinced great vigor and facility of versifica- 
tion, j'lid breadth and boldness of personal invective 



that drew instant attention. Hazlitt says: "Churchill 
is a fine rough satirist. He had sense, wit, eloquence, 
and honesty." This praise must be qualified somewhat, 
for the satirist does not seem to have been actuated by 
high principle in his attacks. He led a discreditable 
life, and died at Boulogne, of fever, in the thirty-fourth 
year of his age. So popular had his satires been that the 
sale of them had placed liim iu easy circumstances. He 
had ofi"ered "The Roseiad " for five guineas. It was re- 
fused, and he published it at his own risk, \ii success 
surpassing his most extravagant hopes. 



REMORSE. 

From "The Conference" (1763). 

That ClnuThill felt compunction for ni.iny of his errors is ev- 
ident from the followiug lines, which would seem to have come 
from ttie he.irt. 

Look back ! a thought which borders on despair. 

Which human nature must, yet cannot, betir! 

'Tis not the babbling of a busy world. 

Where praise aud censure are at random luirled, 

Which can the meanest of my thoughts control. 

Or shake one settled purpose of my soul : 

Free and at large might their wild curses roam. 

If all, if all, alas ! were well at home. 

No! 'tis the tale which angry Conscience tells. 

When she, with more than tragic horror, swells 

Each circumstance of guilt ; when stern, but true, 

She brings bad actions forth into review. 

And, like the dread handwriting ou the wall. 

Bids late Remorse awake at Reason's call ; 

Armed at all points, bids scorpiou Vengeance jiass. 

And to the mind holds up Reflection's glass — 

The mind which, starting, heaves the heartfelt 

groan, 
Aud hates that form she kuows to bo her own. 



YATES, THE ACTOR. 
From "The Rosciad." 

Lo, Yates! — Without the least fines.se of art. 
He gets applause — I wish he'd get his part. 
When hot Impatience is in full career. 
How vilely "Hark'e! Hark'e !" grates the ear! 
When active Fancy from the brain is sent. 
And stands on tiptoe for some wished event, 
I hate those careless blunders which recall 
Suspended sense, and prove it fiction all. 
In characters of low and vulgar mould. 
Where Nature's coarsest features we behold ; 
Where, destitute of every decent grace, 
Uumaunered jests are blurted in your face, — • 



208 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



There Yates with justice strict attention draws, 
Acts truly from himself, aud gains applause. 
But wheu, to please himself or charm his %Yife, 
He aims at something in politer life ; 
When, blindly thwarting nature's stubborn plan, 
He treads the stage by way of gentleman, — 
The clown, who no one tonch of breeding knows. 
Looks like Tom Erraud dressed in Clincher's 

clothes. 
Fond of his dress, foud of his person, grown, 
Laughed at by all, aud to himself unknown. 
From side to side he struts, he smiles, he prates, 
Aud seems to wonder what's become of Yates ! 



FOOTE. 

FaoM "The Kosciad." 

By turns transformed into all kinds of shapes. 
Constant to uoue, Foote laughs, cries, struts, aud 
scrapes ; 

His strokes of humor, and his burst of sport 
Are all contained in this one word — distort. 

Doth a mau stutter, look a-squint, or halt ? 
Mimics draw humor out of nature's fault, 
With personal defects their mirth adorn, 
Aud hang misfortunes out to public scorn. 
Even I, whom Nature cast in hideous mould. 
Whom, having made, she trembled to behold. 
Beneath the load of mimicry may groan, 
Aud find that Nature's errors are my own. 



MURPHY. 

From " The Rosciad." 

How few are found with real talents blessed! 
Fewer with nature's gifts contented rest. 
Man from his sphere eccentric starts astray ; 
All hunt for fame, but most mistake the way. 
Bred at St. Omer's to the shuffling trade, 
The hopeful youth a Jesuit might have made, 
With various readings stored his empty skull, 
Learned without sense, aud venerably dull ; 
Or, at some banker's desk, like mauy more. 
Content to tell that two and two make four, 
His name had stood in city annals fair. 
And prudent Dulness marked him for a mayor. 
What, then, could tempt thee, in a critic age. 
Such blooming hopes to forfeit on a stage * 
Could it be worth thy wondrous waste of pains 
To publish to the world thy lack of brains? 



Or might not reason even to thee have shown 
Tliy greatest praise had been to live unknown? 
Yet let not vanity like thine despair : 
Fortune makes Folly her peculiar care. 

A vacant throne high placed in Smithfield view. 
To sacred Dulness aud her lirst-born due ; 
Thither with haste in happy hour repair, 
Thy birthright claim, nor fear a rival there. 
Shuter himself shall own thy juster claim. 
And venal ledgers puff their Murphy's name ; 
While Vanghau or Dapper, call him wliat you 

will. 
Shall blow tho trumpet and give out the bill. 

There rule .secure from critics aud from sense, 
Nor once shall genius rise to give offence ; 
Eternal peace shall bless the happy shore, 
Aud little factious break thy rest uo more. 



MRS. CLIVE AND MRS. POPE. 

From "The Kosciad." 

In spite of outward blemishes, she shone 

For humor famed, aud luiraor all her own. 

Easy, as if at home, the stage she trod. 

Nor sought the critic's jiraise, nor feared his rod. 

Original in spirit and in ease. 

She pleased by hiding all attempts to i)lcase : 

No comic actress ever yet could raise. 

On Humor's base, more merit or more praise. 

With all the native vigor of sixteen. 
Among the merry troop conspicuous seen, 
See lively Pope advance in jig and trip, 
Corinna, Cherry, Honeycomb, aud Snip. 
Not without art, but yet to nature true. 
She charms the town with humor, just yet new : 
Cheered by her promise, we the less deplore 
Tlie fatal time when Clive shall be uo more. 



QUIN. 

From " The Kosciad." 

No actor ever greater heights conld reach 
In all tho labored artifice of speech. 

Speech ! Is that all ? Aud shall an actor found 
A universal fame on partial ground f 
Parrots themselves speak properly by rote, 
Aud, in sis months, my dog shall howl by note. 
I l.augh at those who, when the stage they tread. 
Neglect the heart to compliment the head ; 
With strict projiricty their cares confined 
To weigh out words, while passion li.alts behind 



CBABLES CHURCHILL. — WILLIAM COWFER. 



209 



■ To syllaljle-disscctors they appeal ; 
Allow them accent, cadence, — fools may feel ; 
But, spite of all tbe criticising elves, 
Tliose Tvlio wonld make us feel must feci tberaselves. 



GAKEICK. 

From " Tue Rosciad.'* 

Last, Garrick came : behind liim throng a train 
Of snarling critics, ignorant as vain. 

One finds ont, — "He's of statnre somewhat low, — 
Your hero always should be tall, you know : 
True natural greatness all consists in height." 
Produce your voucher, critic. — "Sergeant Kite." 

Another can't forgive the paltry arts 
By which he makes his way to shallow hearts : 
Mere pieces of finesse, traps for ajiplanse — 
'A vaunt, unnatural start, afiected iiauso !" 

For me, by nature formed to judge with phlegm, 
I can't acquit by wholesale, nor condemn. 
Tlie best things, carried to excess, are wrong: 
Tlie start may he too frequent, pause too long ; 
But, only used in proper time and place, 
' Severest judgment must allow them grace. 
\ If bunglers, formed on Imitation's plan, 
' Jnst in the way that monkeys mimic man. 
Their copied scene with mangled arts disgrace. 
And pause and start with the same vacant face, — 
We join tlie critic laugh ; whose tricks we scorn. 
Which spoil the scene they mean them to adorn. 
But when from Nature's pure and genuine source 
These strokes of acting flow with generous force ; 
When in the features all the soul's portrayed, 
And passions such as Garrick's are displayed, — 
To me they seem from quickest feelings caught; 
Each start is Nature, and each pause is Thouglit. 
*f * * * # # 

Let wits, like spiders, from the tortured brain 
Fine-draw the critic-web with curious pain ; 
The gods — a kindness I with thanks must pay — 
Have formed me of a coarser kind of clay ; 
Nor stung with envy, nor with spleen diseased, 
A poor dull creature, still with nature pleased : 
Hence, to thy praises, Garrick, I agree. 
And, pleased with Nature, must be ple.ased with thee. 

The judges, as the several parties came, 

With temper heard, with judgment weighed, each 

claim. 

And in their sentence happily agreed ; 

In name of botli great Sliakspeare thus decreed : 
14 



"If manly sense, if Nature linked with Art, 
If thorougli knowledge of the human heart. 
If powers of acting vast and uncoufiacd. 
If fewest faults with greatest beauties joined ; 
If strong expression, and strange powers which lie 
W^ithin the magic circle of the eye ; 
If feelings which few hearts like his can know. 
And wliich no face so well as his can shoisv, — 
Deserve the preference, — Garrick, take the chair. 
Nor quit it — till thou place an equal there." 



lllilliam Couipcr. 



Cowpcr (1731-lSOO), the son of Dr. Cowper, chaplain 
to George II., was born at tlie rectory of Great Berk- 
liamstcad, Hurtfordsbire. His fatliei's family was an- 
cient, and bis mother's distantly of royal descent. His 
giandfatlier, Spencer Cowper, was Cliicf-justice of the 
Common Pleas, and his grand -uncle was Lord High 
Chancellor of England. When about six years old, Cow- 
per lost his mother, whom he always remembered with 
tbe tenderest affection. At the age of ten he was re- 
moved from a country school to Westminster, where, be- 
ing constitutionally timid and delicate, the rough usage 
he experienced at tbe bands of tbe elder boys had a sad 
effect upon him. 

At the age of eighteen he was articled to an attorney, 
and in 1754 was called to the bar : be, however, never 
made tbe law his study. Receiving tbe appointment of 
Clerk of Journals of tbe House of Lords, his nervous- 
ness was such that he was plunged into the deepest 
misery, and even attempted suicide. The seeds of in- 
sanity soon appeared; he resigned bis appointment, and 
was placed in a private mad-house kept by Di'. Nathaniel 
Cotton, tbe poet. Here, by kind attention, Cowpcr's 
shattered mind was gradually restored for a time. On 
bis recovery, renouncing all London prospects, be set- 
tled in Huntingdon : solitude was bringing back his 
niebmcboly, when he was received into tbe Rev. Mr. Un- 
win's bouse as a boarder, and, in the society of an amiable 
circle of friends, tbe " wind was tempered to tbe shorn 
lamb." On her husband's death in 1767, the poet retired, 
with Mrs. Unwiu and her daughter, to Olney. He found 
a new friend in the Rev. Jobn Newton, tbe curate. But 
in 1773 bis spirit was again, for .about five years, envel- 
oped in tbe shadows of bis malady ; and be again at- 
tempted suicide. The unwearied cares of Mrs. Unwin 
and of Mr. Newton slowly emancipated him from his 
darkness of horror. A deep religious melancholy was 
tbe form of his mental disease. An awful terror that his 
soul was lost forever, beyond the power of redemption, 
bung in a thick night-cloud upon bis life. Three times 
after tbe first attack the madness returned. 

While bis convalescence was advancing, he amused his 
mind with the taming of bares, tbe construction of bird- 
cages, and gardening; he even attempted to become a 
painter. At length, at the age of nearly fifty, tbe foun- 
tain of his poetry, which had been all but sealed, was re- 
opened. Tbe result was the publication of a volume of 



210 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



poeius in 1782. The sale of the work was slow, but Cow- 
per's frienils were eafcev in its praise ; and Samuel John- 
son anil Benjamin Franklin reeognized in him a true 
poet. At Olney he formed a close fiieudship with Lady 
Austen. To her he owed the origin of his "John Gil- 
pin;" also that of his greatest work, "The Task." She 
asked him to write some blank verse, and playfully gave 
him the "Sofa" as a subject. Begiuuiug a poem on 
this homely theme, he produced the six books of "The 
Task." In it he puts forth his power both as an ethical 
and a rural poet. Mrs. Unwin became jealous of Lady 
Austen's cheerful influence over her friend, and, to please 
her, Cowper had to ask Lady Austen not to return to 
Olney. 

Dissatisfied with Pope's version of tlic Greek epics, 
Cowper now undertook to translate Homer into Eng- 
lish blank verse ; and, by working regularly at the rate 
of forty lines a day, he accomplished the undertaking in 
a few years, and it appeared in 179L It is a noble trans- 
lation, but has never had the reputation it deserves. A 
pension of £300 from the king comforted the poet's de- 
clining days. But the last and. thickest cloud was dark- 
ening down on his mind, and only for brief intervals was 
there any light, until the ineffable brilliance of a higher 
life broke upon his gaze. His last poem was " The Cast- 
away," which, while it shows a morbid anxiety about 
his soul, indicates no decline in his mental powers. 

Cowper was constitutionally prone to insanity ; but 
the predisposing causes were aggravated by his strict, 
secluded mode of life, and the influences to which he 
was subjected. His cousin, Lady llesketh, was a more 
wholesome companion for him than the curate, John 
Newton; for cheerfulness was inspired by the one, and 
terror by the other. Newton was an energetic man, 
who had once commanded a vessel in the slave-trade, 
and, after a life full of adventure, had become intensely 
religious in a form not likely to have a sanative efl'eet 
upon a sensitive and sympathetic uaturc. 

The success of Cowper's "John Gilpin" was helped 
by John Henderson, the actor, who chose it for recita- 
tion before it became famous. Mrs. Siddons heard it 
with delight; and in the spring of 177.5 its success was 
the event of the season. Prints of John Gilpin Hlled the 
shop- windows; and Cowper, who was finishing "The 
Tusk," felt that his serious work would be helped if it 
were jjublished with his "John Gilpin," of which he 
says: "I little thought, when I mounted him upon my 
Pegasus, that he would become so famous." 



And all their leaves fast fluttering all at ouce. 

Nor less composure waits upon the roar 

Of distant floods, or on tbe softer voice 

Of neighboring fountain, or of rills that slip 

Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as tbey fall 

Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length 

In matted grass, that with a livelier green 

Betrays the secret of their silent course. 

Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds. 

But animated nature sweeter still. 

To soothe and satisfy the human car. 

Ten thousand warblers cheer tbe day, and one 

Tbe livelong night: nor these alone, whose notes 

Nice-fingered Art must emulate in vain ; 

But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime 

In still rejieated circles, screaming loud ; 

The jay, the pie, and even tbe boding owl. 

That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. 

Sounds inharmonious in themselves, and harsh. 

Yet beard in scenes where peace forever reigns, 

And only there, please highly for their sake. 



EUKAL SOUNDS. 

From "The Task," Book I. 

Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, 
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore 
Tbe tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds. 
That sweep tbe skirt of some far spreading wood 
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike 
Tbe dash of Ocean on bis winding shore, 
And lull tbo spirit while tbey fill tbe mind ; 
Unnumbered branches waving in tbe blast, 



AFFECTATION. 

Fnoa "The Task," Book II. 

In man or woman, bnt far mo.st in man. 
And most of all in man that ministers 
And serves tbe altar, in my soul I loathe 
All aft'ectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn ! 
Object of my implacable disgust ! 
What! will a man play tricks? will he indulge 
A silly, fond conceit of bis fair form. 
And just proportion, fashionable mien. 
And pretty face, in presence of bis God? 
Or will be seek to dazzle me with tmpes, 
As with tbe diamond on bis lily baud, 
And pl.ay bis brilliant parts before my eyes. 
When I am hungry for tbe bread of lif« ? 
He mocks bis Maker, prostitutes and shames 
His noble office, and, instead of truth. 
Displaying bis own beauty, starves his flock. 
Therefore, avannt all attitude, and 8t:ire, 
And start theatric, practised at the glass ! 
I seek divine simplicity in bim 
Who handles things divine; and all besides. 
Though learned with labor, and though much ad- 
mired 
By cnrious eyes and judgments ill-informed, 
To me is odious as tbe nasal twang 
Heard at conventicle, where worthy men. 
Misled by custom, strain celestial themes 
Through tbe pressed nostril, spectacle-bestrid. 



WILLIAM COWPEE. 



JU 



I 



INDUSTRY IN EEPOSE. 

FnoM "The Task," Book III. 

How various bis employmeiits whom tbo world 

Calls idle, and who justly iu return 

Esteems that busy world au idler too ! 

Frieuds, books, a garden, and pei'baps bis pen, — 

Deligbtful industry enjoyed at bome. 

And Nature in bcr cultivated trim 

Dressed to bis taste, inviting bim abroad — 

Can be want occupation wbo bas these ? 

Will he be idle who has much to enjoy f 

Me, therefore, studious of laborious ease, 

Not slothful ; happy to deceive the time, 

Not waste it ; and aware that human life 

Is but a loan to be repaid with use, 

When He shall call bis debtors to account 

From whom are all our blessings, — business finds 

Even here ! while sedulous I seek to improve. 

At least neglect not, or leave unemplnyed. 

The miud be gave me; driving it, though slack 

Too oft, and much impeded iu its work 

By causes not to be divulged in vain, 

To its just point — the service of maukiiul. 

He that atteuds to his interior self; 

That has a heart, and keeps it ; has a miud 

That hungers, and supplies it ; and who seeks 

A social, not a dissipated life, — 

Has business ; feels himself engaged to achieve 

No unimportant, though a silent, task. 

A life all turbuleuce and noise may seem. 

To bim that leads it, wise, and to be praised ; 

But wisdom is a pearl with most success 

Sought iu still water and beneath clear skies : 

He that is ever occupied in storms. 

Or dives not for it, or brings up instead, 

Vaiuly industrious, a disgraceful prize! 



WELCOME TO EVENING. 

From "The Task," Book IV. 

Come, Evening, once again, season of peace ! 

Return, sweet Evening, and continue long! 

Metbinks I see thee in the streaky west. 

With matron steV slow moving, while the Night 

Treads on thy sweeping train ; one band employed 

Iu lettiug fall the curtain of repose 

On bird and beast, the other charged for man 

With sweet oblivion of tbo cares of day : 

Not sumptuously adorned, not needing aid, 

Like homely-featured Night, of clustering gems ; 



A star or two, just twinkliug on thy brow. 
Suffices thee ; save that the Moon is thine 
No less than hers ; not worn, indeed, on high 
With ostentatious pa|[eantry, but set 
With modest grandeur iu thy purple zone, 
Resplendent less, but of au ampler round. 
Come, then, and thou sbalt find thy votary calm, 
Or make me so. Composure is thy gift: 
And, whether I devote thy gentle hours 
'i'o books, to music, or the poet's toil ; 
To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit ; 
Or twining silken threads round ivory reels, 
When they command whom man was born to 

please, — 
I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still. 



AN ODE : BOADICEA. 

When the British warrior-queeu. 
Bleeding from the Roman rods, 

Sought, with an indignant niien, 
Counsel of her country's gods, 

Sage beneath the spreading oak 
Sat the Druid, hoary chief; 

Every burning word be spoke 
Full of rage, and full of grief. 

"Princess! if our ag^d eyes 

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 

'Tis because resentment ties 
All the terrors of our tongues. 

"Rome shall perish — write that word 
In the blood that she has spilt — 

Perish, hopeless and abhorred. 
Deep in ruin as iu guilt I 

" Rome, for empire far renowned. 
Tramples on a thousand states : 

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground — 
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates! 

" Other Romans shall arise. 
Heedless of a soldier's name ; 

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize. 
Harmony the path to fame. 

" Then the progeny that springs 
From the forests of our laud. 

Aimed with thunder, clad with wings, 
SLaJl ;i wider world command. 



212 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



"Eegious CfEsar never knew 

Thy posterity sball sway ; 
Wliere Lis eagles never flew, 

None invincible, as (|)iey." 

Such the bariVs iirophetio words, 
Pregnant with celestial fire, 

Bending as he swept the chords 
Of his sweet but awful lyre. 

She, with all a monarch's pride, 
Felt them ill her bosom glow; 

Rushed to battle, fought, and died ; 
Dying, hurled them at the foe. 

"Ruffians, pitiless as proud! 

Heaven awards the vengeance due : 
Empire is on us bestowed. 

Shame and ruin wait for vou." 



A WINTER EVENING IN THE LIBRARY. 

'Tis winter, cold and rude ; 

Heap, heap the warmiug wood ! 
The wild wind hums his sullen song to-night; 

Oh, hear that pattering shower! 

Haste, boy ! — this gloomy hour 
Demands relief; the cheerful tapers light. 

Though now my home around 

Still roars the wintry sound, 
Methiuks 'tis summer by this festive blaze ! 

My books, eompauious dear, 

lu seemly ranks appear. 
And glisteu to my fire's far-flashing rays. 

Now stir the fire, .and close the .shutters fast; 
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round ! 
And while the bubbling and loud-hissing uru 
Throws up a steamy column, and the cujjs. 
Which cheer, but not inebriate, wait on each, 
So let ns welcome peaceful evening in. 



ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICT- 
URE OUT OF NORFOLK, 

THE GIFT OF MV COUSIN, ANN liODHAM. 

Oh that those lips had language ! Life has passed 
With nie but roughly siuce 1 heard thoo last. 
Tliose lips are thino — thy own sweet smile I see, 
The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; 



Voice only fails — else how distinct they say 
"Grieve not, my child — eh.aso all thy fears away!" 
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the art that cau immortalize, 
The art that balfles Time's tyrannic cl.iim 
To queucli it !) here shines on me still the same. 
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear ! 

welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
Who bidst nio honor with an artless song, 
Aft'octionate, a mother lost so long. 

1 will obey — not willingly alone, 

But gl.adly, as the precept were her own ; 
And, while that face renews my filial grief. 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief — 
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 
A momentary dioam that thou art she. 

My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead. 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
Hovered tny spirit o'er thy sorrowing son — 
Wretch even then, life's jouruey just begun ? 
Perhaps thou gavest me, though nufelt, a kiss; 
Perhaps a tear, if soul.s cau weeji in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers — Y'es. 
I heaid the bell tolled on thy burial day; 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away; 
And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
But was it such ? — It was. — Where thou art gone 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown ; 
May I but meet thee on that iieaceful shore, 
Tlio parting word shall jiass my lips no more. 
Thy maidens, grieved theni-selves .at my concern, 
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return ; 
What ardently I wished I long believed. 
Ami, disappointed still, was still deceived — 
By expectation every day beguiled. 
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
Thus, many a sad to-morrow came and went. 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 
I learned at last submission to my lot ; 
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 

Where once wo dwelt our name is heard no more — 
Children not thine h.ave trod my nursery floor; 
And where the g.ardener Robin, day by day. 
Drew me to school along the public way — 
Delighted with my bauble co.ach, and wrapped 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap — 
'Tis now become a history little known. 
That once we called the pastoral house our own. 
Short-lived possession ! but the record fair, 
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there. 
Still outlives many a storm that has efl"aced 
A thous.and other themes, less deeply tr.accd: 



IIJLLIAM COWPER. 



213 



Thy iiiglitly visits to my cliaiiiber made, 

Tliat tliou mightst know me safe and warndy laid ; 

Tliy morning bounties ero I left my home — 

The biscnit, or confectionery plum ; 

Tho fragraut waters ou my cheeks bestowed 

By tliy own hand, till frcsU they shone and glowed: 

All this, and, more ondeaiing still than all. 

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall — 

Ne'er roughened hy those cataracts and breaks 

That bunior interposed too often makes ; 

All this, still legible in Slemory's page, 

And still to be so to my latest age, 

A<lds joy to dnty, makes me glad to jiay 

Sncli honors to thee as my uunibers may ; 

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 

Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. 

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore tho hours 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, 
The violet, tho jiink, the jessamine, 
I pricked them into paper with a pin 
(And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile), 
Could those few pleasant days again appear, 
Jlight one wish bring them, would I wish them 

here 1 
I wonld not trust my heart — the dear delight 
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. 
But no — what hero wo, call our life is such. 
So little to be loved, and thou so much. 
That I should ill requite thee to constraiu 
Thy unbonnd spirit into bonds again. 

Thou, as a gallant bark, from Albion's coast 
(Tho storms all weathered and the ocean crossed), 
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, 
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 
There sits quiescent ou the Hoods, that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around lier, fanning light her streamers gay, 
So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the 

shore, 
" Where tempests never beat nor billows roar ;'" 
And thy loved consort, ou tho dangerous tide 
Of life, long since has anchored by thy side. 
Bnt me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. 
Always from port withheld, always distressed — 
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, 
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost ; 



^ Slightly misquoted fiom " Tlie Diepensiiry " (1699), a patirl- 
cal poem by Sir Samuel Gartli (1670-lTlS), iu which occurs tlie 
lollowiui; couplet: 

"To die, 13 lauding on some sileut shore, 
Wliere billows uever break, jior tempests roar," 



And day by day some current's thwarting force 
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
Yet oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he ! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; 
But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 
The sou of parents passed into the skies., 
And now, farewell ! — Time, unrevoked, h'as run 
His wonted course ; yet what I wished is done. 
By Contemplation's lielp, not sought iu vain, 
I seem to have lived mj' childhood o'er again ; 
To have renewed the joys that once were mine, 
Without tho sin of violating thine; 
And, while tho wings of fancy still are free. 
And I can view this mimic show of thee. 
Time has bnt half succeeded in his theft — 
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 



LOSS OF THE "ROYAL GEORGE.'" 

Toll for the brave ! 

The brave that are imj more ! 
All sunk beneath the wave. 

Fast by their native shore! 

Eight hundred of the brave, 
Whose courage well was tried. 

Had made tho vessel heel. 
And laid her on her side. 

A land-breeze shook the shrouds, 

And she was overset ; 
Down went the Uoijal George, 

With all her crew complete. 

T(dl for the brave ! 

Brave Kempenfelt is gone ; 
His last sea-fight is fought. 

His work of glory done. 

It was not iu the battle ; 

No tempest gave the shook : 
She sprang no fatal leak, 

She ran upon no rock. 

His sword was iu its sheath. 
His fingers held the pen, 

■ The Itoijal George, of lOS giuis, while nndergoiii;; a partial 
careenin;^ in Portsmouth harbor, was overset about 10 a.m.. 
August 2t)tli, 1782. The total loss was believed to be near one 
tboasaud souls. 



•il4 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Wlieu KfinpenfL-lt went down 
With twice four hundred men. 

AVeigh the vessel up 

Once dreaded hy our foes ! 

And mingle with our cup 
The tear that England owes. 

Mer timbers yet are sound, 

And she may float again, 
Full charged witli England's thunder. 

And plough the distant main : 

But Kenipenfelt is gone, 

His victories are o'er ; 
And he and his eight hundred 

Shall plough the wave no more. 



TO MARY UNWIN. 

M:uy ! I want a lyre with other strings, 

Such aid from heaven as sonic have feigned they 

drew. 
An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new 
And uudehased by iiraise of meaner things, 
Tliat ere through age or woe I shed my wings, 
I may record thy worth with honor due. 
In verse as musical as thou art true, 
And that imuiortnlizes whom it sings: — 
But thou hast little uecd. There is a Book 
By seraphs writ w ith beams of heavenly light, 
Ou which the ej'es of God not rarely looh, 
A chronicle of actions just and bright; 
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine; 
And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee 

mine. 



CHARACTER OF LORD CHATHAM. 

FnoM " Table Talk." 

In him Demosthenes w.as heard again ; 
Liberty taught him her Athenian strain; 
She clothed him with authority aud awe. 
Spoke from his lips, and in liis looks gave law. 
His speech, his form, his action full of grace, 
.\nd all his country beaming in liis face. 
He stood as some inimitable hand 
Would .strive to make a Paul or Tally stand. 
No sycophant or slave, that dared oppo.so 
Her sacred cause, but trembled when he rose ; 
And every venal stickler for the yoke 
Felt himself crushed at the first word ho spoke. 



THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN : 

SHOWING HOW HE WENT F.\ItTHER TH.\X HE INTENDED, 
AND C.\ME S.VFE HOME AGAIN. 

John Gilpiu was a citizeu 

Of credit and renown, 
A train-baud captain eke was he 

Of famous Loudon town. 

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, 
'• Though wedded we have beeu 

These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
No holiday have seen. 

"To-morrow is our wedding-day, 

And we will then repair 
Unto the Bell at Edmonton 

All in a chaise and pair. 

"My sister, aud my sistert child, 

Myself, and children three, 
Will fill the chaise; so you must ride 

On horseback after we." 

He soon replied, "I do admire 

Of womankind but one, 
Aud you are she, my dearest dear, 

Therefore it shall bo doue. 

"I am a linen-draper bold. 

As all the world doth know. 
And my good friend the calender 

Will lend his horse to go." 

Quotli Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; 

Aud, for that wiue is dear. 
We will be fnruished with our own. 

Which is both bright aud clear." 

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; 

O'erjoyed- was he to find, 
Tliat, though on pleasure she was beut. 

She had a frugal mind. 

The morning came, tlie chaise was brought, 

But yet was not allowed 
To drive up to tlie door, lest all 

Should say that she was proud. 

So three doors off the chai.se was stayed, 

Where they did all get in ; 
Six precious souls, aud all agog 

To dash through thick and thin. 



WILLIAM COW PUB. 



215 



Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, 

Were never folk so glad ; 
The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapside were mad. 

John Gilpin at liis horse's side 

Seized fast the flowing niaue ; 
And up he got, in haste to ride, 

But soon came down again. 

For saddle-tree scarce reached had he. 

His journey to begin. 
When, turning rouud his head, he saw 

Three customers come in. 

So down he came ; for loss of time, 

Although it grieved him sore, 
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew. 

Would trouble him unich more. 

'Twas long before the customers 

Were suited to their miud, 
When Betty screaming came down-stairs, 

"The wine is left behind!" 

"Good lack!" quoth he — "yet bring it me. 

My leathern belt likewise, 
In which I bear my trusty sword. 

When I do exercise." 

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) 

Had two stone bottles found. 
To hold the liquor that he loved, 

Aud keep it safe aud souud. 

Each bottle had a curling ear, 
Through which the belt he drew, 

And hung a bottle on each side, 
To make his balance true. 

Tlieu over all, that he might be 

Equipped from top to toe, 
His long red cloak, well brushed and neat. 

He manfully did throw. 

Now see him mounted once again 

Upon his nimble steed. 
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, 

With caution aud good heed. 

But fiuding soon a smoother road 

Beneatli his well shod feet. 
The snorting beast began to trot, 

Which galled him iu his seat. 



So " Fair and softly," John ho cried, 

But John he cried in vain ; 
That trot became a gallop soon. 

In spite of curb aud reiu. 

So stooping down, as needs ho must 

Who cannot sit upright, 
He grasped the mane with both his ,hands. 

And eke with all his might. '" 

His horse, who never in that sort 

Had handled beeu before. 
What thing upon his back hail got 

Did wouder more and more. 

Away went Gilpiu, neck or naught ; 

Away went hat and wig ; 
He little dreamed, when he set out. 

Of runuing such a rig. 

Tlie wind did blow, the cloak did fly 

Like streamer long aud gay. 
Till, loop aud button failing both. 

At last it flew away. 

Tlicu might all people well discern 

The bottles he had slung ; 
A bottle swinging at each side, 

As hath heen said or snug. 

The dogs did bark, the children screamed. 

Up tlew the windows all; 
And every soul cried out, " Well done !" 

As loud as he could bawl. 

Away went Gilpin — who but ho? 

His fame soou spread around; 
" He carries weight ! he rides a race ! 

'Tis for a thousaud pound !'' 

Aud still as fast as he drew near, 

'Twas wonderful to view. 
How iu a trice the turnpike men 

Their gates wide open threw. 

And now, as he went bowing down 

His reekiug head full low. 
The bottles twain behind his back 

Were shattered at a blow. 

Down ran the wine into the road. 

Most piteous to be seen. 
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke. 

As they had basted been. 



216 



CTCLOPJSDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRjT. 



But still he seemed to carry weight, 

With leatlieru girdle braced ; 
For all might see the bottle-necks 

Still dangling at his waist. 

Tlins all throngh merry Islington 

These gambols he did play, 
Until he came unto the Wash 

Of Edmonton so gay ; 

And there ho threw the wash abont 

Ou both sides of the way, 
Just like unto a trundling mop, 

Or a wild goose at play. 

At Edmonton his loving wife 

From the balcojiy spied 
Her tender husband, wondering ranch 

To see how he did ride. 

" Stop, stop, John Gilpiu ! — Here's the house — ' 

They all at ouce did cry! 
"Tbo dinner waits, and wo are tired:'' 

Said Gilpiu, "So am I!" 

But yet his horse was not a whit 

Inclined to tarry there ; 
For why? — his owuer had a house 

Full ten miles off, at Ware. 

So like an anow swift he flew, 

Shot by au archer strong ; 
So did he fly — which brings me to 

The middle of my song. 

Away went Gilpin out of breath. 

And sore against his will. 
Till at his fi-iend the calender's 

His horse at last stood still. 

The calender, amazed to see 

His neighbor in such trim. 
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 

And thus accosted him : 

"What news? what news? your tidings tell; 

Tell me yon must and shall — 
Say why bareheaded you are come, 

Or why you come at all ?" 

Now Gilpin had a ideasaut wit, 

And loved a timely joke ; 
And thus unto the calender 

III merry guise ho spoke; 



"I came becau.se your horse would come: 

And, if I well forbode. 
My hat and wig will soon bo here. 

They are upon the road." 

The calender, right glad to find 

His friend in merry pin, 
Returned hiui not a single word, 

Bu* to tlie house went in. 

Whence straight he came with hat and wig ; 

A wig that flowed behind, 
A hat not much the worse for wear. 

Each comely in its kind. 

Ho held them up, and in his turn 

Thus showed his ready wit : 
"My head is twice as big as yours, 

They therefore tieeds must fit. 

"But let me scrape the dirt away, 

That hangs upon your face ; 
And stop and eat, for well you may 

Be in a hungry case."' 

Said John, "It is my wi'dding-day. 

And all the world would stare. 
If wife should dine at Edmonton, 

And I should dine at Ware." 

So, turning to his horse, ho said, 

"I am in haste to dine; 
'Twas for your pleasure you came here, 

You shall go back for miue." 

Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast ! 

For which he paid full dear ; 
For, while he spake, a braying ass 

Did sing most loud and clear ; 

Whereat his horse did snort, as he 

Had heard a lion roar. 
And galloped oft' with all his might. 

As he had done before. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went Gilpin's hat and wig: 
He lost them sooner than at first, 

For why ? — they were too big. 

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 

Her husband posting down 
Into the cojiutry far away, 

She jmlled out half a crown ; 



WILLIAM JVLIUS MICKLE. 



217 



Aud thus unto tlie youth she said 

That drove them to tlie Bell, 
"This shall be yours, when you bring back 

My husband safe and -nell." 

The youth did ride, and soon did meet 

John coming back amain ; 
Whom in a trice he tried to stop, 

By catching at his rein ; 

But not performing ■nhat he meant, 

And gladly would have done. 
The frighted steed he frighted more, 

Aud made him faster rnu. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went post-boy at his heels. 
The post-boy's horse right glad to miss 

The lumbering of the wheels. 

Sis gentlemen upon the road, 

Tims seeing Gilpin tiy, 
With post-boy scampering in the rear. 

They raised the hue-and-cry : — 

"Stop thief! stop thief! — a highwayman!" 

Not one of them was mute ; 
Aud all and each that passed that way 

Did join in the pursuit. 

And now the turnpike gates again 

Flew opeu in short space ; 
The tollmen thinking, as before. 

That Gilpin rode a race. 

And so he did, and won it too. 

For he got first to town ; 
Nor stopped till where he had got np 

He did again get down. 

Now let us sing, Long live the King! 

And Gilpin long live he ! 
And, when ho next doth ride abroad. 

May I be there to see ! 



lUilliam 3uluis fllicKic. 

Micklc (1734-1T8S) was the son of the mniister of 
L:mgliolni, in DiuiiiVicssliire. Not succeeding in trade 
as a brewer, lie went to London in 1764. Here ho pub- 
lished "Tlie Concubine," a moral poem in tlie Spense- 
rian stanz.i. He also translated, tliouijh not very fuitli- 
fully, tlie "Lusiad" of Camoens. MicUle's ballad of 



"Cumnor Hall," which suggested to Scott the ground- 
work of Ills romance of " Kenilworth," is a tame pro- 
duction compared with the charming little poem of 
"The Mariner's Wife," in reg.ird to which doubt has 
been expressed whether Miclcle was really its author. 
It first appeared as a broad-sheet, sold in the streets of 
Edinburgh. Miekle did not include it in an edition of 
his poems, published by himself; but Allan Cunningham 
claims it for him on the ground that a copy of the poem, 
with alterations marking the text as in propcss of for- 
mation, was found among Micklc's papers, and in his 
handwriting; also, that his widow declared that he said 
the song was his. Beattie added a stanza, which mars 
its How, and is omitted in our version. The poem was 
claimed by Jean Adams, a poor school -mistress, who 
died in 17fi5. Chambers thinks that it must, on the 
whole, be credited to MicUle. Dean Trench does not 
feel at liberty to disturb the ascription of this "exqui- 
site domestic lyric" to Miekle. Burns, not too strongly, 
characterized it as "one of the most beautiful songs ii> 
the Scotch or any other language." 



THE MARINER'S WIFE. 

And are ye sure the news is true, 

Aud are ye sure he's weel ? 
Is this a time to think o' wark ? 

Ye jades, fling by your wheel. 
Is this a time to spin a thread, 

Wheu Colin's at the door? 
Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay, 
Aud see him come ashore. 

For there's nac luck about the house, 

There's nae luck at a'; 
There's little jileasnre in the house 
When our gude-man's awa'. 

Aud gie to me my bigonet, 

My bi,shop's-satiu gown ; 
For I mauu tell the bailie's wife 

That Colin's in the town. 
My Turkey slippers mauu gae on. 

My stockings pearly blue ; 
It's a' to pleasure our gnde-man, 

For he's baith leal aud true. 

For there's nae luck about the house, etc. 

Rise, lass, aud niak' a clean fireside, 

Put on the mncklo pot ; 
Gie little Kate her button gown, 

Aud Jock his Sunday coat ; 
And mak' their slioon as black as slaes. 

Their hose as white as snaw ; 
It's a' to please my ain gnde-man, 

For he's been laug awa'. 

For there's nae luck about the hmise, etc. 



218 



CYCLOPEDIA UF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



There's twii fat bens iijio' tbo coop, 

Been fed this month and mair ; 
Mak' baste and tbraw their necks abont, 

That Colin weel may fare : 
And spread the table neat and clean, 

Gar ilka thing look braw; 
For who can tell bow Colin fared 

When be was far awa'. 

For there's nae luck about the house, etc. 

Sae true his heart, sae siuootli bis speech. 

His breath like caller air; 
His very foot has music iu't 

As be comes up the stair; — 
And will I see bis face again ? 

And will I hear bim speak ? 
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, — 

In troth, I'm like to greet ! 

For there's nae luck about the bouse, etc. 

If Coliu's weel, autl weel content, 

I ba'e nae mair to crave ; 
And gin I live to keep bim sae, 

I'm blest aboon the lave : 
And will I see bis face again ? 

And will I bear him speak? 
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, — 

In troth, I'm like to greet! 

For there's nae luck about the house, etc. 



3ol)n iiongljornc. 



Langhorne (17iii-1779) was a native of Westmoreland, 
and became a preacher in London. Amiable and highly 
beloved in his day, be is now chiefly known as the trans- 
lator of " Plutarch's Lives." He seems to have antici- 
pated Crabbe in painting the rural life of England in true 
colors. He wrote "Owen of Carron," a ballad, praised 
by Campbell; also, "Country Justice," both giving evi- 
dences of a reflned poetical taste. 



FROM "OWEN OF CARRON." 

On Carrou's side tbo primrose pale, 
Why does it wear a purple hue? 

Ye maidens fair of Marlivale, 

Why stream your eyes with pity's dew ? 

'Tis all with gentle Owen's blood 

That purple grows tbo primrose pale ; 

That pity pours the tender flood 
From each fair eye in Marlivale, 



The evening star sat in bis eye. 
The snu bis goldeu tresses gave, 

The north's pure morn her orient dye, 
To him who rests iu yonder grave ! 

Beneath no high, historic stone, 
Though nobly born, is Owen laid ; 

Stretched on the greenwood's lap alone, 
He sleeps beneath the waving shade. 

There many a flowery race hath sprung, 
And fled before the mountain gale. 

Since first bis simple dirge ye sung ; 
Ye maidens fair of Marlivale ! 

Yet still, when May with fragrant feet 
Hath wandered o'er your meads of gold, 

That dirge I hear so simply sweet 
Far echoed from each evening fold. 



2a\\\t5 Ccattie. 

The son of a small farmer residing at Laurence-kirk, 
in Scotland, Boattie (1735-1803) was educated at Mari- 
schal College, Aberdeen, where in 1700 he was appointed 
Professor of Moral Pliilosopby and Logic. His principal 
prose work, "The Essay on Truth," made some noise 
in its day, but is now little esteemed by philosophical 
critics. George III. conferred on him a pension of £200. 
Beattie's fame as a poet rests upon "The Minstrel," the 
lirst part of which was published in 1771. Written in 
the Spenserian stanza, it gracefully depicts the opening 
character of Edwin, a young village poet. Some of the 
stanzas rise to a strain of true lyric grandeur, but the 
general level of the poem is not above the common- 
place. It gave Beattiu, however, a high literary reputa- 
tion. He bad already corresponded with Gray. He now 
became the associate of Johnson, Reynolds, Goldsmith, 
aud Garrick. In his domestic relations Beattie was un- 
fortunate ; bis wife becoming insane, and his two sons 
dying at an early age. Shattered by a train of nervous 
complaints, the unhappy poet had a stroke of paralysis 
In 1700, aud died m 1803. By nature be had quick and 
tender scusibllitles. A fiue landscape or strain 6f music 
would afl'ect him even to tears. 



NATURE AND HER VOTARY. 

From " The Minsthel." 

Oh bow canst thou renounce the boundless store 
Of charms which Nature to her votary yields ! 
The warbling woodlaud, the resounding shore, 
Tbo pomp of groves, and garniture of fields ; 
All that the genial ray of morning gilds, 



JAMES BEATTIE. 



219 



Ami all that echoes to the song of even, 
All that the niouutaiu's shelteriug bosom shielJs, 
And all the dread magnificence of Heaven, 
Oh how canst thou renounce, and hope to be for- 
given ! 

These charms shall work thy soul's eternal healtli, 
And love, and gentleness, and joy impart. 
But these thou nuist renounce, if lust of wealth 
E'er win its way to thy corrupted heart : 
For ah! it poisons like a scorpion's dart; 
Prompting the ungenerous wish, the seltisli scheme. 
The steru resolve unmoved by pity's smart, 
The troublous day, and long distressful dream : 
Return, my roving Muse, resume thy purposed 
tlieme. 



LIFE AND IMMORTALITY. 

From "The Minstrel." 

Oh ye wild groves, oh where is now your blnom ! 
(The Muse interprets thus his tender thonght). 
Vnur fiower.s, your verdure, and your balmy gloom, 
Of late so grateful in the hour of drought ! 
Why do the birds, that song and rapture bron;;lit 
To all your bowers, their mansions now forsake ? 
Ah ! why has fickle chance this ruin wrought ? 
For now the storm howls mournful through the 

brake. 
And the dead foliage flies in many a shapeless 

flake. 

Where now the riU, melodious, pure, and cool, 
And meads, with life, and mirth, and beauty 

crowned ? 
Ah ! see, tlie unsightly slime, and sluggish pool, 
Have all the solitary vale embrowned ; 
Fled each fair form, aiul mute each melting sound, 
The raven croaks forlorn on naked spray : 
And harlc ! tlie river, bursting every mound, 
Down the vale thunders, and with wasteful sway 
U|iroots tlie grove, and rolls the shattered rocks 

away. 

Yet sucli the destiny of all on Earth : 

So flourishes and fades majestic Man. 

Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings fortli. 

And fostering gales awhile the nursling fan. 

Oh smile, ye heavens serene; ye mildews wan, 

Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy prime, 

Nor lessen of his life the little span ! 

I5(u-ne on the swift, though silent, wings of Time, 

Old age comes on apace, to ravage all tlie clime. 



And be it so. Let those deplore their doom. 
Whose hope still grovels iu this dark sojourn : 
But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb. 
Can smile at Fate, and wonder how they mourn. 
Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more returu ? 
Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed ? 
Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn. 
And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed, 
Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead. 

Shall I be left forgotten in the dust. 
When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive ? 
Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust, 
Bid him, though doomed to perish, hope to live ? 
Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive 
With disappointment, peuury, and pain ? 
No : Heaven's immortal Spring shall yet arrive. 
And man's majestic beauty bloom again. 
Bright through the eternal year of Love's trium- 
phant reign. 



MORNING MELODIES. 
From " Tue Minstrel. " 

Tut who the melodies of morn can tell? 

The wild brook babbling down the mountain-side; 

The lowing herd ; the .shecpfold's simple bell ; 

The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 

Iu the lone valley ; echoing far and wide 

The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; 

The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide ; 

The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love. 

And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. 

The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark ; 
Crowned with her pail, the tripping milkmaid sings; 
The whistling iiloughman stalks afield; and, hark ! 
Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings; 
Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs; 
Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour ; 
The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; 
Deep monrns the turtle in sequestered bower. 
And shrill lark carols clear from her ai>rial tour. 

Nature, how in every charm supreme ! 

Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new ! 

Oh for the voice and fire of seraphim. 

To sing thy glories with devotion due ! 

Blessed be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew, 

From Pyrrho's maze, and Epicurus' sty ; 

And held high converse with the godlike few, 

Who to the enraptured heart, and ear, and eye, 

Teach beauty, virtue, truth, aud love, aud melody. 



220 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEUICAN POETRY. 



ARRAIGNxMENT OF PROVIDENCE. 

From " The SIinstrel." 

Shall he, whose birth, maturity, auil age 
Scarce till the circle of one summer day, 
Shall the poor guat, with tliscoiiteut and rage, 
Exclaim that Nature hastens to decay, 
If but a cloud obstruct the solar raj-. 
If but a momentary shower descend ? 
Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gains.ay, 
Which bade the series of events extend 
Wide through uunnmbered worlds, and ages with- 
out end ? 

One part, one little part, we dimly scan 

Througli the dark medium of life's feverish dream ; 

Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan. 

If but that little part Incongruous seem. 

Nor is that part, perhaps, what mortals deem ; 

Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise. 

Oh then renounce that impious self-esteem. 

That aims to trace the secrets of the skies ! 

For thou art but of dust; be humble, and be wise. 



£ai)ij Caroruu- h'cppcl. 

Born in Scotland about the year 17.3.5, Lady Caroline 
Kcppcl was a daughter of the second Eai'l of Albemarle. 
Robin Adair was an Irish surgeon, whom she married in 
spite of the opposition of her friends. Ho became a fa- 
vorite of George III., and was made surgeon -general. 
He died at an advanced age, not having n)arried a second 
time. Lady Caroline's life was sliort but happy. She 
left three children, one of them a son, Sir Robert Adair, 
G.C.B.,who died in 1S55, aged ninety-two. There is a 
niiivete in the style of lier song whieli makes credible her 
authorship. Beautiful as it is, from tlie unstudied art, 
it is evidently not the work of a practised writer. It 
was set to a plaintive Irish air. 



ROBIN ADAIR. 

What's this dull town to me? 

Robin's not near, — 
He whom I wished to see, 

Wished for to hear! 
Wliere's all the joy and mirth 
JIade life a heaven on earth ? 
Oh, they're all fled with thee, 

Robin Adair! 

What made the assembly shine ? 
Robin Adair. 



What made the ball so tine ? 

Robin was there ! 
Wliat, when the jday was o'er. 
What made my heart so sore ? 
Oh, it was parting with 

Robin Adair! 

But now tlion'rt far from me, 

Robin Adair ; 
But now I never see 

Robin Adair ; 
Yet he I loved so well 
Still in my heart shall d\vell : 
Oh, I can ne'er forget 

Robin Adair ! 

Welcome on shore again, 

Robin Adair ! 
Welcome onee more again, 

Robin Adair! 
I feel thy trembling hand ; 
Tears iu thy eyelids stand. 
To greet tliy native land, 

Robin Adair. 

Long I ne'er saw thee, love, 

Robin Adair ; 
Still I i)rayed for thee, love, 

Robin Adair. 
Wheu thou wert far at sea, 
M.-iny made love to me ; 
But still I thought on thee, 

Roliin Adair. 

Come to my heart again, 

Robin Adair ; 
Never to part again, 

Robin Adair! 
Aud if thou still art true, 
I will be constant too, 
And Will wed uono but yon, 

Robin Adair! 



3ol)u 111 1 cot. 

DrJolm Wolcot (1738-1819), who, under llic name of 
Peter Pindar, gained much notoriety as a satirist, was a 
native of Dodbrooke, in Devonsliire, studied medicine, 
and became a practitioner. Wliilo residing at Truro lie 
detected the talents of the self-taught artist, Opie, whom 
he brought to London in 17.S0. Wolcot had now re- 
course to his pen for his support. His "Lyric Odes to 
tlic Royal Academicians" took the town by surprise. 



JOHA' WOLCOT. 



221 



The justice of many of liis ci'ilicisms, the daring person- 
alities, and the quaintness of the style, were something 
so new that the work was highly successful. He now 
began to launch his ridicule at the king, ministers, op- 
position leaders, and authors, among which last were 
Gilford, Boswell, and Johnson. His popularity lasted 
for nearly forty years. In 179.5 he got from his book- 
sellers an annuity of £250, payable half-yearly, for the 
copyright of his works — a contract which resulted in 
heavy loss to the booksellers. Ephemeral in their nat- 
ure, and lacking the vitality of moral purpose, most of 
his writings have sunk into oblivion. After all his sat- 
ires on George III. and Pitt, he accepted a pension from 
the administration of which Pitt was tlie head. 



ON DR. JOHNSON. 

I own I like not Johnson's tnrgiil style, 
That gives an inch the importance of a mile ; 
Casts of manure a wagon-load aroninl 
To raise a simple daisy from the ground ; 
Uplifts the clnb of Hercnles — for what ? 
To crush a butterfly, or brain a gnat ! 
Creates a whirlwind, from the earth to draw 
A goose's feather, or exalt a straw ; 
Sets wheels ou wheels in motion — such a clatter! 
To force up one poor nipperkiu of water ; 
Bids oceau labor with tremendous roar 
To heave a cockle-shell upon the shore : 
Alike in every theme his i)ompous art — 
Heaveu's awful thunder or a rumbling cart! 



EPIGRAM ON SLEEP. 

Thonins Warton wrote the following Lalin epigram, to be 
placed inuler the statue of Somlins, in the siu-deu nf Harris, the 
philoloi^ist. In Wolcot's trauslatiou, the beauty aud felicity 
uf the original are well conveyed. 

"Si)nnie levis, qnanqiiain certissima mortis imago 
Cousorteni cnpio te tanien esse tori : 
Alma quies, optata, veui, nam fie sine vita 
Vivere qnam suave est ; sic siue morte mori 1" 

Come, gentle Sleep ! attend thy votary's prayer, 
Aud, though Death's image, to my couch repair ! 
How sweet, though lifeles.s, yet with Life to lie ! 
Aud, without dying, oh how sweet to die! 



THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEASE. 

A brace of sinuers, for no good, 

Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine, 
Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, 

Aud, in a fair white wig, looked wondrous Cue. 



Fifty long miles had these sad rogues to tr.avel. 
With something in their shoes much worse thai 

gravel ; 
In short, their toes so gentle to amuse, 
The priest had ordered pease into their shoes : 
A nostrum famous, in old Popish times. 
For purifying souls when foul with crimes ; 
A sort of apostolic salt, 
That iiopish parsons for its powers •cjxalt, 
For keeping souls of sinners sweet, 
Just as our kitchen-salt keep.^ meat. 
The knaves set off oii the same day, 
Pease in their shoes, to go and pray ; 

But very different was their speed, I wot : 
One of the sinners galloped on, 
Light as a bullet from a gnu ; 

The other limped as if ho had been shot. 
One saw the Virgin soon, "Peecavi" cried. 

Had his soul whitewashed all so clever; 
When home again he nimbly hied. 

Made fit with saints above to live forever. 
In coming back, however, let me say. 
He met his brother rogue about half-way. 
Hobbling, with outstretched hams and bending 

knees. 
Cursing the souls and bodies of the pease ; 
His eyes in tears, his cheeks aud brow in sweat, 
Aud sympathizing with his aching feet. — 
" How now ?" the light-toed, whitewashed pilgrim 
broke : 

"Yon lazy lubber! — " 
"Confound it!" cried the other, "'tis no joke ! 
My feet, ouce bard as any rook, 

Are now as soft as hlubber ! 
Excuse me. Virgin Mary, that I swear! 
As for Loretto, I shall not get there : 
No I to the devil my siuful soul must go ; 
For, hang me, if I ha'n't lost every toe. 
But, brother sinner, do explain 
How 'tis that you are not in pain ; 

What power hath worked a wonder for your 
toes. 
While I just like a snail am crawling. 
Now sweariug, now on saints devoutly bawling, 

While not a rascal comes to ease my woes ? 
How is't that you can like a greyhound go, 

Merry, as if that luaught had happened, burn 
yc ?"— 

" Why," cried the other, grinning, " yon must 
know, 
That just before I ventured on my jouruey, 
To walk a little more at ease, 
I took the liberty to boil mij pease." 



222 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD JMEHICAX POETRY. 



iJamrs illacpljcvsou. 

A native of Kingussie, Scotland, Macplierson (173S- 
1796) was intended for tlie Cliurcli, and reeeived liis ed- 
ucation tliei-efoi- at Aberdeen. In 1758 lie iniblished a 
very ambitious but yeiy worthless poem, entitled "The 
Highlander." The next year he published a volume of 
sixty pages, entitled "Fragments of Ancient Poetry; 
translated from the Gaelic or Erse language." It at- 
tracted attention, and a subscription was raised to ena- 
ble him to travel in the Highlands aud collect other 
pieces. He claimed that his journey was successful. 
In 17G3 he presented the world with "Fingal,"an an- 
cient epic poem in six books ; and, in 1703, "Temora," 
another epic poem in eight books. The sale of these 
productions was immense. That they should have been 
handed down by tradition through many centuries, among 
rude tribes, excited much astonishment. One Ossian was 
the reputed author. Many critics doubted; others dis- 
believed ; and a fierce controversy raged for some time 
as to the authenticity of the poems. How much of them 
is ancient and genuine, and how much ffbricated cannot 
now be ascertained. The Higliland Society were nnable 
to obtain any one poem the same in title and tenor with 
the poems puldished. Macphcrson went to London, be- 
came a successful politician, made a fortune, and obtain- 
ed a scat in Parliament. He retired to his native parish, 
and lived about six years to enjoy his wealth. Gray, 
Hume, Home, and other eminent men believed in "Os- 
sian," and even the great Napoleon was an admirer of 
it in its translated form. 



OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN. 

O thou that rollcst above, 

Ronnil as the sliiekl of nij- fathers! 

Whence are thy beams, O snu ! 

Thy everlasting light ? 

Then comest forth iu thine awful beauty ; 

Tbo stars hide tbera-selves iu the sky ; 

The moon, cold aud pale, siulss iu the western 

wave ; 
But thou thyself mo vest alone. 
Who can bo compauiou of thy course ? 
The oaks of the mountains fall ; 
The mountains themselves decay witli years ; 
The ocean shrinks and grows again ; 
The moou herself is lost iu heaven, 
But thou art forever the same, 
Ecjoieiug iu the brightness of thy course. 
When the world is dark with tempests, 
When thunder rolls and lightning flies, 
Thou lookest iu tliy beauty from the clouds 
And laughest at the storm. 
But to Ossiau tlnui lookest iu vain, 
Eor he beholds thy beams uo more. 



Whether thy yellow hair floats ou the eastern 

clouds, 
Or thou tremblcst at the gates of the west. 
But thou art perhaps like mo for a seasou ; 
Thy years will have an end. 
Thou shalt sleep iu thy clouds, 
Careless of the voice of the morning. 
Exult then, sun, in the strength of thy youth! 



THE SOXG OF COLMA. 

It is night : I am alone, 
Forlorn ou the liill of storms ! 
The wind is heard iu the mountain ; 
The torrent pours down the rock ; 
No hut receives me from the rain, 
Forlorn on the hill of winds ! 

Rise, moou ! from behind thy clouds. 
Stars of the night, arise ! 
Lend me some light to the place 
Where my Love rests from the chase aloue- 
His bow near liim unstrung; 
His dogs pantiug around him ! 
But here I must sit alone 
By the rock of the mossy stream. 
The stream and the wind roar aloud ; 
I hear not the voice of my love. 
Why delays my Salgar, 
Why the chief of the hill his promise f 
Here is the rock, and here the tree, 
And here is the roaring stream ! 
Thou didst promise with uight to be here. 
Ah ! whither is my Salgar gone ? 
With thee I would fly from my father ; 
With thee from my brother of pride. 
Long have our race been foes ; 
We are not foes, O Salgar ! 

Cease a little while, O wind ! 
Stream, be thou silent awhile ! 
Let my voiee bo heard around ; 
Let my wanderer hear me. 
Salgar, it is Colma who calls! 
Here is the tree and the rock ; 
Salgar, my Love, I am here ; 
Why dclayest thou thy coming? 
Lo ! the calm moon comes forth ; 
The flood is bright in the vale ; 
The rocks are gray ou the steep : 
I see him not ou the brow; 
His dogs come not before him 
AVith tidings of his near approach, 
Here I must sit aloue! 



NATHANIEL NILES.— AUGUSTUS MONTAGUE TOPLADT. 



223 



53'atljanicl Nilcs. 



AMERICAN. 

Nilcs (1T39-1828) was n grandson of Samuel Niles, the 
minister of Braintree, Mass.,-nlio was an author of some 
little note. Nathaniel was a graduate of Princeton Col- 
lege in 1770, and Master of Arts of Harvard in 1773. He 
settled in West Fairlee, Vermont, where he became Dis- 
trict Judge of the United States. He preached occa- 
sionally as a Presbyterian minister, at Norwich, Conn., 
dnring the Revolution. He wrote several theological 
treatises, but will be remembered chielly by his patriotic 
Ode in Sapphic and Adonic verse. It is superior to much 
that was current as poetry in his day. He died at the 
advanced age of eighty-nine. 



THE AMERICAN HERO. 

An Ode, written at the lime of the American Revohuion, at 
Norwich, Conu., October, 17T5. 

Why should vaiu mortals tremble at the sight of 
Death and destriietiou iu the iield of battle, 
Where blood aud carnage clothe the ground in 
criiusoii, 

Sounding with death-groans? 

Death will invade us by the means appointed, 
And we must all bow to the king of terrors ; 
Nor am I anxious, if I am prepar<;d, 
What shape he conies iu. 

Infinite Goodness teaches ns submission, 
Bids ns be quiet imder all his dealings; 
Never repining, but forever praising 
God, our Creator. 

Well may we praise liiin : all his ways are perfect ; 
Though a resplendence, infinitely glowing. 
Dazzles in glory ou the sight of mortals. 
Struck blind by lustre. 

Good is Jehovah in bestowing sunshine, 
Nor less his goodness in the storm aud thunder, 
Mercies and jiulgmeut both proceed from kindness. 
Infinite kindness. 

Oh, then, exult that God forever reigneth ; 
Clonds which around him hinder our perception, 
Bliul us the stronger to exalt his name, and 
Shout louder praises. 

Then to the wisdom of my Lord and Master 
I will commit all that I have or wish for, 
Sweetly as babes sleep will I give my life up. 
When called to yield it. 



Now, Mars, I dttre thee, clad in smoky pillars, 
Bur.sting from bomb-.shells, roariug from the cannon. 
Rattling iu grape-.shot like a storm of hailstones. 
Torturing ether. 

Up the bleak heavens let the spreading flames rise, 
Breaking, like Etna, through the smoky columns. 
Lowering, like Egypt, o'er the falling city, 
Wantonly burnt down.' ^ 

While all their hearts quick palpitate for havoc, 
Let slip your blood-hounds, named the British lions ; 
Dauntless as death stares, nimble as the whirlwind, 
Dreadful as demons ! 

Let oceans waft on all your floating castles, 
Fraught with destruction, horrible to nature; 
Then, with your sails filled by a storm of vengeance, 
Bear dowu to battle. 

From the dire caverns, made by ghostly miners,. 
Let the explosion, dreadful as volcanoes. 
Heave the broad town, with all its wealth and 
people. 

Quick to destruction. 

Still shall the banner of the King of Heaven 
Never advance where I'm afraid to follow ; 
While that precedes me, with an open bosom. 
War, I defy thee ! 

Fame and dear freedom lure me on to battle. 
While a fell despot, grimmer than a death's-head. 
Stings me with serpents, fiercer than Medusa's, 
To the encounter. 

Life, for my country and the cause of fieedotn, 
Is but a trifle for a worm to part with ; 
And, if preserved in so great a contest. 
Life is redoubled. 



Augustus ittontaguc Coplabn. 

Toplady, a zealous advocate of Calvinism, was born at 
Farnliam, in Surrey, 1740, and died 1778. He was edu- 
cated at Trinity College, Dublin, and became vicar of 
Broad Hcnbury, in Devonshire. He was a strenuotis 
opponent of Wesley. His theological works form six 
volumes ; but his memory is kept green less by them 
than by a few popular hymns. 



* A reference to the burning of Charlestowu, near Boston, 
by the British. 



224 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETIIT. 



DEATHLESS PEINCIPLE, ARISE! 

Deathless principle, arise ! 
Soar, tbon native of the skies ! 
Pearl of price, by Jesus bought, 
To his glorious likeness wrought '. 
Go, to shine before his throne. 
Deck his mediatorial crown ; 
Go, his triumphs to adorn — 
Made for God, to God return ! 

Lo, he beckons from on high ! 
Fearless to his presence lly : 
Thine the merit of his blood. 
Thine the righteousness of God ! 
Angels, joyful to attend, 
Hovering, round thy pillow bend ; 
Wait to catch the signal given, 
And escort thee quick to heaven. 

Is thy earthly house distressed. 

Willing to retain its guest ? 

'Tis not thou, but she, must die — 

Fly, celestial tenant, fly ! 

Burst thy shackles, drop thy clay, 

Sweetly breathe thyself away; — 

Singing, to thy crown remove, 

Swift of wing, and fired with love! 

Shudder not to pass the stream. 
Venture all thy care on Him ; 
Him whoso dying love and power 
Stilled its tossing, hushed its roar: 
Safe is the expauded wave. 
Gentle as a summer's eve ; 
Not one object of his care 
Ever suffered shipwreck there. 

See the haven full in view ; 

Love divine shall bear thee through : 

Trust to that jn'opitions gale. 

Weigh thy anchor, spread thy sail ! 

Saiuts, in glory perfect made. 

Wait thy passage through the shade ; 

Ardent for thy coining o'er. 

See, they throng the blissful shore ! 

Mount, their transports to improve ; 
Join the longing choir above! 
Swiftly to their wish he given ; 
Kindle higher joy in heaven ! 
Such the prospects that arise 
To the dying Christian's eyes ! 



Such the glorious vista faith 
Ojieus through the shades of death! 



ROCK OF AGES, CLEFT FOR ME. 

Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 

Let me hide myself in thee ! 

Let the water and the blood 

From thy riven side which flowed, 

Be of sin the double cure, 

Cle.anse me from its guilt and power. 

Not the labor of my hands 
Can fi\Ifil thy law's demands: 
Could my zeal no respite know, 
Could my tears forever flow. 
All for sin could not atone ; 
Thou must save, and thou alone ! 

Nothing in my hand 1 bring; 
Simply to thy cross I cling : 
Naked, come to thee for dress ; 
Heljiless, look to tliee for grace ; 
Foul, I to the Fountain fly — 
Wash me, Saviour, or I die ! 

While I draw this fleeting breath, 
Wlien my eye-strings break in death, 
When I soar through tracts unknown. 
See thee on thy judgment-throne, — 
Roclc of Ages, cleft for me. 
Let me hide mvself in thee ! 



3ol)u Cruicn. 



Ewcn was born iit Montrose, Scotland, in 1741, and 
died at Aberdeen in 1831. Burns says of tliis song: 
"It is a clianning display of womanly aflVction mingling 
with the concerns and occupations of life. It is nearly 
equal to 'There's ftac luck about llic house.' " 



O WEEL MAY THE BOATIE ROW 

O weel may the boatie row. 

And better may she speed 1 
And weel may the boatie row 

That wins the bairnies' bread! 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

The boatie rows indeed ; 
And happy be the lot of a' 

That wishes her to speed ! 



JOHN EWEN.—MES. ASNE HUNTER.— MRS. GRAXT OF CARRON. 



225 



I ciiist my line in Lnrgo Bay, 

And fishes I caugbt nine ; 
Tliere's three to boil, and three to fry. 

And three to bait the line. 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

Tlie boatie rows indeed ; 
And happy bo the lot of a' 

That wishes her to speed ! 

Oh weel may the boatie row 

That fills a heavy creel," 
And cleads us a' frae head to feet. 

And bnys our parritch meal. 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 

The boatie rows indeed ; 
And happy be the lot of a' 

That wish the boatie speed ! 

When Jamie vowed he wonld be mine. 

And wau frae me my heart. 
Oh muckle lighter grew my creel ! 

He swore we'd never part. 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 

The boatie rows fu' weel ; 
And muckle lighter is the lade 

When love bears up the creel. 

My kiirtch I put upon my head, 

And dressed mysel' fu' braw ; 
I trow my heart was dowf^ and wae 

When Jamie gaed awa' : 
Bnt weel may the boatie row, 

Aud lucky be her part ; 
And lightsome be the lassie's care 

That yields au honest heart ! 

When Sawnie, Jock, and Janetie 

Are up, and gotten lear,' 
They'll help to gar the boatie row. 

And lighten all our care. 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 

The boatie rows fn' weel; 
Aud lightsome be her heart that bears 

The murlaiu and the creel ! 

And when wi' age we are worn down. 
And hirpling round the door, 

They'll row to keep us bale aud warm, 
As we did them before : 

Then weel may the boatie row 
That wins the bairuies' bread : 



And bapiiy be the lot of a' 
That wish the boat to speed! 



illis. ^nnc iljuntcr. 

Mrs. Hunter (1743-1831) was the sister of Sir Evcrard 
Home, and wife of John Hunter, celebrated as " the 
greatest man who ever practised surgery.".^ She wrote 
songs that Haydn set to music, and iu 1806 published a 
volume of lier poems. 



INDIAN DEATH-SONG. 

The suu sets in night, and the stars shun the day, 
But glory remains when their lights fade away : 
Begin, you tormentors ! your threats are in vain. 
For the son of Alkuomook will never complain. 

Kemeniber the arrows he shot from his bow. 
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low : 
Why so slow? Do you wait till I shrink from the 

pain ? 
No ; the sou of Alkuomook shall uever complain. 

Kemeniber the wood where in ambush we lay, 
Aud the scalps which we bore from your uation 

away : 
Now the flame rl.ses fast ; you exult iu my pain ; 
Bnt the son of Alkuomook can uever complain. 

I go to the land where my father is gone, 
His ghost shall rejoice iu the fame of his sou ; 
Death comes like a friend to relieve me from jjaiu; 
Aud thy son, O Alkuomook ! has scorned to com- 
plain. 

fJlrs. ©rant of dlarron. 

Mrs. Grant {circa 1743-1814), the author of a song still 
popular, was born in Ireland, of Scottish parents. She 
married, first her cousin, Mr. Grant of Carron, about the 
year 1763 ; and, secondly. Dr. Murray, a physician in 
Batli. The song we quote was a favorite with Burns. 



1 Basket. 



Slid. 
15 



3 Leaniius. 



ROY'S WIFE OF ALDIVALLOCH. 

Roy's wife of Aldivalloeh, 

Roy's wife of Aldivalloeh, 

Wat ye how she cheated me 

As I cam' o'er the braes o' Balloch 1 

She vowed, she swore she wad be mine. 
She said she lo'ed me best o' ouie ; 



•226 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BlilTlSil AND AMEIIICAX POETRT. 



But, all ! the fickle, faithless quean, 

She's ta'en the cavl, and left her Johnnie. 
Koy's Tvife of Alilivalloeh, etc. 

Oh, she was a canty qnean, 

Au' weel conlil dance the Hiolaud walloch 
How happy I had she been mine. 

Or I been Eoy of Aldivalloch ! 

Roy's wife of Alilivalloeh, etc. 

Her hair sae fair, her eeu sae clear. 

Her wee bit mou' sae sweet and bonnie ! 

To me she ever will be dear. 

Though she's forever left her Johnnie. 
Eoy's wife of Aldivalloch, etc. 



Qinna Cctitia (-liliin) Savbaulii. 

Mrs. BarbauUl (1743-1825) was .1 native of Kibworth, 
Leicestershire. Her fatlier, Mr. Ailiin, kept a seminary 
for tlie education of boys; and Anna, under Iiis guidance, 
became a classical sciiolar. In 1773 slie published a vol- 
ume of poems, which went through four editions in one 
year. Her often quoted "Ode to Spring" would be ad- 
mirable were it not too much an echo of Collins's "Ode 
to Evening," the measure of which it reproduces. In 
1774 slie married the Rev. Mr. Barbauld, a French Prot- 
estant, and in 1776 tliey cstablislied tlicmsclves at Hamp- 
stead. " Eveniugs at Home," the joint production of 
lierscif and lier brother, Dr. John Aikiii, is still a favorite 
work for children and youth. Johnson, who hated Dis- 
senters, is credited by Boswell with a remark he per- 
haps regretted: "Miss Aikin was an instance of early 
cultivation; but how did it terminate? In marrying a 
little Presbyterian parson, who keeps an infant boarding- 
school, so that all her employment now is 'to suckle 
fools and chronicle small - beer !' " To which, if good 
nature permitted, it might be retorted that this same 
lady's "eariy cultivation" had not terminated even in 
her eighty -second year, when she wrote a little poem 
worth all the verse that Johnson ever produced in his 
prime. Of the poem entitled "Life," Wordsworth re- 
marked to Henry Crabb Robinson, " Well, I am not 
given to envy other people their good things ; but I do 
wish 1 had written that." But even Wordsworth, like 
Johnson, was not without a flaw of bigotry ; for in a 
letter to Mr. Dyee he says of Mrs. Barbauld: "She was 
spoiled as a poetess by being a Dissenter, and concerned 
with a Dissenting academy." Poor human prejudice! 
A memoir of .Mrs. Barbauld by her granduieee, Anna Le 
Breton, was published in Boston in 1878. 



LIFE. 

".\Ni5ieLA, Vagl-la, Blandcla." 

Life! I hnow not what thou art, 

lint know that thou ;uid I must part; 



And when, or how, or where we met, 
I own to nie's a secret yet. 
But this I know : when thou art fled, 
Where'er they lay these limbs, this head, 
No clod so valueless shall be 
As all that then remains of me. 
Oh, whither, whither dost thou fly, 
Where bend unseen thy trackless course, 

And in this strange divorce. 
Ah, tell me where I must seek this compound I ? 

To the vast ocean of empyreal tlanie. 
From whence thy essence canu'. 
Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed 
From matter's base encumbering weed? 
Or dost thou, hid from sight. 
Wait, like some spell-hound knight. 

Through blank oblivions years the appointed hour 

To break thy trance and reassume thy power ? 

Yet canst thou, without thought or feeling be ? 

Oh, saj", what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee ? 

Life! we've been long together 
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear ; 
Perh;ips 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; 
Then steal away, give little warning. 
Choose thine own time ; 
Say not Good-night, — but in some brighter clinui 
Bid me Good-morning. 



LINES WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF 
THREE YEAR.S. 



EIGHTY- 



Oh, is there not a land 
Where the north-wind blows not ? 
Where bitter bhists are felt not? 

Oh, is there not a laud 

Between pole and pole, 
Where the" war-trumpet sounds not 

To disturb the deep serene ? — 

And can I go there 

Without or wheel or sail, — 
Without crossing ford or moor, 
Witliout climbing Alpine heights, — 

Wafted by a gentle gale? 

There is a land ; — 
And, without wind or sail, 
Fast, fast thou shalt be wafted, 
AVhich way ever blows the gale. 

Do the billows roll betweeu 1 



jyXA LETITIA (JIKIN) BAIiBACLD. 



227 



Jlust I cross the stormy niaiu ? — 
Green ami quiet is the spot. 

Thou neeil'st not quit the arras 
That tenderly enfold thee. 



WHAT DO THE FUTURES SPEAK OF? 

IN .\NSWER TO A QUESTION IN THE GREEK GRAMM.\R. 

They speak of never-withering shades, 

And bowers of opening joy ; 
They promise mines of fairy gold, 

And bliss without alloy. 

They whisper strange enchanting things 

Withiu Hope's greedy ears; 
And sure this tuneful voice exceeds 

The music of the spheres. 

They sjieak of pleasure to the gay. 

And wisdom to the wise ; 
And soothe the iioet's beating lieart 

With fame that never dies. 

To virgins languishing in love. 

They speak the niinnte nigh; 
And warm consenting hearts they join, 

And paint the rapture high. 

In every language, every tongue. 
The same kind things they say; 

In gentle slumbers speak by night, 
In waking dreams by day. 

Cassandra's fate reversed is theirs ; 
She, true, no faith could gain, — 
. They every passing hour deceive, 
Yet are believed .again. 



THE DEATH OF THE VIRTUOUS. 

Great liberties liave been taken with this piece by compileri 
of hyiim-boolis. We give the author's own version. 

Sweet is the scene when Virtue dies! 

When sinks a righteotis soul to rest ; 
How mildly beam the closing eyes ! 

How gently heaves the expiring breast ! 

So fades a summer cloud aw.ay, 

So sinks the gale when storms are o'er, 

So gently shuts the eye of day, 
So dies a wave along the shore. 



Triumphant smiles the victor brow, 

Fanned by some angel's purple wing; — 

Where is, O Grave! thy victory now? 
And where, insidious Death! thy sting? 

Farewell, conflicting joys and fears. 

Where light and shade alternate dwell ! 

IIow bright the unchanging morn aixp^ai's! 
Farewell, inconstant world, farewell! 

Its duty done, — as sinks the clay, 
Light from its load the spirit flies; 

While heaven and earth combine to say, 
'■Sweet is the scene when Virtue dies!" 



THE UNKNOWN GOD. 

To learn(5d Athens, led by fame. 
As once the man of Tarsus came. 

With pity and surprise, 
'Midst idol altars as he stood, 
O'er sculptured marble, brass, and wood, 

He rolled his awful eyes. 

But one, apart, his notice caught. 

That seemed with higher meaning fraught. 

Graved ou the wounded stone ; 
Nor form nor name was there expressed ; 
Deep reverence tilled the musing breast. 

Perusing, " To the God unknown !" 

Age after age has rolled away, 
Altars and thrones have felt decay, 

Sages and saints have risen ; 
And, like a giant roused from sleep, 
Man has explored the pathless deep. 

And lightnings snatched from heaven ;- 

And many a shrine in dust is laid. 
Where kneeling nations homage paid, 

I5y rock, or fount, or grove ; 
Ephesian Dian sees no more 
Her workmen fuse the silver ore, 

Nor Cajiitolian Jove; — 

E'en Salem's hallowed courts h.ave ceased 
With solemn pomi)S her tribes to feast. 

No more tlie victim bleeds ; 
To censers filled with rare jierfumes, 
And vestments from Egyptian looms, 

A purer rite succeeds : — ■ 



.'•-'-s 



CTCLOrJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Yet still, Tvliere'er presumptous man 
His Makei's csseuce strives to scau, 

And lifts his feeble hands, — 
Though saiut and sage their powers unite. 
To fathom that abyss of light, 

Ah ! still that altar stands. 



FOE EASTER SUNDAY. 

Again the Lord of life and light 

Awakes the Iciudling ray ; 
Unseals the eyelids of the morn, 

And pours increasing day. 

Oh what a night was that which wrapped 

The heathen world in gloom ! 
Oh what a sun which broke this day, 

Triumphant from the tomb! 

This day be gratefnl homage paid, 

And loud liosannas snng ; 
Let gladness dwell in every heart. 

And praise on every tongue. 

Ten thousand diftering lips shall join 

To hail this welcome morn. 
Which scatters blessings from its wings. 

To nations yet unborn. 



<JII)arlcs Dibbin. 



Dibdin (1745-1814) was a native of Southampton, Eng- 
land. He was bred for the Clmrch, but took to music 
and song-writing. He appeared on the stage, but did 
not succeed as an actor. In his tlmniatie pieces and 
musical compositions, however, he bit the taste of his 
times. His sea-songs are more than a tliousand in num- 
ber, and some of them are quite spirited. His sons, 
Cliarlcs and Thomas, were also dramatists and song- 
w ritcrs, but inferior to the father. Thomas Fi'ognall 
Dibdin, tlie eminent English bibliographer, son of Cap- 
tain Tliomas Dibdin, the "Tom Bouling" of Cliarles's 
songs, was a ncpliew. Charles was improvident in his 
liahits, and died poor. 



POOR JACK. 

Go patter to Inbliers and swabs, d'ye see? 

'Bout danger, and fear, and the like; 
A tight water-boat and good sea-room give me, 

And it ain't to a little I'll strike. 



Though the tempest topgallant-masts smack smooth 
should smite, 

And shiver each splinter of wood, 
Clear the wreck, stow the yards, and bouse every- 
thing tight. 

And under reefed foresail we'll send. 
Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so soft 

To be taken by trifles aljack ; 
For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft, 

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack. 

I heard our good chaplain iialaver one day 

About souls, heaven, mercy, and snch ; 
And, my timbers! what lingo he'd coil and belay! 

Wliy, 'twas all one to mo as High-Dutch : 
But he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye see? 

Without orders tliat come down below ; 
And a mauy fine things that proved clearly to me 

That Providence takes us in tow : 
For, says he. Do you mind me, let storms e'er 
so oft 

Take the top-sails of sailors aback, 
There's a sweet little chernb that sits up aloft, 

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack. 

I said to our Poll (for, d'ye see ? she would cry 

When last we weighed anchor for sea). 
What argufies snivelling and piping your eye? 

Why, what a [young] fool yon must be! 
Can't you see tlie world's wide, and there's room 
for us all. 

Both for seamen and lubbers ashore ? 
And if to Old Davy I go, my dear Poll, 

Why, you never will bear of mo more : 
What then ? all's a hazard — come, don't be so soft : 

Perhaps I nniy, laughiug, come back ; 
For, d'ye see ? there's a cherub sits smiling aliift. 

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack. 

D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch 

All as one as a piece of tlio ship. 
And with her brave the world, without oflering to 
flinch. 

From the moment the anchor's a-trip : 
As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends. 

Naught's a trouble from duty that springs ; 
For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my 
friend's. 

And as for my life, 'tis the King's. 
Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft 

As for grief to bo taken aback ; 
For the same little cherub that sits up aloft 

Will look ont a good berth for jioor Jack! 



THOMAS HOLCIiOFT.— HANNAH MORE. 



2'i'J 



^Ijomas tjolcvoft. 



Holcroft (1745-1809), authoi- of the still popular come- 
dy of " The Road to Ruin," was boni in London, of very 
humble parentage. For a time he worked at his father's 
trade of a shoemaker; then he became a provincial act- 
or, and then a writer of novels. Ho seems to have found 
his forte in writing for the stage : between 1778 and 1806 
he produced more than thirty dramatic pieces. He was 
a zealous reformer, and an ardent advocate of popular 
rights. The following song is from his novel of "Hugh 
Trevor." 



GAFFER GRAY. 

Ho ! wliy (lost tbon shiver and shake, 

GafttT Gray ? 
And Tvliy does thy nose look so blue ? 
" 'Tis the weather that's cold, 
'Tis I'm grown very old, 
And my doublet is not very new ; 
Well-a-day !" 

Tbeu line thy worn doublet with ale, 

Gaifer Gray, 
And warm thy old heart ■with a glass. 
"Nay, but credit I've none. 
And my money's all gone ; 
Tbeu say how may that come to pass ? 
Well-a-day !" 

Hie away to the house on the brow, 

Gafifer Gray, 
And knock at the jolly priest's door. 
" The priest often preaches 
Against worldly riches, 
But ne'er gives a mite to the poor, 
Well-a-day !" 

The lawyer lives under the hill, 

Gafi'er Gray, 
Warmly fenced both in back and in front. 
"He will fasten his locks. 
And will threaten the stocks. 
Should he ever more find me in want, 
Well-a-day !" 

The .squire has fat beeves and brown ale, 

Gaffer Gray; 
And the season will welcome you there. 
" His fiit beeves, and bis beer. 
And his merry new year, 
Are all for the flu.sb and the fair, 
Well-a-day !" 



Jly keg is but low, I confess. 

Gaffer Gray : 
What then? While it lasts, man, we'll live. 
"Ah ! the poor man alone, 
When he hears the poor moan, 
Of his morsel a morsel will give, 
Well-a-day!" 



Cjiannal) fUovc. 



The daughter of a school -master, Miss More (17-1.>- 
1833) was a native of Stapleton, in Gloucestershire. The 
family removed to Bristol ; and there, in her sevcnteeutli 
year, she published a pastoral drama, " The Search after 
Happiness," which passed through three editions. In 
1773 she made her entrance into London society, was 
domesticated with Garrick, and made the acquaintance 
of Johuson and Burke. In 1777 Garrick brought out 
her tragedy of "Percy" at Drury Lane, from which she 
got £750. She now wrote poems, sacred dramas, a pious 
novel, "Cffilebs in Search of a Wife," etc., till her writ- 
ings filled eleven volumes octavo. Of "Coelebs," ten 
editions were sold 16 one year. She made about £30,000 
by her writings. 



THE TWO WEAVERS. 

As at their work two weavers sat, 
Beguiling time with friendly chat, 
They touched upon the price of meat. 
So high a weaver scarce could eat ! 

" Wliat with my babes and sickly wife," 
Quoth Dick, "I'm almost tired of life: 
So hard we work, so poor we fare, 
'Tis more than mortal man can bear. 

"How glorious is the rich man's state! 
His house so fine, his wealth so great! 
Heaven is unjust, you must agree : 
Why all to hira, and none to me ? 

" lu spite of what the Scripture teaches, 
In spite of all the pulpit preaches. 
This world — indeed, I've thought so loug- 
Is ruled, metbiuks, extremely wrong. 

" Where'er I look, howe'er I range, 
'Tis all confused, and hard, and strange ; 
The good are troubled and oppressed, 
And all the wicked are the blessed." 

Quoth John, "Our ignorance is the cause 
Why thus we blame our Maker's laws. 



230 



CYCLOPMDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Parts of his ways alone wo kuow ; 
"ris all tUat man can see below. 

'■ Seest tlion that carpet, not lialf done, 
Which tlioti, ileal' Dick, hast well begun ? 
Behold the wild confusion there! 
So rude the mass, it makes one stare ! 

'■A stranger, ignorant of the trade, 
Would sa}'. No meaning's there conveyed ; 
For Where's the middle ? where's the border ? 
Tliy carpet now is all disorder." 

Quoth Dick, "My work is yet la hits; 
But still in every part it fits : 
Besides, yon reason like a lout : 
Why, man, that carpet's inside out." 

Says John, "Tliou sayst the thing I mean. 
And now I hope to cure thy spleen : 
This world, which clouds thy soul with doubt, 
Is but a carpet inside out. 

"As when we view these shreds and ends. 
We kuow not what the whole intends : 
So, wlien on earth things look but odd, 
They're working still some scheme of God. 

"No plan, no pattern, can we trace; 
All wants proportion, truth, and grace: 
The motley mixture we deride. 
Nor see the beauteous upper side. 

*■ But when we reach the world of light. 
And view these works of God aright ; 
Then shall we see the whole design. 
And own the W'orkman is Divine. 

" Wluit now seem random strokes will there 
All order and design appear ; 
Tlien shall we praise what here we spurned. 
For then the carpet will he turned." 

"Thou'rt right,'' quoth Dick; "no more I'll grumble 
That this world is so strange a jumble; 
My impious doubts are put to flight. 
For my own carpet set*nie right." 



KINDNESS IN LITTLE THINGS. 

Since trifles make the sum of human things, 
And half our misery from our foibles spriug.s, — 



Since life's best joys consist ia jieace and ease, 
And few can save or serve, but all can please, — 
Oh, let the ungentle spirit learn from hence, 
A .small uukiiulness is a great ofl'ence : 
Large bounties to bestow we wish in vain. 
But all may shun the guilt of giving paiu. 



lUUliam ijanleij. 



Ilayley (1745-1830), the biographer of Cowper, wrote 
poems very popular in their daj". His "Triumphs of 
Temper" (1781), tbouifh now forgotten, had a large sale. 
He wrote also dramatic pieces and a "Life of Milton" 
(1796). His over-strained sensibility and romantic tastes 
exposed him to ridicule, yet he was an amiable and ac- 
complished man. His life of Cowper appeared in 1803. 
The few natural and graceful lines we quote will proba- 
bly outlast all the other effusions of this once much- 
praised vcrsillcr. 



THE DEPARTING SWALLOWS. 

Ye gentle birds, that perch aloof. 

And smooth yonr pinions ou my roof, 

Preparing for departure hence, 

Now Winter's angry threats commence! 

Like you, my soul would smooth her plume 

For longer flights beyond the tomb. 

May God, by whom are seen and heard 
Departing men and wandering bird, 
In mercy mark us for his own, 
And guide us to the laud unknown ! 



l^cftor fllacncil. 



A native of Scotland, Macneil (174G-181S) was brought 
up to a mercantile life, bat did not succeed in it. He 
wrote a tale in verse, depicting the evils of intemper- 
ance; also several Scottisli lyrics. The latter years of 
his life were spent in comfort at Ediuburgli. 



MARY OF CASTLE-CARY. 

"Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing, 
Saw ye my true love down on yon lea f 

Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming ? 
Sought she the burnie where flowers the haw- 
tree? 

Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk-wbite, 
Dark is the blue of her soft-rolling ee ; 



HECTOR MACNEIL.— MICHAEL BRUCE. 



231 



Kffi, red her ripe lips, ami sweeter than roses — 
Where could luy wee thiug wauder frae me ?"' 

" I saw nae your wee thing, I saw uae your aiu 
thing, 

Nor saw I yonr true love dowu on you lea ; 
But I met mj' bonuio thiug late in the gloamiu', 

Down hy the buruie where flowers the haw-tree : 
Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it was milk- 
white, 

Dark was the hluo o' her soft-rolling e'c ; 
Red wore her ri[>e lips, and sweeter than roses — 

Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e to me." 

"It was uae my wee thing, it was uae my aiu 
thing. 

It was uae my true love ye met by the tree : 
Proud is her leal heart, modest her uature ; 

She ucver lo'ed ony till ance she lo'ed me. 
Her name it is Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary; 

Aft lias she sat, wlien a bairn, on my knee. 
Fair as your face is, were't fifty times fairer. 

Young luagger, she ue'er wad gie kisses to thee." 

"It was, then, your Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary; 

It was, then, your true love I met by the tree. 
Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature, 

Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e to me." — 
Sair gloomed Ids dark brow, blood-red his cheek 
grew, 

Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling e'e : 
"Ye's rue sair this morniug, your boasts and yonr 
scorning : 

Defend ye, fanse traitor! fu' loudly ye lee!" 

"Awa' wi' beguiling!" cried the j'onth, smiling — 

Aff went the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee ; 
The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing. 

Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark rolling e'e. 
"Is it my weo thing, is it my aiu thing, 

Is it my true love here that I see ?" 
" O .Jamie, forgi'e me ! your heart's constant to me : 

I'll never mair wauder, dear laddie, frae thee." 



ftticljacl Bnirc. 



Bruce (1746-1707) was the son of a humble Scottish 
weaver, and a uative of the county of Kinross. He stud- 
ied at the University of Edinburgh, and was soon distin- 
guished for his poetical productions. He kept school 
awhile, but was attacked by a pulmonary complaint, and 
died before he was twenty-two j'cars old. His poems 



bear the marks of immaturity, and the resemblances in 
tbcm to otiicr poets are close and frequent. With death 
full in his view he wrote his "Elegy," the best of all his 
productions. It extends to twenty-two stanzas, of which 
we quote the choicest. After his death his Bible was 
found upon his pillow, marked down at Jcr. xxii. 10 : 
"Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him." His 
poems were first given to the world by his college friend, 
John Logan, in 1770. In 1S37 a complete edition was 
brought out. 



FROM AN ELEGY WRITTEN IN SPRING. 

Now Spring returns ; but not to me returns 
The verual joy my better years have known : 

Dim iu my breast life's dying taper burns. 
And all the joys of life with health are flown. 

Starting and shivering in th' inconstant wind. 
Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was, 

Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined. 

And count the silent moments as they pass, — 

The winged moments ! whoso unstaying speed 
No art can stop, or iu their course arrest ; 

Whose flight shall shortly couut mo with tlie dead. 
And lay me down iu peace with them that rest. 

Oft morning-dreams presage approaching fate ; 

And morning-dreams, as poets tell, are true: 
Led by i>ale ghosts, I cuter Death's dark gate. 

And bid the realms of light aud iife adieu. 

I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe ; 

I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore. 
The sluggish streams that slowly creep below, 

Which mortals visit, and return no more. 

Farewell, ye blooming fields ! ye cheerful plains ! 

Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mouud, 
Where melancholy with still silence reigns. 

And the rank grass \\aves o'er the cheerless 
ground. 

There let me wauder at the shut of eve, 
Wheu sleep sits dewy on the laborer's eyes ; 

The world and all its busy follies leave. 

And talk with Wisdom where my Daphnis lies. 

There let me sleep forgotten in the clay, 

When death shall shut these weary, aching eyes ' 

Rest iu the hopes of an eternal day. 

Till the loug night is gone, and the last morn 



232 



CXCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Sir lUilliam 3oncG. 

The son of an eminent Loiulon niutliematician, Jones 
(IT-MJ-ITM) studied at Harrow, and tlien at Oxford, where 
lie devoted much time to tlie Oriental languages. In 
1772 he published a volume of poems, mostly transla- 
tions. In 177-1 he was called to the Bar. Though op- 
posed to the American war and the slave-trade, he was 
knighted in 1783, and appointed a judge of the Supreme 
Court at Fort William, in Bengal. He married the daugh- 
ter of Dr. Shiplc}-, bishop of St. Asaph ; and in his thirty- 
seventh year embarked for India, never to return. He 
performed his judicial functions with the utmost fideli- 
ty, but he overstrained his brain by intense study; and 
in 1784 his health began to fail. His attainments in the 
languages were various and profound. He might have 
won a conspicuous place among the poets, had he not 
been absorbed in philological pursuits. "The activity of 
my mind is too strong for my constitution," he writes. 
He died at the age of forty-eight, beloved as few have 
been, and leaving a character for unalloyed goodness, 
such as few have left. A collected edition of his writ- 
ings was published in 1799, and again in 1807, with a 
"Life". of the author by Lord Teignmouth. 



A PERSIAN SONG OF HAFIZ. 

Sweet juaid, if thou wouklst charm my sight, 

Anil bid these arms tby neck enfold, 

That rosy cheek, that lily hand 

Would give thy poet more delight 

Than all Bokhara's vaunted gold, 

Thau all the gems of Saraarcaud ! 

Boy, let yon liquid rnliy flow, 
And bid thy pensive heart be glad, 
Whate'er the frowning zealots say: 
Tell them their Eden cannot .show 
A stream so clear as Eoenabad, 
A bower So sweet as Mosellay. 

Oil ! when these fair, perfidious maids. 
Whose eyes our secret haunts infest, 
Thi>ir dear destructive charms display. 
Each glance vay tender breast invades. 
And robs my wounded soul of rest, 
As Tartars seize their destined prey. 

Speak not of fate: ah, change the theme, 

And talk of odors, talk of wine, 

Talk (if the flowers that round us bloom : 

'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream ; 

To love and joy thy thoughts conliiie. 

Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom. 



But ah! sweet maid, my counsel hear 
(Youth should attend when those advise 
Whom long experience renders sage) : 
While music charms the ravished ear, 
While sparkling cups delight our eyes. 
Be gay, and scorn the frowns of age. 

What cruel aiisw er have I heard ? 

And yet, by Heaven, I love thee still : 

Can aught be cruel from thy lip ? 

Yet say, how fell that bitter word 

From lips which streams of sweetness fill. 

Which naught but drojis of honey sip ' 

Go boldly forth, my simple lay, 

Whose accents flow with artless ease, 

Like orient pearls at random strung! 

Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say ; 

But oh, far sweeter, if they please 

The nymph for whom these notes are suiii; 



TETRASTICH. 

From the PEnsi.iN. 

On parent knees, a naked new-born child. 
Weeping thou sat'st, while all around thee smiled : 
So live that, sinking in thy last long sleep, 
Calm thou mayst smile while all :iround thee weep. 



AN ODE IN IMITATION OF ALC.EUS. 

What constitutes a state ? 
Not high-raised battlement or labored mound. 

Thick wall or moated gate; 
Not cities proud, with spires and turrets crowned ; 

Not bays aud broad-armed ports, 
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ; 

Not starred and spangled courts. 
Where low-browed baseness wafts iierfume to pride. 

No : — Men, high-minded men, 
With powers as far above dull brutes endued 

In forest, brake, or den. 
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude ; 

Men, who their duties know. 
But know their rights, and knowing, dare maiiitaiii, 

Prevent the long-aimed blow. 
And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain : 

These constitute a state ; 
Aud sovereign Law, that state's collected w ill, 

O'er thrones and globes elate 
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill : 



JOHN O'EEEFE.— SUSANNA BLAMIRE.—JOUN LOGAN. 



233 



Suiit by her sacred frown, 
I'lii! fieud, Discretion, like a vapor siuks ; 

And i''i>ii the all-dazzliug Crowu 
Hides his faiut rays, aud at her bidding shrinks. 

Siicli was this Heaven-loved isle, 
Than Lesbos fairer, aud the Cretan shore ! 

No more shall Freedom smile ? 
Shall Britous languish, aud be men uo more ? 

Since all must life resign. 
Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 

'Tis folly to decline, 
And steal inglorious to the silent grave. 



JJoljii (D'Kccfc. 



O'Keefe (1746-1833) was a native of Dublin. He at- 
tempted the stage, but subsequently devoted himself to 
dramatic composition. His latter days were embittered 
by blinducss and pecuniary destitution, but he reached 
the advanced age of eighty-six. Some of his grotesque 
pieces still keep possession of the stage. His poems 
were published as a "legacy to his daughters" in 1834. 
The "Recollections of the Life of John O'Keefe, writ- 
ten by Himself," appeared in 1S2G; his collected dramas, 
in 1798. 



I AM A FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. 

I am a friar of orders gray, 
And down the valleys I take my way ; 
I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip — 
Good store of venison tills my scrip ; 
My long bead-roll I merrily chant ; 
Where'er I walk no money I want ; 
And why I'm so plump the reason I tell — 
AVho leads a good life is sure to live well. 
What baron or squire, 
Or knight of the shire. 
Lives half so well as a holy friar? 

After supper, of heaven I dream. 

But that is pullet aud clouted cream ; 

Myself, by denial, I mortify — 

With a dainty bit of a warden-pie ; 

I'm clothed iu sackcloth for my sin — 

With old sack wine I'm liued within ; 

A chirping cup is my matin song. 

And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding-dong. 

What baron or squire. 

Or knight of tlic shire, 
Lives half so well as a holy friar ? 



Susanna Blamirc. 



A native of Cumberland, England, Miss Blaniire (1747- 
1794) resided some years with a married sister in Perth- 
shire, Scotland, and wrote Scottish songs like a native. 
Her poetical works were published, with a biography by 
Patrick Maxwell, in 1843. 



THE SILLER CROUN. 

"And ye shall walk in silk attire, 

And siller hae to spare. 
Gin ye'll consent to be bis bride, 

Nor think o' Donald mair." 
" Oh, wha wad buy a silken gouu 

Wi' a puir broken heart 1 
Or what's to me a siller croiin, 

Giu frae my love I part ? 

" The mind whose every wish is pure, 

Far dearer is to me : 
And ere I'm forced to break my faith, 

I'll lay me doun an' dee. 
For I hae pledged my virgin troth 

Brave Donald's fate to share ; 
And he has gi'en to me his heart, 

Wi' a' its virtues rare. 

" His gentle manners wan my heart, 

He gratefu' took the gift ; 
Could I but think to seek it back, 

It wad be waur than theft. 
The langest life cau ne'er repay 

The love ho bears to me ; 
Aud ere I'm forced to break my troth, 

I'll lay me doun an' dee." 



loljn £ogan. 



Logan (1748-1788) was the sou of a Scottish farmer in 
Mid -Lothian. He became a minister — alienated his 
parishioners l>y writing plays and committing some un- 
clerical irregularities — went to London, and wrote for 
the English Hevkw. He published a volume of sermons, 
characterized by Chambers as "full of piety and fervor" 
His little poem of "The Cuckoo" is the slender thread 
by winch he is still connected with the recognized poets 
of Britain. Burke admired it so much that, on visiting 
Edinburgh, he sought out Logan to compliment him. 
For a while Logan was thought to have pilfered " The 
Cuckoo" from Michael Bruce; but this charge, as we 
learn from Cliambers, was disproved in 1873 by David 
Laing iu a tract on the authorship, aud Logan's claim 
was made good. The iuterual evidence is iu his favor. 



234 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



There is iiotliing in all that Bruce wrote that is suffffcs- 
tive of the ode ; though Trench (1870) favors his claim. 
The ode was a favorite with Wordswortli. 



ODE TO THE CUCKOO. 

Hail, beauteons stranger of the grove, 

Thou messenger of Spring! 
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, 

And woods thj' welcome sing. 

What time the daisy decks the green, 

Thy certain voice we hear ; 
Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 

Or mark the lolliug year ? 

Delightful visitant! with tliee 

I hail the time of tlowcrs. 
And hear the sound of music sweet 

From birds among the bowers. 

The sthool-l)oy, wandering through the w ood, 

To iniU the primrose gay. 
Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, 

And imitates thy lay. 

What time the pea puts on the bloom 

Thoii fliest thy vocal vale, 
An annual gnest in other lands, 

Another Spriug to hail. 

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green. 

Thy sky is ever clear ; 
Thou Iiast no sorrow in thy song. 

No Winter in thy year ! 

Oh could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! 

We'd make, with joyful wing, 
Our annual visit o'er the globe, 

Companions of the Spriug. 



THE BRAES OF YARROW. 

Thy braes were honuie. Yarrow stream. 

When tirst ou them I met my lover ; 
Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream, 

When now thy waves his body cover! 
Forever now, O Yarrow stream. 

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow ; 
For never ou thy hanks shall I 

Behold my Love, the flower of Yarrow ! 



He promised me a milk-white steed. 

To hear me to his father's bowers ; 
He promised me a little page. 

To squire me to his father's towers. 
He promised mo a wedding-ring, — 

The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow : 
Now he is wedded to his grave, 

Alas ! his watery grave in Yarrow ! 

Sweet were his words when last we met; 

My passion I as freely told him : 
Clasped iu his arms, I little thought 

That I should never more behold him ! 
Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost — 

It vanished with a shriek of sorrow ; 
Thrice did the water-wraith ascend. 

And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow ! 

His mother from the window looked. 

With all the longing of a mother ; 
His little sister weeping walked 

The greenwood path to meet her brother: 
They sought him east, they sought him west, 

They sought him all the forest thorough : 
They only saw the cloud of night. 

They only heard the roar of Yarrow. 

No longer from thy window look — 

Thou hast no son, thou tender mother ! 
No longer walk, thou lovely maid — 

Alas ! thou hast no more a brother ! 
No longer seek him east or west, 

And search no more the forest thorough ; 
For, wandering in the night so dark. 

He fell a lifeless corpse iu Yarrow. 

The tear shall never leave my cheek, 

No other youth shall be my marrow ; 
I'll seek thy body iu the stream. 

And then, with thee I'll sleep iu Yarrow! 
The tear did never leave her cheek. 

No other youth became her marrow ; 
She found his body iu the stream, 

Aud now with him she sleeps in Yarrow. 



fllrs. (Uljarlottc ((Eurncr) SmitI). 

Daughter of Nicholas Turner, of Stoke House, Surrey, 
Charlotte (1T4'J-1S06) married early and disastrously. 
Mr. Smith was the dissipated son of a West India mer- 
chant, and soon found his way into prison, where she 
spent seven mouths with him. She suffered poverty, 



MES. CSAULOTTE (TURNER) SMITH.— ROBERT GRAHAM. 



2:!o 



wrote for bvcad, parted fi-om hei- husband, worked for 
her fiiraily, and saw all her children die as they came to 
niaturitj'. Her poetry is of the sentimental type. Of 
her sonnets Coleridge had a grateful recollection. Her 
prose won praises from Hayley, Cowper, and Sir Walter 
Scott. 



TO FORTITUDE. 

Nymph of tlie rock! whose dauntless spirit hraves 
The beating storm, and bitter winds that ho\Yl 
Kound thy cohl breast, and hear'st the bursting 

waves 
And the deep thunder with unshakeu soul! 
Oh come, and show how vaiu the cares that press 
On my weak bosom, and how little worth 
Is the false, fleeting meteor, Happiness, 
That still misleads the wiiuderers of the earth! 
Strengthened by thee, this heart shall cease to melt 
O'er ills that poor Humanity must bear ; 
Nor frieuds estranged or ties dissolved be felt 
To leave regret and fruitless anguish there : 
And when at length it heaves its latest sigh. 
Then and mild Hope shall teach me how to die ! 



TO A YOUNG MAN ENTERING THE WORLD. 

Go now, iugeunons youth ! — The trying hour 

Is come : the world demands that thou shouldst go 

To active life. There titles, wealth, and power 

May all be purchased ; yet I joy to know 

Thou wilt not pay their price. The base control 

Of petty despots in their pedant reign 

Already hast thou felt ; and high disdain 

Of tyrants is imprinted on thy soul. 

Not where mistaken Glory iu the field 

Rears her red banner be thou ever found ; 

But against proud Oppression raise the .shield 

Of patriot daring. So shalt thou renowned 

For the best virtues live ; or, that denied, 

Mayst die, as Hampden or as Sidney died ! 



THE CRICKET. 

Little inmate, full of mirth, 
Chirping on my humble hearth, — 
Wheresoo'er be thine abode. 
Always hai'binger of good, — 
Pay me for thy warm retreat 
With a song most soft and sweet : 
In return thou shalt receive 
Such a song as I can give. 



Though in voice and shape they be 
Formed as if akiu to thee. 
Thou surpassest, happier far, 
Happiest grasshoppers that are : 
Theirs is but a summer-song ; 
Thine endures the winter long. 
Unimpaired, and .shrill, and clear, 
Melody throughout the year. 

Neither night nor dawn of day 
Puts a jieriod to thy lay : 
Then, insect, let thy simple song 
Cheer the winter evening long ; 
While, secure from every storm, 
In my cottage stout and warm. 
Thou shalt my merry minstrel be. 
And I delight to shelter thee. 



Hobcrl ^ntljain. 

Graham of Gartmore, Scotland, w.as born 17.50; died 
1797. The song we quote was first published in the 
"Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border" (ISOl). At one 
time Scott attributed it to James Graham, Marquis of 
Montrose. It was evidently suggested by the poem of 
his given on page 103 in this collection. 



OH, TELL ME HOW TO WOO THEE. 

If donghty deeds my lady please, 

Right soon I'll mount my steed ; 
And strong his arm, and fast his scat, 

That bears frae mo the meed. 
I'll wear thy colors in my cap. 

Thy picture in my heart ; 
And he that bends not to thiue eye 
Shall rue it to his smart. 

Then tell me how to woo thee, love ; 

Oh, tell me how to woo thee ! 
For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, 
Though ne'er another trow me. 

If g.ay attire delight thiue eye, 

I'll dight me in array ; 
I'll tend thy chamber-door all night, 

And squire thee all the day. 
If sweetest sounds can win thine ear. 

These sounds I'll strive to catch ; 
Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysel' — 

That voice that none can match. 

Then tell me how to woo thee, love, etc. 



236 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



But if fouil lovo tliy Leart cau gain, 

I never broke a vow ; 
Nae maiden lays her skaitli to nie ; 

I never loved but yon. 
For you alone I ride the ring, 

For you I wear the blue; 
For you alone I strive to siug^ 

Oil, tell me bow to woo ! 

Then tell me bow to woo tbec, love, etc. 



Cttbj) ^nnc (Cinbsaijj Uarnarb. 

Lady Anne Barnaril, daughter of James Lindsay, Earl 
of Balcanes, was born 1750, married Andrew Barnard in 
1793, and died without issue in 182.5. She wrote the fa- 
mous and pathetic ballad of "Auld Robin Gray" about 
tlie year 1771, but kept the autliorsbip a secret till 1823, 
when, in her seventy-third year, she acknowledged it in 
a letter to Sir Walter Scott, in which she writes that she 
does not comprehend bow be guessed the authorship, 
"as there was no person alive to whom she bad told 
it." At the request of her mother, who often asked 
"bow that unlucky business of Jeanio and Jamie end- 
ed," she wrote a continuation; but, like most continua- 
tions, though ingeniously done, it is a mere excrescence 
upon the original. Frequent alterations in the te.xt 
seem to have been made, cither by the author or by un- 
authorized bands. 



AULD ROBIN GRAY. 

When tbe .sbeep are in the faukl, and the kye's come 

lianio, 
And a' tbe weary warld to rest arc gane, 
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my c'e, 
Unkent by my gude-man,wha sleeps sound by me. 

Young Jamio lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his 

bride ; 
But, saving ao crown, be had nactbing else beside : 
To make tbe crown a pound my .Tamie gaed to sea, 
And tbe crowu and the pound they were baith 

for me. 

He hadna been ganc a twelvemonth and a day, 
When my father brak his arm, and the cow was 

stown away ; 
My mitber she fell sick — my Jamie was at sea — 
And auld Robin Gray came a-courtiug me. 

My father conldna work, my mitbor couldua spin ; 
I toiled day and nigbt, but their bread I couldna 
win ; 



Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in 

his e'e. 
Said, '•' Jeanic, for their sakes, will ye no marry me ?" 

My heart it said nay, and I looked for Jamie back; 
But hard blew tbe winds, and his ship was a 

■wrack : 
His ship was a wrack — why didna Jamie dee f 
Or why am I spared to cry, Wae is me ? 

My father urged me sair: my mither didna speak: 
But she looked in my face till my heart was like 

to break. 
They gied him my baud, but my heart was in tbe 

sea ; 
And so Robin Gray he was gude-man to me. 

I hadna been his wife a week but only four, 
When monrufu' as I sat on the staue at my door, 
I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think it he, 
Till he said, "I'm come bame, love, to marry thee!"' 

Oh, sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a'; 
I gied him ae kiss, and I bade him gang awa'; — 
I wish that I were dead, but I'm nae like to dee: 
For, though my heart is broken, I'm but young, wae 
is me ! 

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin ; 
I dareua think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; 
But I'll do ray best a gude wife aye to be, 
For oh ! Robin Gray, he is kind to me. 



3ol]u ylrumbull. 

AMERICAN. 

Trumbull (1750-1831), author of "M'Flngal," a bur- 
lesque poem in the style of Butler's "Hudibras," was 
a native of Watcrtown, Conn. He entered Yale College 
at the age of thirteen, and afterward read law in the ot- 
flce of John Adams, in Boston. In 1774 be bei;an the 
composition of "M'Fingal,"a poem quite popular in 
its day, but now little read, though manifesting consider- 
able ability. M'Flngal is a type of the American Tories 
who held out for a monarchy. Honorius is the Whig 
champion of freedom. _Wben the last battle of the Rev- 
olution has been fought, and Toryism is bumbled, M'Fin- 
gal escapes out of a window <■» route to Boston, and the 
poem is closed. Trumbull wrote "The Progress of Dul- 
ness," a satirical poem, also "An Elegy on the Times." 
In 1825 he moved to Detroit, where he died. An edition 
of his works was published in Hartford in 1820. The 
latest cditiou of "M'Fingal," with notes by J. B. Los- 
sing, was published by G. P. Putnam, New York, 1857. 



JOHN TRVilBULL.—UICHAED MBIXSLET SBEEIDAX. 



237 



FROM "M'FINGAL." 

^ » ^ * * • 

■\Vlieu Yankees, skilled in martial rule, 
First put the British troops to school ; 
Instructed them ia warlike trade, 
And new manoeuvres of parade ; 
The true war-dance of Yankee reels, 
And manual exercise of heels ; 
Made them give up, like saints complete, 
Tlie arm of flesh and trust the feet. 
And work, like Christians uudissembling, 
Salvation out by fear and trembling. 
Taught Percy fashionable races, 
And modern modes of Chevy-chases, — ■ 
From Boston, in his best array. 
Great Squire M'Fingal took his way, 
And, graced with ensigns of renown, 
Steered homeward to his native town. 

j^ * * * « ■ # 

Nor only saw ho all that was, 
But nnich that never came to pass; 
AVhereby all prophets far outwent he ; 
Though former days produced a plenty ; 
For any man, with half an eye, 
^Vhat stands before him may espy; 
But optics sharp it needs, I ween. 
To see what is not to be seen. 
As in the days of ancient fame 
Prophets and poets were the same. 
And all the praise that poets gain 
Is but for what they invent and feign. 
So gained our squire his fame by seeing 
Such things as never would have being. 

****** 
But, as some muskets so contrive it 
As oft to miss the mark they drive at. 
And though well aimed at duck or jilover. 
Bear wide and kick tlieir owners over, 
So fared our squire, whose reasoning toil 
Would often on himself recoil. 
And so much injured more his side. 
The stronger arguments ho applied ; 
As old war elephants, dismayed, 
Trode down the troops they came to aid. 
And hurt their own side more in battle 
Than less and ordinary cattle. 

****** 
All punishments the world can render 
Serve only to provoke the oft'euder ; 
The will's confirmed by treatment horrid. 
As hides grow harder when they're curried. 



No man e'er felt the lialter draw, 
With good opinion of the law ; 
Or held in method orthodox 
His love of justice in the stocks; 
Or failed to lose, by sheritf's shears, 
At once his loj-alty and cars. 



Hirljavli Brinslcn Sljcriban. 

Sheridan (1751-1816), son of Thomas Sheridan, the lex- 
icoirraiiher and actor, was born in Dublin, and educated 
at Harrow. The most brilliant dramatic writer of his 
times, he has given but faint evideuces of the poetical 
gift. As a parliamentary orator he won high distinction. 
His comedies are the best in the language. Improvident 
and extrav.igant in his way of living, be died in great pe- 
cuniary humiliation, notwithstanding the admiration he 
had excited by his powers as a dramatist and orator. 



HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD FRAMED. 

Feom "The Duenna." 

Had I a heart for falsehood framed, 

I ne'er could injure you ; 
For though your tongue no promise claimed. 

Your charms would make me true : 
To you no soul shall bear deceit, 

No stranger offer wrong ; 
But friends iu all the aged you'll meet. 

And lovers iu the young. 

For when they learn that you have blessed 

Another with your heart, 
They'll bid aspiring passion rest, 

And act a brother's part. 
Tlieii, lady, dread not here deceit, 

Nor fear to suffer wrong ; 
For friends iu all the aged you'll meet, 

And brothers in the young. 



SONG. 



From " The Duenna." 

I ne'er could any lustre see 

Iu eyes that would not look on me ; 

I ne'er saw nectar ou a lip. 

But where my own did hope to sip. 

Has the maid who seeks my heart 

Cheeks of rose, untouched by art ? 

I will own the color true. 

When yielding blushes aid their hue. 



238 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BlilTISU AXD AMEltlCAX POETRT. 



Is ber hand so soft and pure ? 
I must press it, to be sure ; 
Nor can I be certain then, 
Till it, grateful, press agaiu. 
Must I, with attentive eye. 
Watch her heaving bosom sigh ? 
I will do so when I see 
That heaviug bosom sigh for me. 



Gt. (5corac tucker. 



Tucker (1T53-1S27) was born in Bermuda, and edu- 
cated in Virgini[i, at William and Mary College. He 
was the stepfather of John Randolph of Roanoke, and 
was known chietly as a jurist. 



DAYS OF MY YOUTH. 

Days of my youth, ye have glided away; 
Hairs of my youth, ye arc frosted and gray; 
Eyes of my youth, your keen sight is no more ; 
Cheeks of my youth, ye arc furrowed all o'er; 
Strength of my youth, all your vigor is gone ; 
Thoughts of my youth, your gay visions are flown. 

Days of my yonth, I wish not your recall ; 
Hairs of my youth, I'm content ye should fall ; 
Eyes of my youth, ye much evil have seen ; 
Cheeks of my yonth, bathed in tears have you been ; 
Thoughts of my youth, ye have led me astray; 
Strength of my youth, why lament youx- decay? 

D.ays of my age, ye will .shortly be past ; 
Pains of my age, yet awhile ye can last; 
Joys of my age, in true wisdom delight ; 
Eyes of my age, be religion your light ; 
Thoughts of my age, dread ye not the cold sod; 
Hopes of my age, be ye fixed on your God. 



olljomas cL'l)attcrto;i. 

Cliattertou (1752-1770), of whom Wordsworth speaks 
as " the marvellous boy, the sleepless soul, that perished 
in his pride," w.is a native of Bristol, and the son of a 
school-master, who was also sexton of St. Mary Rcdclifl'e 
Church, and who died three months before Thomas w;is 
born. The lad, when five years old, was placed at school 
under a Mr. Love, who scut him home as dull and inca- 
pable of instruction. At six he taught himself his kt- 
ters from the illuminated capitals of an old French MS. 
He learned to read from a lilack-letter Bible. In 1700 



he was admitted into Colston's school, Bristol, where he 
continued seven years. During that period he composed 
several of his minor poems. His passion for books was 
the wonder of all w lio knew him. In 1767, when four- 
teen, he was apprenticed to a scrivener. He now set 
himself to accomplish a series of impositions by pretend- 
ed discoveries of old m.annseripts. He claimed to hiive 
come of a family of hereditary sextons of Redclilfe 
Church, where, in an old chest, these MSS. had been 
found; and he employed his undeniable aud wonderfully 
precocious genius in manufacturing mock ancient po- 
ems, which lie ascribed to an old monk of Bristol, whom 
he called Thomas Rowley, and placed in the times of 
Lydgate. His impositions duped many of the citizens 
of Bristol ; but Gray, Mason, Slieridan, Gibbon, Johnson, 
and Bishop Percy pronounced his pretended discoveries 
to be forgeries. Indeed, a close examination of the dic- 
tion ought to have made this apparent to any good Eng- 
lish scholar. 

In 1770 the boy of seventeen went up to London to 
write for bread and fame. At first he received engage- 
ments from various booksellers with whom he had be- 
fore corresponded. His restless brain was full of schemes, 
and he wrote home, "I am settled, and in such a settle- 
ment as I can desire. What a glorious prospect I" His 
poetry was much of it of a political and satirical charac- 
ter. He took lodgings in a garret in the house of Mrs. 
Angel, in llolborn. From thence this friendless boy in- 
dited letters to his mother and sister, and scut small 
presents to them, to comfort them with tlie thought 
tlial lie was doing well, and to show them his love. He 
would live on a crust of bread and a dried sheep' s-tongue, 
in order to buy something from his poor earnings to 
send home. 

But his poverty at last became extreme, and his pride 
was as great as liis poverty. His sister became insane ; 
and probably there was a taint of ins.anity in his own 
organization. The baker's wife refused to supply him 
with any more bread until he had paid<he 3.<. B((. already 
owing. This drove him to his gari'ct in a storm of pas- 
sion. He made a final attemiit to get employment, but 
it was unavailing. Returning home, he pureliased some 
aisenic. Tliat evening he spent bending over the lire in 
Mrs. Angel's parlor, muttering poetry to himself, until 
at last, taking his caudle, and having kissed Mis. Angel, 
he wished lier good-night, and retired to his garret. The 
following morning his lifeless body was discovered lying 
oil his bed ; the floor covered witli slireds of papers. " I 
leave my soul to its Maker," lie wrote, " my body to my 
mother and sister, and my curee to Bristol." Bristol 
has nevertheless raised a monnment to his memory. 
Campbell says of Cliattertou : "Tasso alone can be com- 
pared to him as a juvenile prodigy. No English poet 
ever equalled him at the same age." At the time of his 
death he was aged seventeen veal's, nine mouths, and a 
few days. 

The arbitrary orthography, in rude imitation of the an- 
cient, used by Cliattertou, being a mere atlectation, we 
dismiss it from our few specimens of his writings. The 
diction is obviously modem, and there is no longer any 
reason for ret;iiiiing what was only designed as a means 
of supporting an imposture. 

Archbishop Trench has shown that the whole fabric 



THOMAS CHATTERTOX. 



239 



of Cli;ittcrtoirs literary fraud could have been blown up 
by calling attention to his use of the word its. This 
word did not Hnd its way into tbe language until two 
liundrcd years after tlic period of Cbattcrton's monk, 
Rowley. It occui-s only once in our translation of the 
Scriptures (Levit. xxv. 5), and only three times in Shak- 
epeare. Even Milton, describing Satan, says 
"His ft)rm had not yet lost 
All her original brightness." 

Evidently Chatterton was ignorant of these facts, and 
his use of its is alone sufficient to stamp his pretended 
antUjtux as spurious. 

"Tbe poems of Chatterton," says Sir Walter Scott, 
"may be divided into two grand classes: those ascribed 
to Rowley, and those which the bard of Bristol avowed 
to be his own composition. Of these classes, the former 
is incalculably superior to the latter in poetical power 
and diction." 

Of tbe Rowley poems the principal are : "The Trage- 
dy of Ella," "The Execution of Sir Charles Bawdin," 
"Ode to Ella," "Tlie Battle of Hastings," "The Tour- 
nament," "A Description of Cannynge"s Feast," and 
one or two dialogues. An animated controversy as to 
their authenticity sprang up and raged for a long time. 
Some of the political poems acknowledged by Cliatter- 
ton show remarkable maturity and fi'ccdom of style, and 
indicate powers akin to those of Swift and Dryden. But 
his imitations of tbe antique are superior to all his other 
attempts. He has been compared to the mocking-bird, 
whose note of mimicry is sweeter than its natural song. 



BRISTOW TRAGEDY ; OR, THE DEATH OF 
SIR CHARLES BAWDIX. 

The feathered songster cliauticleer 

Had wound his bnglc-born, 
And told tbe early villager 

The coming of the moru : 

King Edward saw the ruddy streaks 

Of light eclipse the gray ; 
And heard the raven's croaking throat 

Proclaim the fated day. 

" Thoii'rt right," <inoth he ; " for, by the God 

That sits enthroned ou high ! 
Charles Buwdiu, and his fellows twain, 

To-day shall surely die." 

Then with a jug of nappy ale 
His knights did on him wait ; 

" Go tell the traitor that to-day- 
He leaves this mortal state." 

Sir C'auterlone then bended low, 

With heart brimful of woe ; 
He journeyed to the castle-gate, 

And to Sir Charles did go. 



But when bo came, bis children twain, 

And eke his loving wife. 
With briny tears did wet the floor, 

For good Sir Charles's life. 

" Oh, good Sir Charles !" said Cauterlone, 

" Bad tidings do I bring." 
" Speak boldly, man," said brave Sir CJiarles ; 

" What says thy traitor-king V '^ 

" I grieve to tell : before you sun 

Does from the welkin fly. 
He hath upon bis honor sworn 

That thou shalt surely die." 

"We all must die," qnoth brave Sir Charles; 

" Of that I'm not alTeared ; 
What boots to live a little space ? 

Thank Jesn, I'm prepared : 

'• But tell thy king, for mine he's not, 

I'd sooner die to-day, 
Than live his slave, as many are. 

Though I should live for aye." 

Then Canterlone he did go out, 

To tell the mayor strait 
To get all things iu readiness 

For good Sir Charles's fate. 

Then Master Canyng sought the king, 

And fell down on his knee ; 
" I'm come," quoth he, " unto your grace, 

To move your clemency." 

'"Then," qnoth the king, "your tale speak out, 
You have been much our frieud : 

Whatever yonr request may be, 
We will to it atteud." 

" My noble liege ! all my request 

Is for a noble knight. 
Who, though mayhap he lias done wrong. 

He thought it still was right : 

" He bas a spou.se and children twain ; 

All mined are for aye, 
If that you are resolved to let 

Charles Bawdin die to-day." 

" Speak not of such a traitor vile," 

The king in fury said ; 
" Before the evening-star doth shine, 

Bawdin shall lose his head : 



240 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



" Justice does loudly for him call, 

Aud be shall have his meed : 
Speak, Master Canyng ! what thing else 

At present do you ueed ?" 

"My noble liege!" good Canyng said, 

"Leave justice to our God, 
And lay the iron rule aside ; 

Be thine the olive rod. 

" Was God to search our hearts and reins, 

The best were sinners great ; 
Christ's vicar only knows no sin, 

In all this mortal state. 

"Let mercy rule thine infant reign, 
'Twill fast thy crown full sure ; 

From race to race thy family 
All sovereigns shall endure : 

" But if with blood and slaughter thou 

Begin thy infant reign, 
Tby crowu upon thy children's brows 

Will never long remain." 

" Canyng, away ! this traitor vile 
Has scorned my power and nie ; 

How canst thou then for such a man 
Entreat my clemency f 

" My noble liege ! the truly brave 

Will valorous actions prize, 
Respect a brave and noble mind. 

Although in enemies." 

" Canyng, away ! By God in heaven, 

Tliat did nie being give, 
I will not taste a bit of bread 

While this Sir Charles doth live. 

" By Mary, and all saints in heaven. 

This sun shall be his last." 
Then Canyng dropped a briny tear. 

And from the presence iiassed. 

With heart brimful of gnawing grief, 

He to Sir Charles did go. 
And sat him down upon a stool, 

And tears began to flow. 

"We .all must die," quoth brave Sir Charles; 

" What boots it how or when ? 
Death is the sure, the certain fate 

Of all we mortal men. 



" Say why, my friend, tby honest soul 

Runs over at thine eye ; 
Is it for my most welcome doom 

That thou dost childlike cry?" 

Quoth godly Canyng, " I do weep 

That thou so soon must die. 
And leave thy sous and helpless wife ; 

'Tis this that wets mine eye." 

" Then dry the tears that out thine eye 

From godly fountains spring; 
Death I despise, aud all the power 

Of Kdward, traitor-Uing. 

" When through the tyrant's welcome means 

I shall resign my life. 
The God I serve will soon provide 

For both my sons and wife. 

"Before I saw tlie lightsome sun. 

This was appointed me ; 
Shall mortal man repine or grudge 

Wliat God ordains to be ? 

"How oft in battle have I stood. 

When thousands died around ; 
Wlien smoking streams of crimson blood 

Imbrued the fattened ground : 

" How did I know that every dart. 

That cut the airy way, 
Might not find passage to my heart, 

And close mine eyes for aye ? 

"And shall I now, for fear of death. 

Look wan, and bo dismayed ? 
No ! from my heart fly childish fear ; 

Be all the man displaj'ed. 

"Ah, godlike Houry ! God forefend, 

And guard thee and thy son, 
If 'tis his will ; but if 'tis not. 

Why then his will bo done. 

"My honest friend, my fault has been 

To serve God and my prince ; 
And that I no time-server am, 

My death will soon convince. 

" In London city was I born, 

Of parents of great note ; 
My fatlier did a noble arms 

Emblazon on his coat : 



THOMAS CHATTKRTOX. 



241 



■■ I make no iloubt but he is gone, 

Where soou I hope to go ; 
Where we forever shall bo blessed, 

From out the reach of woe. 

" He taught me justice and the laws 

With pity to unite ; 
And eke he taught me how to know 

The wrong cause from the right : 

'■ He taught me with a prudent hand 

To feed the hungry poor. 
Nor let my servants drive away 

The hungry from my door : 

'■And none can say but all my life 

I have his wordis kept ; 
And summed the actious of the day 

Each night before I slei)t. 

" I have a spouse ; go ask of her 

If I defiled her bed : 
I have a king, and none can lay 

Black treason on my head. 

'■ In Lent, and on the holy eve, 

From fiesh I did refrain ; 
Why should I then appear dismayed 

To leave this world of pain ? 

'■ No, hapless Henry ! I rejoice 

I shall not see thy death ; 
Most willingly in thy just cause 

Do I resign my breath. 

" Oh, fickle people! ruined land! 

Thou wilt know peace no moe ; 
While Richard's sons exalt themselves, 

Thy brooks with blood will flow. 

'• Say, were ye tired of godly peace. 

And godly Henry's reign, 
That you did chop your easy days 

For those of blood and pain ? 

'• What though I on a sled be drawn. 

And mangled by a hind, 
I do defy the traitor's power. 

He cannot harm mj' mind : 

"What though, uphoisted on a pole, 

My limbs shall rot in air, 
And no rich monument of brass 

Charles Bawdin's name shall hear ; 
IG 



" Yet in the holy Book above. 

Which time can't eat away. 
There with the servants of the Lord 

My name shall live for aye. 

" Then welcome, death ! for life eterue 

I leave this mortal life : 
Farewell, vain world, and all that's dear. 

My sons and loving wife ! 

" Now death as welcome to me comes 

As e'er the month of May ; 
Nor would I even wish to live. 

With my dear wife to stay." 

Quoth Canyng, " 'Tis a goodly thing 

To be prepared to die ; 
And from this world of pain and grief 

To God in hea\cn to fly." 

And now the bell began to toll. 

And clarions to sound ; 
Sir Charles he heaixl the horses' feet 

A-prancing on the ground : 

And just before the officers 

His loving wife came in, 
W^eeping iinfeign<?d tears of woe. 

With loud and dismal din. 

" Sweet Florence ! now, I pray, forbear. 

In quiet let me die ; 
Pray God that every Christian soul 

May look on death as I. 

" Sweet Florence ! why these briny tears ? 

They wash my soul away. 
And almost make mo wish for life, 

With thee, sweet dame, to stay. 

" 'Tis but a journey I shall go 

Unto the land of bliss ; 
Now, as a proof of husband's love. 

Receive this holy kiss." 

Tlien Florence, faltering in her say, 

Trembling these wordis spoke, 
"Ah, cruel Edward! bloody king! 

Sly heart is well-nigh broke : 

"Ah, sweet Sir Charles ! why wilt thou go 

Without thy loving wife? 
The cruel axe that cuts thy neck, 

It eke shall end my life." 



242 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



And now tlie officers came iu 

To l)ring Sir Charles away, 
Wlio turuf^d to bis loving wife, 

And tbus to her did say : 

"I go to life, and not to death; 

Trust thou iu God above, 
And teach thy sons to fear the Loid, 

And iu their hearts him love: 

" Teach them to run the noble race 

That I, their father, run ; 
Floreuee ! sliould death thee take — adieu! 

Ye officers, lead on." 

Then Florence raved as any mad, 

And did ber tresses tear ; 
" Ob stay, my husband, lord, and life !" — 

Sir Charles theu dropped a tear. 

Till, tired out with raving loud, 

She fell upon the floor ; 
Sir Charles exerted all bis might. 

And marched from out the door. 

Upon a sled he mounted then. 
With looks full brave and sweet ; 

Looks that ensbone no more concern 
Than any in the street. 

Before him went the conncilmen. 

In scarlet robes and gold. 
And tassels spangling in the sun. 

Much glorious to behold : 

The I'riars of Saint Augustine nest 

Appearc^d to the sight, 
All clad in homely russet weeds, 

Of godly monkish plight : 

In different parts a godly psalm 
Most sweetly they did chant ; 

Behind their backs six minstrels came. 
Who tuned the strung bataunt. 

Then five-and-twenty archers came ; 

Each one the bow did bend, 
From rescue of King Henry's friends 

Sir Charles for to defend. 

Bold as a lion came Sir Charles, 

Drawn on a cloth-laid sled. 
By two black steeds in trajjpiugs white, 

With plumes upon their head : 



Behind him five-and-twenty more 

Of archers stroug and stout, 
With bended bow each oue in hand, 

March(5d iu goodly rout : 

Saint James's Friars marchdd next. 

Each oue his part did chant ; 
Behind their backs six minstrels came, 

Who tuued the strung bataunt : 

Then came the mayor and aldermen, 

Iu cloth of scarlet decked ; 
Ami their attending men each one, 

Like Eastern priuces tricked : 

And after tliem a multitude 

Of citizens did throng ; 
The windows were all full of heads 

As he did pass along. 

And when be came to the high cross, 

Sir Charles did turn and say, 
"O Thou that savest man from siu. 

Wash my soul clean this day !'' 

At the great minster window sat 

The king in niickle state, 
To see Charles Bawdin go along 

To his most Avelcome fate. 

Soon as the sled drew nigh euongb, 

That Edward he might bear. 
The bravo Sir Charles he did stand up. 

And thus his words declare: 

" Thou secst me, Edward ! traitor vile ! 

Exposed to infamy; 
But be assured, disloyal man ! 

I'm greater now than thee. 

" By foul proceedings, murder, blood. 

Thou wearest now a crown ; 
And ha.st appointed nie to die. 

By power not thine own. 

" Thou tbiuUest I shall die to-day ; 

I have been dead till now. 
And soon shall live to wear a crown 

For aye upcni my brow : 

" While thou, perhaps, for some few years, 

Shalt rule this tickle laud. 
To let them know how wide the rr'.e 

'Twist king and tyrant hand : 



THOMAS CHATTERTOX. 



243 



'■ Thy power unjust, tUou traitor-slave ! 

Shall fall on thy own head" — 
From out of hearing of the king 

Departed then the sled. 

King Edward's soul rushed to Iiis face, 

He turned his head away. 
And to his brother Gloucester 

He thus did speak and say : 

"To him that so-much-dreaded deatli 

Xo ghastly terrors bring, 
Beliold the man ! lie spake the truth. 

He's greater than a king !" 

" So let him die !'' Duke Richard said ; 

"And may each one our foes 
Bend down their necks to bloody axe. 

And feed the carrion crows." 

And now the horses gently drew 
Sir Charles up the high hill ; 

The axe did glister in the sun, 
His precious blood to spill. 

Sir Cliarles did up the scalibld go, 

As ui) a gilded car 
Of victory, by valorous cliiefs 

Gained in the bloody war : 

And to the people he did say, 

" Behold you see me die, 
For serving loyally my king. 

My king most rightfully. 

"As long as Ednard rules this land. 

No quiet you will know : 
Your sons and husbands shall be slain. 

And brooks with blood shall llow. 

"Yon leave your good and lawful king, 

When in adversity ; 
Like me, unto the true cause stick. 

And for the true cause die." 

"hen he, with priests, upon his knees, 

A prayer to God did make. 
Hi seeching him unto himself 

His parting soul to take. 

Then kneeling down, he laid his bead 

>iost seeudy ou the block ; 
■\Vli',«h from his body fair at once 

The able beadsman stroke : 



And out the blood began to flow. 
And round the scafibld twine; 

And tears, enough to wash 't away, 
Did flow from each man's cyne. 

The bloody axe liis body fair 

Into four ijartis cut ; 
And every part, and eke his head, ' 

Upon a pole was put. 

One part did rot ou Kyuwulph Hill, 

One ou the minster-tower. 
And one from off the castle-gate 

The croweu did devour: 

The other on Saint Powle's good gate, 

A dreary spectacle ; 
His head was placed on the high cross, 

In high-street most noble. 

Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate: 

God prosper long our king. 
And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul. 

In Heaven God's mercy sing ! 



ON RESIGNATION. 

O God, whose thunder shakes the sky. 
Whose eye this atom globe surveys, 

To thee, my only rock, I fly. 

Thy mercy in thy justice iiraise. 

The mystic mazes of thy will, 
The shadows of celestial light, 

Are past the powers of human skill ; 
But what the Eternal acts is right. 

Oil teach me in the trying hour. 

When anguish swells the dewy tear. 

To still my sorrows, own thy power. 
Thy goodness love, thy justice fear. 

If in this bosom aught but thee, 

Encroaching sought a boundless sway. 

Omniscience could the danger see. 
And mercy look the cause away. 

Then why, my soul, dost thou complain? 

Why drooping seek the dark recess ? 
Shake off the melancholy chain, 

For God created all to bless. 



244 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



But, all ! my breast is humau still ; 

The rising sigli, the falling tear, 
My languid vitals' feeblo rill, 

Tbe sickness of my soul declare. 

But yet, -with fortitude resigned, 

I'll thank the infliction of the blow, 

F()rl>id the sigb, compose my mind, 
Nor let the gush of misery flow. 

The gloomy mantle of the night. 
Which ou my sinking spirit steals. 

Will vanish at the morning light, 

■\Vhieh God, my East, my Sun, reveals. 



|3l)ilip i^vciuau. 



Frenean (1753-1833) was of French descent, a native of 
New York. He graduated at Princeton, in the class of 
ITTl. He wrote political satires, such as they were, on 
tlie Tories, which did good service in their day; and he 
was rewarded by Jefferson with an office. Early in the 
war he was captured by the British, and confined in one 
of the prison-ships in New York harbor. After the war 
he commanded a sailing-vessel, and got the title of Cap- 
tain. He was an editor at times; hut his newspaper 
speculations do not seem to have turned out profitably, 
and he died insolvent. He was prolific as a writer of 
verse, and there are several volumes of poems from his 
pen. He lived to the age of eighty, and perished during 
a snow-storm, in a bog-meadow, wliere he seems to have 
got lost, and which lie had attempted to cross, near Free- 
hold, New Jersey. 



MAY TO APRIL. 

Without your showers 

I breed no flowers. 
Each held a barren waste appears: 

If yon don't weep 

My blossoms sleep, 
They take such pleasure in yonr tears. 

As yonr decay 

Made room for May, 
So I must part with all that's mine ; 

My balmy Ijreeze, 

My blooming trees, 
To torrid suns their sweets resign. 

For April dead 

My shades I spread, 



To her I owe my dress so gay ; 

Of daughters three 

It falls ou me 
To close our triumphs ou one day. 

Thus to repose 

All nature goes ; 
Month after mouth must find its doom : 

Time ou the wing, 

May ends the Spring, 
And Summer frolics o'er her tomb. 



llVilliam Uosfoc. 

Roseoe (1753-1831) brought out, in 1795, tlie work on 
which his fame chiefly rests, " The Life of Lorenzo de 
Mediei." He was horn near Liverpool, and received a 
eommou school education. He became a banker; but 
the house to which he belonged fiiiled, and his private 
l)roperty was wrecked. Strictly honorable and scrupu- 
lous, he gave up even his books. 



TO MY BOOKS. 

ON BEING ODLTGED TO SELL MV Linn.^ItV. 

As one who, destined from his friends to part, 
Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile 
To share their converse, and enjoy their smile, 
And tempers as he may afliicfion's dart : 
Tims, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, 
Toaehers of wisdom, who could once beguile 
My tedious hour.s, aTid lighten every toil, 
I now resign you; nor with fainting heart; 
For, pass a few short years, or days, or hours, 
And hapiiier seasons may their dawn unfold, 
And all yonr sacred fellowship restore ; 
When, freed from earth, xiulimitcd its powers, 
Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, 
And kindred spirits meet to part no more. 



©corgc (Urobbc. 



Of humble parentage, Crabbe (1754-1833), a native of 
Aldborough, Suflblk, was educated for tlie medical p o 
fcssion ; but he left it for literature, and went to try his 
fortune in London. After various clforts to get into 
notice by his poetry, iu a state of great destitution he 
wrote to Edmund Burke. Touched by his appeal, Hiirki 
made an appointment with him, looked at his poem: , 
got a publisher for him, advanced him money, gave hiai 
a room at Boacoiisfield, and suggested his eiiteriiiL;' Mn' 
Church, wliich advice he adopted. After vari mis rlia/ ;.;'>. 

In ISltt 



GEORGE CRABBE. 



24i 



lie pulilisliecl his "Tiilcs oftlie Hall." Murray guve liini 
£3000 for these and the copyright of his other poems. 

" Nature's sternest painter, yet the best," was the 
somewhat overstrained compliment bestowed by Lord 
Byron on Crabbe. The English poor— their woes, weak- 
nesses, and sins — form his almost unvarying theme. The 
distinguishing feature of his poetry is the graphic mi- 
nuteness of its descriptive passages. He knew how un- 
true and exaggerated are most of the pictures of rural 
life that figure in poetry, and he undertook to exhibit it 
in its naked reality. In his style he produces the po- 
etical effect by language of the most naked simplicity 
almost utterly divested of the conventional ornaments 
of poetry. His chief works, which range in date from 
17S3 to ISIS, arc "The Village," "The Parish Register," 
" The Borough," " Tales in Verse," " Tales of the Hall." 

In his domestic circumstances Crabbe was fortunate. 
He married the lady of his choice, and had sons, one of 
whom wrote an admirable memoir of him. At three- 
score and ten the venerable poet was busy, cheerful, af- 
fectionate, and eager in charity and kind offices to the 
poor. He was a great lover of the sea, and his marine 
landscapes are Iresh and striking. 



THE SEA IN CALM AND STORM. 

From " The Borough." 

Various ami vast, sublime in all its forms, 

When lulled by zephyrs, or when roused by storms ; 

Its colors changing wheu from clouds aud sun 

Shades after shades upon the surface run ; 

Embrowned aud horrid now, and now serene 

In limpid blue and evanescent green ; 

And oft the foggy banks on oceau lie, 

Lift the fair sail, aud cheat the experienced eye ! 

Be it the summer noon: a sandy space 
The ebbing tide has left upon its place; 
Then just the hot and stony beach above, 
Light, twinkling streams in bright confusion move ; 
(For, heated thus, the warmer air ascends, 
Aud with the cooler iu its fall contends.) 
Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps 
An equal motion ; swelling as it sleeps, 
Then slowly siuking ; curling to the strand, 
Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the ridgy sand, 
Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow, 
And back return iu silence, smooth and slow. 
Ships iu the calm seem anchored ; for tbej' glide 
On the still sea, urged solely by the tide. 

* # « if # * 

View now the winter storm ! Above, one cloud, 
Black and unbrokeu, all the skies o'ershroud ; 
The unwieldy porpoise, through the day before, 
Had rolled iu view of boding men on shore ; 
And sometimes hid and sometimes showed his form. 
Dark as the cloud, aud furious as the storm. 



All where the eye delights, yet dreads, to roam 
The breaking billows cast the flying foam 
Upon the billows rising — all the deep 
Is restless change — the waves, so swelled and steep. 
Breaking aud siuking ; and the suuken swells, 
Nor one, one momeut, in its station dwells : 
But nearer land you may the billows trace, 
As If contending in their watery chase ; ' 
May watch the mightiest till the shoal ^ey reach, 
Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch ; 
Curled as they come, they strike with furious force. 
And then, reflowiug, take their grating course. 
Raking the rounded flints, which ages past 
Rolled by their rage, and shall to ages last. 

Far off', the petrel, in the troubled way. 
Swims with her brood, or flutters iu the spray; 
She rises often, often drops again, 
Aud sports at ease on the tempestuous main. 

High o'er the restless deep, above the reacli 
Of gunuer's hope, vast flights of wild-dncks stretch : 
Far as the eye can glance on either side. 
In a broad space and level line they glide ; 
All iu their wedge-like figures from the north, 
Day after day, flight after flight, go forth. 

Inshore their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge. 
And drop for i>rey within the sweeping surge; 
Oft in the rough, opposing blast they fly 
Far back, theu turn, and all their force apply. 
While to the storm they give their weak, complain- 
ing cry ; 
Or clap the sleek white piniou to the breast, 
And iu the restless ocean dip for rest. 



THE PILGRIM'S WELCOME. 

Pilgrim, burdened with thy sin. 
Come tlie way to Ziou's gate; 
There, till Mercy let thee iu. 

Knock aud weep, aud watch and wait. 
Knock ! — He kuows the sinner's cry : 

Weep ! — He loves the mourner's tears : 
Watch ! — for saving grace is nigh : 
Wait! — till heavenly light appears. 

Hark ! it is the Bridegroom's voice ! 

Welcome, pilgrim, to thy rest ! 
Now withiu the gate rejoice, 

Safe and sealed, and bought aud blessed ! 
Safe — from all the lures of vice. 

Sealed — by signs the chose.u kuow, 
Bought — by love aud life the price. 
Blessed — the mighty debt to owe. 



■M6 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BKiriSB AND AMEIilCAX POETRY. 



Holy i)ilgriui ! wbat for tliee 

lu a world like this remain ? 
From tliy guarded breast sball flee 
Fear and sbame, and donbt and pain. 
Fear — tbo bope of beaveu sball fly, 
Sbame — from glory's view retire, 
Donbt — in certain raptnro die, 
Pain — in endless bliss expire. 



IT IS THE SOUL THAT SEES. 
From " Tales in Verse." 

It is tbe sonl tbat sees ; tbo outward eyes 
Present tbe object, bnt tbo mind descries ; 
And tbeuce duligbt, disgust, or cool indiflerenco rise. 
Wben minds are joyful, tben we look around. 
And wbat is seen is all on fairy ground ; 
Again, tbey sicken, and ou every view 
Cast tbeir own dull and melaucboly bue; 
Or if, absorbed by tbeir peculiar cares, 
Tbe vacant eye ou viewless matter glares, 
Our feelings still upon our views attend. 
And tbeir own natures to tbe objects lend. 
Sorrow and joy are in tbeir iuflueuce sure; 
Long as tbe passion reigns tbe effects endure ; 
But Love in minds bis various cbanges makes. 
And clotbes cacb object witb tbe cbange be takes; 
His ligbt and sbade ou every view be tlirows. 
And on eacb object wbat be feels bestows. 



iocl Citrloro. 

AMERICAN. 

Barlow (17.54-1813) was a native of Reading, Conn. 
He entered DartmoutU College, but completed his edu- 
cation at Yale. During his vaciitions he served in the 
army, and was present at the battle of White Plains, 
where he showed much bravery. From college he turn- 
ed to divinity, and qnaliticd himself as a chaplain, in 
which capacity he served for some time. He left the 
Church and the army, and was admitted to the Bar in 
1785. In 1788 he went to Europe, where he remained, 
most of the time in France, seventeen years. In Paris 
lie made a fortune in some commercial speculations, and 
purchased the hotel of the Count Clermont de Tonnorrc, 
where he lived in sumptuous style. In 1S05 Barlow re- 
turned to the United States, and built a tine house in 
the District of Columbia, whicli he called Calorama. He 
was bitterly opposed by the Federalists ; whose wrath 
ho excited by a pu\)lishcd letter in which he denounced 
Adams and Washington. In 1807 appeared "The Co- 
lumbiad," Barlow's principal work, and the most costly 
that had yet appeared in America. It is dedicated to 
tlie author's intimate friend, Robert Fulton, the inventor 



of the steamboat, and contains eleven engravings exe- 
cuted by eminent London artists. It is in the heroic 
rhymed measure, and recalls Pope and Darwin ; but 
there is little in it worthy of survival as poetry. He did 
better in "The Hasty Pudding," which, tliough smooth- 
ly versilied, is liltle more than an elaborate trifle. It 
was written in Savo}', and dedicated to Mrs. Washing- 
ton. In 1809 he was appointed Minister to France. In 
October, 1813, Bonaparte, tlien on his Russian campaign, 
invited him to meet him at Wilna. His rapid journey 
across the Continent in severely cold weather brought 
on an intlanimatiou of the lungs, to which he rapidly 
succumbed, dying, on his return to Paris, at a small vil- 
lage near Cracow, December 23d, 1813. His last poem, 
dictated during his last illness to liis secretary, was a not 
very happy expression of his detestation of Napoleon. 
It was entitled "Advice to a Raven in Russia." 



FROM "THE HASTY PUDDING." 

Casto I. 

I sing tbe sweets I know, tbe cbarins I feel, 
My morning incense, and my evening meal, 
The sweets of Hasty Pudding. Come, dear bowl. 
Glide o'er my palate, and iuspire my soul. 
Tbe milk beside tbee, smoking from tbo kiue, 
Its substance mingled, married in witb tbiue, 
Sball cool and temper tby superior beat. 
And save the paius of blowing while I eat. 

Ob ! coubl tbe smooth, tbo emblematic soug 
Flow like tby genial juices o'er my tongue. 
Could those mild morsels iu my numbers cbime, 
And, as tbey roll iu substance, roll iu rhyme. 
No more tby awkward, unpoetic name 
Should .sbuu tbe mu.se, or prejudice tby fame; 
Hut rising grateful to the accustomed ear, 
All bards should catcb it, and all i-ealms revere ! 

Assist me first witb jiious toil to trace 
Tlirougb wrecks of time tby lineage aiul thy race; 
Declare what lovely squaw, iu days of yore 
(Ere great Columbus sought tbj' native shore). 
First gave tbee to tbe world ; ber works of fame 
Have lived indeed, bnt lived without a name. 
Some tawny Ceres, goddess of ber days, 
First learned witb stones to crack tbo well-dried 

maize, 
Througli the rough sieve to shako tbe golden shower. 
In boiling water stir tbe yellow flour: 
Tbo yellow flour, bestrewed and stirred witb haste, 
Swells iu tbe flood aud thickens to a paste. 
Then pnlfs and wallops, rises to tbe brim. 
Drinks tbe dry knobs tbat ou tbo surface swim ; 
Tlie knobs at last tho busy ladle breaks. 
And tbe wbolo mass its true consistence takes. 



JOEL BARLOW.— MRS. ANNE GRANT. 



247 



Could but Ler sacred name, iiukuowii so loug, 
Rise, like her labors, to the son of song. 
To lier, to tUem, I'd consecrate my lays, 
And blow lier pudding with the breath of praise. 
If 'twas Oella whom I sung before, 
I here ascribe her one great virtue more. 
Not through the rich Peruvian realms alone 
The fame of Sol's sweet daughter should be kuown. 
But o'er the world's wide clime should live secure, 
Far as his rays extend, as long as they endure. 

Dear Hasty Pudding, what nnpromised joy 
Expands my heart to meet thee in Savoy! 
Doomed o'er the world through devious paths to 

roam. 
Each clime my country, and each house my home. 
My soul is soothed, my cares have found an end, 
I greet my long-lost, unforgotten friend. 

For thee, through Paris, that corrupted town. 
How long in vain I wandered up and down, 
Wliere shameless Bacchus, with his drenching hoard. 
Cold from his cave usurps the morning board ! 
London is lost in smoke and steeped in tea ; 
No Yankee there can lisp the name of thee; 
The uncouth word, a libel on the town. 
Would call a proclamation from the crown. 
From climes oblique, that fear the sun's full rays. 
Chilled in their fogs, exclude the generous maize ; 
A grain, whose rich, luxuriant growth requires 
Short gentle showers, and bright ethereal fires. 

But here, though distant from our native shoie, 
With mutual glee we meet and laugh once more ; 
Tlie same ! I know thee by that yellow face. 
That strong complexion of true Indian race. 
Which time can never change, nor soil impair. 
Nor Alpine snows, nor Turkey's morbid air ; 
For endless years, through every mild domain. 
Where grows the maize, there thou art sure to 
reign. 

There are who strive to stamp with disrepute 
The luscious food, because it feeds the brute ; 
111 tropes of high-strained wit, while gaudy prigs 
Compare thy uursliiig, man, to pampered pigs ; 
With sovereign scorn I treat the vulgar jest, 
Nor fear to share thy bounties with tlie beast. 
What though the generous cow give me to quaff 
The milk nutritious: am I then a calf? 
Or can the genius of the noisy swine. 
Though nursed on pudding, claim a kin to mine? 
Sure the sweet song I fashion to thy praise. 
Runs more melodious than the notes they raise- 

My song resounding in its grateful glee. 
No merit claims : I praise myself in thee. 



My father loved thee through his length of days. 
For thee his fields were shaded o'er with maize ; 
From thee what health, what vigor he possessed. 
Ten sturdy freemen from his loins attest; 
Thy constellation ruled my natal morn, 
And all my bones were made of Indian corn. 
Delicious grain ! whatever form it take. 
To roast or boil, to smother or to bake, . 
In every dish 'tis welcome still to me, '' 
But most, my Hasty Pudding, most in thee. 



illrs. 2uue (5iaiit. 

Mi-s. Grant, commonly styled "of Laggan," to distin- 
guish licr from licr contemporary, Mrs. Grant of Carron, 
was born in Glasgow, 17.55. Her father, Duncan Mac- 
vicar, was an officer in the arm}-. Wliilc a cliikl, she 
accompanied her parents to America; and they settled 
for a time in tlic State of New York. In ITGS she re- 
turned with her family to Scotland. She married James 
Grant, a young clergyman, in 1779. He died in 1801 ; and 
in 180.3 she published a volume of poems. In 1806 ap- 
peared her "Letters from the Mountains," which passed 
through several editions. She reached her eighty-fourth 
year, retaining her faculties to the last. Her correspond- 
ence was published, in three volumes, by her son, John 
P. Grant, in 184-t. Tlie song we quote was written on 
the occasion of the Marquis of Hnutly's departure for 
Holland with his regiment, in 1799- 



OH, WHERE, TELL ME WHERE? 

"Oh, where, tell me where is your Highland laddie 
gone ? 

Oh, where, tell mo where is yonr Highlaud laddie 
gone ?" 

"He's gone with streaming banners, where noble 
deeds are done, 

And my sad heart will tremble till he come safe- 
ly home." 

" Oh, where, tell me where, did your Highland lad- 
die stay? 

Oh, where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie 
stay ?" 

" He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapid 
Spey, 

And many a blessing followed him the day ho went 
away. 

He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapid 
Spey, 

And many a blessing followed him the day he went 
away." 



248 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEItlCAN POETRY. 



"Ob, what, tell me wbat, does your Higblaud laddie 

wear ? 
Ob, wbat, tell me -wbat, does your Higblaud laddie 

■wear ?" 
"A bouuet ■(vitb a lofty pliime, tbe gallant badge 

of \var, 
And a plaid across tbe manly Ijreast tbat yet sball 

wear a star ; 
A bonnet witb a lofty pliime, tbe gallaut badge of 

war, 
And a plaid across tbe manly breast tbat yet sball 

wear a star." 

" Suppose, ab, suppose, tbat some cruel, cruel wound 

Sbould pierce your Higblaud laddie, and all yonr 
hopes confound?" 

"The pipe would play a cheering marcb, tbe ban- 
ners round liim fly, 

Tbe spirit of a Highland cbief would lighten in 
his eye ; 

Tbe pipe would play a cheering march, the banners 
round bini tly ; 

And for bis king and country dear witb pleasure 
he would die ."' 

"But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's 
bonny bounds ; 

Bnt I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bon- 
ny bounds. 

His native land of liberty sb.all nurse his glorious 
wounds ; 

Wide, wide, tbrongb all our Highland hills, bis 
warlike name resounds: 

His native land of liberty sball nurse bis glorious 
wounds ; 

Wide, wide, through all our Higliland hills, bis 
warlike name resounds." 



lUilliam a3ifFor^. 

Gifford (1756-1826) was a nntive of Asliburton, in Dev- 
onshire. His parents were poor, and at tliirteen he was 
a penniless orphan. His godfather first sent him to sea 
as cahin-boy in a coasting-vessel, and then apprenticed 
him to a shoemaker. He was a lad of eager intellect, 
with a taste for verse and for mathematics. Through 
the efforts of a Mr. Cookesley, he was placed at school, 
and when twenty-two years old was sent to 0.\ford. In 
1791 he wrote "The Baviad," a satire ridiculing some of 
the small poets of the day, who, under the signatures of 
Anna Matilda, Edwin, Orlando, Delia Crusca, etc., gained 
a transient notoriety. The game was hardly worth the 
caudle ; but the satire was read and praised, and had a 



transient reputation. The name of Bavins for a duucc 
is taken from Virgil's line : 

"Qui Bavium uon odit araet tna carmiua, Slosvi." 

"The Ma^viad" followed "The Baviad," bnt is infe- 
rior to it in spirit. Gifford attacked Woleot in an 
"Epistle to Peter Pindar," and Woleot replied with 
"A Cut at a Cobbler." This led to a personal collision, 
in which Gifford would have got the worse of it but for 
the interference of a bulky Frenchman who happened to 
be present, and who turned WoIcot out of the reading- 
room, where the scene occurred, into the street, throw- 
ing his wig and cane after him. 

Gifford's "small but sinewy intellect," it has been 
said, "w.as well employed in bruising the butterflies of 
tbe Delia Cruscau school." He afterward edited the 
AnU-Jacohiii (see "Canning"), translated Juvenal, and 
in ISOS became editor of the Quarterly Ileview, in which 
be labored to keep alive among the English aristocracy 
a feeling of dislike toward the United States. As a lit- 
erary critic, be was merciless and bitter. Southey says 
of him: "He bad a heart full of kindness for all living 
creatures except authors ; t/iein he regarded as a fish- 
monger regards eels, or as Izaak Walton did slugs, 
worms, and frogs." Gifford seems to have had a tender 
place in his heart for Anu Davies, a faithful attendant 
who died in bis service, and in whose memory he wrote 
some pathetic, but rather faulty and eommonplace, lines, 
entitled "The Gr.ave of Anna." As a poet his claims to 
remembrance arc very slender. 



TO A TUFT OF EARLY ATOLETS. 

Sweet flowers ! tbat from your humble beds 

Thus prematurely dare to rise, 
And trust yonr unprotected beads 

To cold Aquarius' watery skies ! 

Retire, retire ! These tepid airs 
Are not the geni.al brood of May ; 

Tbat suu with light malignant glares, 
And flatters only to betray. 

Stern winter's reign is not yet past: 
Lo ! while your buds prepare to blow. 

On icy pinions comes tbe bla.st. 

And nips yonr root, and lays you low. 

Alas for such ungentle doom ! 

But I will shield yon, and supply 
A kindlier soil on which to bloom, 

A nobler bed on which to die. 

Come, then, ere yet tbe morning ray- 
Has drunk tlie dew that gems your cresf. 

And drawn your balmiest sweets away ; 
Ob, come, aiul grace my Anna's breast ! 



WILLIAM GIFFORD. — WILLIAM SOTHEBT. — WILLIAM BLAKE. 



24<) 



FROM "THE BAVIAD." 

Some love tlie verse tbat like Maria's flows, 
No rubs to stagger, and uo seuse to pose ; 
Wliich read aud read, you raise your eyes ia doubt, 
Aud gravely louder — what it is about. 
These faucy '■ Bell's Poetics," only sweet, 
Aud intercept his hawkers in the street; 
There, smoking hot, inhale Mit Yenda's' strains. 
And the rauk fame of Tony Pasquin's brains. 
Others, lilce Kemble, on black-letter pore, 
Aud what they do not understand, adore ; 
Buy at vast sums tlie trash of ancient days. 
And draw on prodigality for praise. 
These, when some lucky hit or lucky price 
Has blessed them with " The Boke of gode Advice," 
For elces aud algates only deign to seek, 
Aiul live upon a whilom for a week. 

And can we, when such mope-eyed dolts are placed 
By thonghtless fashion on the throne of taste — 
Say, can we wonder whence snch jargon flows. 
This motley fustian, neither verse nor prose, 
This old, new language which defiles our page, 
Tlie refuse aud the scum of every age T 

Lo, Beaufoy tells of Afric's barren sand, 
In all the llowery phrase of fairy-land : 
There Fezzau's thrum-capped tribes — Turks, Chris- 
tians, Jews — 
Accommodate, ye gods, their feet ■with shoes ! 
There meagre shrubs inveterate mountains grace. 
And brnshwood breaks the amplitude of space. 
Perplexed with terms so vague and undeflned, 
I blunder on, till, wildered, giddy, blind. 
Where'er I turn, on clouds I seem to tread ; 
And call for Mandeville to ease my head. 

Oh for the good old times when all was new, 
And every hour brought prodigies to view ! 
Our sires in nnaft'ected language told 
Of streams of amber, aud of rocks of gold : 
Full of their theme, they spurned all idle art. 
And the plain tale was trusted to the heart. 
Now all is changed ! We fume and fret, poor elves. 
Less to display our subject than ourselves. 
Whate'er we paiut — a grot, a flower, a bird — 
Heavens ! how we sweat ! laboriously absurd ! 
Words of gigantic bulk and uncouth sound 
In riittling triads the long sentence bound ; 
While points with points, with periods periods jar. 
And the whole work seems one continned war! 



' The name, read backwsird, of Mr. Tim Adnev, one of the 
poetasters of the diiy. 

"CeiUle duluess ever loves a joke." 



lUilliam Sotljcbn. 



Sotheby (1757-1S33), an accomplished scholar, poet, 
and translator, was a native of London. He was of good 
family, and educated at Harrow school. At tlio age of 
seventeen he entered the army, but quitted it in 1780, 
purchased a place at Southaiupton, and resided there ten 
years. In 1789 he published a translation of Wieland's 
" Oberon," which was a success. He now wrpte poems, 
translations, and tragedies in great profusioil; His trans- 
lations were the chief source of his fame: that of Virgil's 
"Georgics" is one of the best in the language ; those of 
the "Iliad" and "Odyssey" have their peculiar merits. 
Wieland, the German poet, is said to have been charmed 
with the version of his " Oberon." Byron said of Sothe- 
by that he imitated everybody, aud occasionally sur- 
passed his models. 



STAFFA— VISITED 1829. 

Stafta, I settled thy suiumit hoar, 
I passed beneath thy arch gigantic, 

Whoso pillared cavern swells the roar, 

When thunders on thy rocky shore 
The roll of the Atlantic. 

That hour the wind forgot to rave. 

The surge forgot its motion ; 
And every pillar in thy cave 
Slept iu its shadow on the wave, 

Unrippled by the ocean. 

Then the past age before me came. 

When, 'mid the lightning's sweep, 
Thy isle, with its basaltic frame. 
And every columu wreathed with flame, 

Burst from the boiling deep. 

When, 'mid Ion.a's wrecks meanwhile 

O'er sculptured graves I trod. 
Where Time had strewn each monlderiug aisle 
O'er saints aud kings that reared the pile, 

I hailed the eternal God : 
Yet, Stafta, more I felt his presence in thy cave 
Thau w here loua's cross rose o'er the western wave. 



lllilliom Blake. 

■ Extraordinary as an artist and a poet, Blake (1757- 
1838) was the son of a London hosier. Apprenticed at 
fourteen to an engraver, ho became a diligent and enthu- 
siastic student. At twenty -six he married Catherine 
Boutcher, who survived him and was a most devoted 
and attached wife. He prudueed a series of designs and 
poems which arc (juiltf unique in the peculiar spirit of 



250 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



their conception, but replete with beauties of a high or- 
der. The designs are drawn, and the poems written, 
upon copper, witli a secret composition (disclosed to 
him, as he says, by the spirit of bis brother Robert) ; and 
when the uncovered parts w'cre eaten away by aqua-for- 
tis, the rest remained as if in stereotype. His wife worlc- 
ed off the plates in the press ; and he tinted the impres- 
sions, designs, and letter-press witli a variety of pleasing 
colors. 

Blake thought that he conversed with the spirits of 
the departed great — with Homer, Moses, Pindar, Virgil, 
Dante, Milton, and many others ; and that some of them 
sat to him for their portraits. He produced a great vari- 
ety of works, many of which now command high prices. 
The principal arc "The Gates of Paradise," "Ulrizen," 
"Illustrations of Young's 'Night Thoughts,'" "Jeru- 
salem," and "Hlustrations to tlic Book of Job." Blake 
got from his strange, fanciful illustrations but little 
worldly gain. He was often extremely poor. Fond of 
children, he retained a child's heart to the last. Mr. 
Ruskin says of his poems: "They are written with ab- 
solute sincerity, with infinite tenderness, and, though in 
the manner of them diseased and wild, are in verity the 
words of a great and wise mind, disturbed, but not de- 
ceived, by its sickness ; nay, partly exalted by it, and 
sometimes giving forth in flery aphorism some of the 
most precious words of existing literature." 



NIGHT. 

Tlie Sim descending in the west, 
Tlie evening star doth shine ; 
Tlie birds are silent in their nest, 
And I must seek for mine. 
The moou, like a flower 
In heaven's high bower, 
With silent delight 
Sits and smiles on the night. 

Farewell, green fields and happy groves. 

Where flocks have ta'eii delight ! 
Where laml)8 have nibbled, silent move 
Tlie feet of angels bright ; 
Unseen, they pour blessing. 
And joy without ceasing. 
On each bud aud blossom, 
On each sleeping bosom. 

They look in every thoughtless nest, 

Where birds are covered warm ; 
They visit caves of every lieast, 
To keep them from all harm; 
If they see any weeping 
That should have been sleeping, 
They ponr sleep on their head, 
And sit down on their bed. 



Wlien wolves and tigers howl for prey, 

They pitying stand and weep, 
Seeking to drive their thirst away. 
And keep them fi'om the sheep ; 
But if they rush dreadful. 
The angels, most heedful, 
Kecelvo each mild spirit, 
New worlds to inherit. 



THE TIGER. 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the night. 
What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry ? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burnt the ftre of thine eyes ? 
Ou what wings dare lie aspire ? 
What the hand dare seize thy fire ? 

Aud what shoulder, and what art, 
Could twist the siuews of thy heart ? 
Aud when thy heart began to beat. 
What dread hand formed thy dread feet ? 

What the hammer? what the chain? 
In what furnace was thy brain ? 
What the anvil? what dread grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? 

When the stars threw down their spears. 
And watered heaven with their tears. 
Did Ho smile his work to see ? 
Did Ho who made the lamb make thee ? 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright, 
III the forests of the night. 
What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 



ON ANOTHER'S SORROW. 

Can I see another's woe, 
And not be in sorrow too ? 
Can I see another's grief. 
And not seek for kind relief? 
Can I see a falling tear, 
And not feel my sorrow's share ? 
Can a father .s<'e his child 
Weep, iior bo with sorrow filled? 



WILLIAM BLAKE.— THOMAS TAYLOR. 



251 



Ciiu a, luotber sit auil liear 
All infant groau, an infant feai' ? 
No, no ! never can it be ! 
Never, never can it be ! 

Anil can He wlio smiles on all 
Hear tbe wren with sorrows small. 
Hear tbe small bird's grief and care, 
Hear tbe woes that infants bear, — 
And not sit beside the nest. 
Pouring l)ity in their breast? 
And not sit the cradle near, 
Weeping tear on infant's tear? 
And not sit, both night and day, 
AViping all onr tears away? 
Oh no! never can it be! 
Never, never can it be ! 

He doth give his joy to all ; 
Ho becomes an infant small ; 
He becomes a man of woe ; 
He doth feel the sorrow too. 
Think not thon canst sigh a sigh, 
And thy Maker is not by ; 
Tlunk not thon canst weep a tear. 
And thy Maker is not near. 
Oh, he gives to lis his joy, 
That onr griefs he may destroy : 
Till onr grief is tied and gone, 
He doth sit by ns and moan. 



INTRODUCTION TO " SONGS OF INNOCENCE." 

Piping down the valleys wild, 
Piping songs of pleasant glee, 

On a elond I saw a child ; 
And he, laughing, said to me : 

"Pipe a song abont a lamb." 
So I piped with merry cheer. 

"Piper, jiipe that song again." 
So I piped ; he wept to bear. 

"Drop tby pipe, thy happy pipe; 

Sing thy songs of happy cheer." 
So I Sling the same again, 

While he wept with joy to hear. 

"Piper, sit thee down and write. 
In a book that all may read — " 

So he vanished from iny sight; 
And I plncked a hollow reed, 



And I made a rnral iien. 

And I stained tbe water clear, 

And I wrote my happy songs, 
Every child may joy to hear. 



<tl)oiiias (Eaiilor. 

Taylor (1758-183.5) was a native of London, where, at 
an early age, he was sent to St. Paul's School. He be- 
came an accomplislicd classical scholar, and devoted his 
spare hours to the study of Plato and Aristotle. To the 
end of Ids life he gave six hours a day to study. Pover- 
ty and its attendant annoyances were no obstacle. He 
translated the writings of all the untranslated ancient 
Greek pliilosophers, and through the generous aid of 
friends was enabled to publish works that must have 
cost more than £10,000, and upon the whole yielded no 
pecuniary profit. He is described as "a sincere friend 
and a delightful comp.Tnion." But Tajdor was a Plato- 
nist and polytlieist. He characterized the Christian re- 
ligion as a " barbarized Platonism ;" and maintained that 
the divinities of Plato are the divinities to be adored ; 
that we should be taught to call God, Jupiter; tbe Vir- 
gin, Venus ; and Christ, Cupid ! This " literary lunacy " 
did not prevent his being held in high esteem by many 
influential friends. He wrote an "Ode to the Rising 
Sun," a remarkable production, and having the passion- 
ate impetus of a sincere adoration; for Taylor believed 
what he was writing, and pours forth real idolatry to the 
suu : Apollo was to him a living power in the universe. 
An English critic says of the poem: "The frequently 
repeated and splendidly effective 'See!' was the true 
inimitable suggestion of sincere emotion, as is proved 
by the otherwise inartificial character of the poem. The 
alliteration with winch the verses abound is evidently 
the unconscious effect of passion ; the music is occasion- 
ally exquisite." 



ODE TO THE RISING SUN. 

Sec! bow with thundering fiery feet 
Sol's ardent steeds tbe barriers beat. 

That bar their radiant way ; 
Yoked by the circling hours they stand. 
Impatient at the god's command 

To bear the car of day. 

See! led by Morn, with dewy feet, 
Apollo mounts bis goldeu seat. 

Replete w itli sevenfold fire ;' 
While, dazzled by bis conquering light, 
Heaven's glittering host and awful night 

Submissively retire. 



1 That is. with his own proi>er fii-e, and witli the fire of the 
olher planets. 



252 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN' POETRY. 



See! clothed with majesty and strengtli, 
Through sacred light's wide gates, at leugth 

Tlie god exulting spring : 
While lesser deities around, 
And demon powers his praise resonud, 

And hail their matchless king! 

Through the dark portals of the deep 
The foaming steeds now furious leap. 

And thunder up the sky. 
The god to strains now tnues his lyre, 
Which nature's harmony inspire, 

And ravish as they fly. 

Even dreadful Ilyle's sea profound 
Feels tlio euchautiug conquering sound, 

And boils with rage no more ; 
The World's dark boundary, Tartarus hears, 
And life-inspiring strains reveres, 

And stills its wild uproar. 

And while throngh heaven the god sublime 
Triumphant rides, see reverend Time 

Fast by his chariot run : 
Observant of the fiery steeds, 
Silent the hoary king proceeds. 

And hynms his parent Sun. 

See! as lie comes, with general voice 
All Nature's living tribes rejoice. 

And own him as their king. 
Even rugged rocks their heads advance. 
And forests on the mountains dance, 

And hills and valleys sing. 

See! while his beauteous glittering feet 
In mystic measures ether beat, — 

Enchanting to tlie sight, 
Pfean,' — whose genial locks diffuse 
Life-bearing health, ambrosial dews,— 

Exulting springs to light ! 

Lo ! as he comes, in Heaven's array, 
And scattering wide tlie blaze of day. 

Lifts high his scourge of lire, — 
Fierce demons that in darkness dwell, 
Foes of our race, and dogs of Hell, 

Dread its avenging ire. 

Hail! crowned with light, creation's king! 
Bo mine the task thy praise to sing, 

' A name of Apollo. 



And \ indicate thy might ; 
Tliy honors spread throngh barbarous climes. 
Ages nnborn, and impious times. 

And realms involved in night! 



(Plijabctl) Cjamilton. 

A native of Scotland, Miss Hamilton was horn 1T58, 
and died 1810. She wrote "The Cottagers of Glen- 
burnie," praised by Jeffrey and Scott, and said by the 
latter to be "a picture of the rural habits of Scotland, 
of striking and impressive fidelity." There have bceu 
scver.al versions of the following little poem. 



MY AIN FIRESIDE. 
I. 
I hae seen great anes, and sat in great. Iia's, 
Mang lords and fine ladies a' covered wi' braws ;' 
At feasts made for princes, wi' princes I've been, 
Whare the grand shine o' splendor has dazzled 

my een ; 
But a sight sae delightfu' I trow I ne'er spied 
As the bounie, blithe blink o' my ain fireside. 

My ain fireside, my ain fireside, 
O there's naught to compare wi' ane's ain fireside. 



Aince mair. Glide be thank't, rouud my ain heart- 
some ingle, 
Wi' the friends o' my youth I cordially mingle ; 
Nae forms to compel me to seem wae or glad, 
I may laugh when I'm merry, and sigh when I'm sad ; 
Nae falsehood to dread, and nae malice to fear, 
But truth to delight me, and friendship to cheer: 
Of a' roads to happiness ever were tried, 
There's nane half so sure as ane's aiu fireside. 

My ain fireside, my ain fireside, 
O there's naught to compare wi' ane's ain fireside. 



When I draw in my stool on my cosy hearthstane, 
My heart loups sae light I scarce keu't for my ain; 
Care's down on the wind, it is clean out o' sight, 
Past troubles they seem bnt as dre.anis of the night. 
I hear but kend voices, kend faces I see, 
And mark saft affection glint fond frae each e'e : 
Na« fletchings" o' flattery, nae boastings of pride, 
'Tis heart speaks to heart at ane's aiu fireside. 

My ain fireside, my ain fireside, 
O there's naught to compai'e wi' ane's ain fireside. 



' Flue clothes. 



' Bhmdishments, cnaxiugs. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



253 



Robert Burns. 

Tlie son of a poor farmer, Burns was born in the par- 
ish of AUoway, near Ayr, Scotland, on the 25th of Jan- 
uary, 1759. He died at Dumfries, on the 21st of July, 
1791!, aged thirty-seven years and six months. Going to 
school at six years of age, he had acquired at eleven a 
fair amount of elementary education. It was all his 
good father could give him; and subsequently, a "fort- 
night's French" and a summer quarter at land-surveying 
comijlotcd all Che instruction the poet ever got, beyond 
what he was able to pick up from a few books that lay 
on his humble shelf. 

The first edition of Burns's poems was published at 
Kilmarnock in 17SU. The little volume went off rapidly ; 
and he found himself with some twenty guineas in his 
pocket, after paying all expenses of the edition. He ar- 
ranged to try his fortune in the West Indies; he was on 
the point of sailing for Jamaica; he had bid farewell to 
the "bonnie banks of Ayr" in his touching song, "The 
gloomy night is gathering fast," when a word of praise 
from Dr. Bhieklock, himself a poet, caused him to alter 
his plans, and proceed to Edinburgh. Here he was cord- 
ially received ; his book had unlocked the first Edin- 
burgli mansions, to the peasant bard. A second edition 
of his poems was issued, by which he cleared nearly 
£oM. He now sent £200 to help his brother Gilbert at 
Mossgiel, took a farm of his own at Ellisland in March, 
1787, and five montlis afterward married Jean Armour, 
by whom he had had twin sons. 

The farm being unfruitful, he tried to supplement it 
with a place in the Excise, with a salary of £70 a year. 
This poorly repaid him for the time its duties cost, and 
tlie dangers of that unsettled, convivial life, to which his 
excitable nature was thus exposed. After struggling for 
more than three years with the stubborn soil of Ellis- 
land, and vainly trying to raise good crops while he 
looked after whiskey-stills, he gave up the farm, and in 
1791 went to live at Dumfries upon his slender income 
as a gauger. A third edition of his poems, enriched with 
his inimitable "Tarn O'Shanter," came out two years 
later. But his life was uearing its close ; he could not 
shake off the grip of his too convivial h.abits, and sad 
days of poverty and failing health came to their end for 
hira before he had well reached his prime. Those who 
had neglected hira in life then found themselves a day's 
pleasure by making a great show of his funeral. Twelve 
thousand came to follow the poet to his grave. 

"It is impossible," says Chambers, " to contemplate 
the life of Burns without a strong feeling of affectionate 
admiration and respect. His manly integrity of char- 
acter — wliich as a peasant he guarded with jealous dig- 
nity—and his warm and true heart, elevate hira, in our 
conceptions, almost as raueh as the native force and 
beauty of his poetry. Some errors and frailties threw 
a shade on the noble and affecting image, but its higher 
lineaments were never destroyed." 

As a lyrical poet. Burns is unsurpassed in all literature. 
So quiclc and genial were his sympathies, that he was 
easily stirred to lyrical melody by whatever was good 
and beautiful, whether in external nature or in the hu- 
man heart and life. His energy and truth — the down- 



right earnestness of his emotions and convictions — stamp 
the highest value on his writings. 

The doctrine of the immortality of the soul, as appears 
from his letters, formed the strongest and most soothing 
of Burns's beliefs. Jlost of his poems are written in 
Lowland Scotch ; but he often rises to an English style, 
noble, impressive, and refined. " Viewing him merely as 
a poet," says Campbell, "there is scarcely another re- 
gret connected with his name than that his productions, 
with all their merit, fall short of the talentis which lie 
possessed." A touching reference to one element of 
success, in which he himself was lacking, is made in the 
following stanza from a scrio-eomie epitaph : 
" Reader, attend — whether thy sonl 
Soars fancy's flights beyond th6 pole. 
Or darkliuj^ grubs this earthly hole. 

In low pursuit, — 
Kuow, prudent, cautious self-control 
Is wisdom's root." 

One noble trait of Burns's character is manifest in the 
fact that, though he died in abject poverty, he did not 
leave a farthing of debt. His physical frame correspond- 
ed to the qualities of his mind. His expressive, thought- 
ful face, above all his kindling eyes, were in keeping with 
the lineaments of his genius, tlie proniinent qualities of 
wliich were earnestness and intensity. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ., OF AYR. 

" Let not ambition mock their useful toil. 
Their homely joys and destiny obscure : 
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile. 
The short but simple auuals of the poor.'* 

Gn,vY. 

My loved, my lionoreil, miicli respected frieud ! 

No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With liouest prido I scorn each selfish end ; 

My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise ! 
To yon I sing, iu simple Seottisli lays, 

The lowly train in life's seqnestered scene ; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways : 

What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; 
Ah ! though his worth unknown, far happier there, 
I ween. 

November chill blaws loud wl' angry sugh ; 

The shortening winter day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the plengli, 

The blackening trains o' craws to their repose : 
The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes. 

This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes. 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
Aud weary, o'er the moor, his course does hanie- 
ward bend. 



254 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEUICAX POETRY. 



At leugtU liis lonely cot appears iu view, 

Beiioatb the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant ■wee things, totUlliu', stacher' 
throngli 

To meet their dad, wi' flichterin'" noise an' glee. 
His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bomiily, 

His cleaii heaith-staue, bis thrifty wific's smile. 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 

Does a' his weary, carking cares begnile, 
Au' makes him qnite forget his labor an' his toil. 

Belyve^ the elder bairns come drapping in. 

At service out, among the farmers ronn' : 
Some ca' the plengh, some herd, son\e tentie* rin 

A canuie errand to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown. 

In youthfn' bloom, love sparkling iu her e'e, 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown, 

Or deposit lier sair-wou penny-fee, 
To lielp her parents dear, if they in hardship bo. 

AVi' joy imfeigned, brothers and sisters meet. 

An' each for others' weelfare kindly spiers : 
The social honrs, swift-winged, unnoticed tieet ; 

Each tells the uncos* that ho sees or hears ; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; 

Anticipation forward points tlie view. 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears. 

Gars" anld elaes look amaist as weel's the new ; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Their masfci's an' tlieii' mistress's eomnnind, 

The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
"An' mind their labors wi' au eydent' hand. 
An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jank' or 
jilay : 
All' oh, be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 

An' mind your duty, dnly, morn an' night! 
Lest iu temptation's path ye gang astray. 
Implore his counsel and assisting might: 
Tliey never .sought in vain that sought the Lord 
aright!" 

Rnt hark ! a rap eonies gently to the door ; 

Jeuuy, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her bame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; 



' Slasser. 
* Caiuicm?. 
' Diligent. 



= FliiKeriiig. 
» Dilliy. 



5 By-niid-by. 
* Mnkcs, 



With heart - struck, anxious care, inquires his 
name. 
While Jenny hafflins' is afraid to speak ; 
Weel jdeased the mother hears it's nae wild, worth- 
less rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome Jeuuy brings him ben ; 

A strappan youth ; he taks the mother's eye ; 
Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'eu ; 

The father cracks" of horses, pletighs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi" joy. 
But blate' and laithfn',* scarce can weel be- 
have ; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 

What makes the youth sae bashfu' au' sae 
grave ; 
Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like 
the lave.' 

happy love! where love like this is found! 

heartfelt raptures ! bliss bcyoiul compare ! 
I've paced much this weary mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare : 
"If heaven a dranght of heavenly pleasure 
spare. 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 

In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that sceuts the evcu- 



Is there, iu hunian form, that bears a heart — 

A wretch! a villain! lost to love and trnlh! 
Tliat cau, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Curse on liis perjured arts! di.ssembling smooth! 

Are honor, virtue, con.scieuce, all exiled ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting rnth. 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their ehihl .' 
Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction 
wild! '" 

Rut now the supper crowns their simple board: 
The halesome jiarritcli," chief o' Scotia's food ; 

The soupe their only liawkie' does aflord. 

That 'yont the hallan" snugly chows her cood: 

The dame brings forth, in complimental mood. 
To grace the lad, her wecl-hained" kebbnek,'" 
fell," 



■ H:lir. 

* lletijtilting 

' Cciw. 

'» Cheese. 



= T.i1k«. 
^ Otliei- people. 
** Porch. 
" Biliii.'. 



= Bashful. 
« Porridge. 
• Well-saved. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



255 



Au' aft be's pressed, au' aft be calls it giiid ; 
The frugal witie, garrulous, will tell 
How 'twas a towmoucV aulcl,siu' liut was i' the bc'll.' 

The cbeerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They round the ingle form a circle wide ; 
Tbe sire turns o'er, wl' patriarchal grace, 

The big ba' Bible, ance bis father's pride : 
His bonnet reverently is laid aside. 

His lyart bafl'ets* wearing thin an' bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Ziou glide. 

He wales* a portion with judicious care; 
And, "Let lis worship God!" he says, with solemn 
air. 

Tliey chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, bj' far the noblest aiui : 
Perhaps Dundee's wild, warbling measures rise. 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of tbe name ; 
Or noble Elgiu beets^ tbe heavenward flame, 

Tbe sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: 
C'limpared with these, Italian trills are tame ; 

The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison bae they with our Creator's praise. 

Tlie priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny; 
Or bow the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic tire ; 
Or other holy seers that tuue tbe sacred lyre. 

Perhaps tbe Christian volume is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty mau was shed ; 
How He who bore in heaven tlie second name 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; 
How his first followers and servants sped ; 

Tbe precepts sage they wrote to many a laud ; 
How be who loue in Patmos banisbdil 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, 
Aud heard great Babylon's doom prououuccd by 
Heaven's command. 

Tlien, kneeling down, to heaven's Eternal King 
The saint, tbe father, and the husband prays; 

Hope "springs exulting on triumphaut wing"" 
That thus they all shall meet in future days ; 



' A Iwclveinoiith. 

» finiy |..cks. 

' Adds fuel to flre. 



- Since the flax was in flower. 

^ Chooses. 

^ Pope's "Windsor Forest." 



There ever bask in uncreated rays. 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear ; 
Together hymning their Creator's praise. 
In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While ciicliug time moves rouud in an eternal 
sphere. 

Compared with this, bow poor Religion's pride. 

In all the jwuip of method aud of art, 
When men display to congregations wide 

Devotion's every grace, except the heart ! 
Tbe Power, inceused, tbe pageant will desert, 

Tbe pompous strain, tbe sacerdotal stole ; 
But haply in some cottage far apart. 

May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul, 
And in bis book of life the inmates poor enroll. 

Then homeward all take off their several way ; 

Tlie youngling cottagers retire to rest ; 
Tbe parent pair their secret homage pay. 

And proft'er up to Heaven the warm request 
Tliat He who stills the raven's clamorous uest, 

And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, 
Would, in tbo way his wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide. 
But chiefly in their hearts with grace diviue preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 
springs. 

That makes ber loved at home, revered abroad : 
Princes and lords are but tbe breath of kings ; 

"An honest man's the noblest work of God:" 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind. 
What is a lordling's pomp ? A cumbrous load. 

Disguising oft the wretch of bumaukind. 
Studied iu arts of bell, in wickeduess refined! 

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! 

For whom ray warmest wish to Heaven is sent! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blessed with health and peace and sweet 
content ! 
Aud oh! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak aud vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns aud coronets be rent, 
A virtuous jiopulace may rise tbe while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their mncb-lovcd 
isle. 

O Thou, who poured the patriotic tide 

That streamed through Wallace's undaunted 
heart, 



256 



CYCLOl'JEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Wlio dared to nobly stem tyr.iunic pride, 
Or nobly die, the second glorious jiarfc — • 

(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art, 

His friend, iuspirer, guardian, and reward !) 

Oh never, never Scotia's realm desert ; 
But still the patriot and the patriot bard 
In bright snccession raise, her ornament and guard ! 



A PRAYER UNDER THE PRESSURE OF 
VIOLENT ANGUISH. 

O thou Great Being ! what thou art 

Surpasses me to know ; 
Yet sure I am that known to thee 

Are all thy works below. 

Thy creature here before thee stands. 
All wretched and distressed. 

Yet sure those ills that ■wring my soul 
Obey thy high behest. 

Sure, thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
Oh free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted bo 

To suit some wise design. 
Then man my soul with firm resolves 

To bear and not repine ! 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND," MAY, 178G. 

I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, 

A something to have sent you. 
Though it should serve nae other end 

Than just a kiud memento; 
But how the subject theme may gang 

Let time and chance determiue ; 
Perhaps it may turu out a sang, 

Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

Ye'U try the world fu' soon, my lad ; 

And, Andrew dear, believe mo, 
Ye'll find mankind an uneo squad, 

And niuckle they may grieve ye. 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

E'eu when your end's attained ; 

• Addicesed tn Aiuli-ew Aiken, son of Robert Aiken, to whr>m 
"TIic Colter's Saturduy Nitjtit" wds dedicntcd. Andrew died 
in 1831 at Ri^jn, wliere ho held the otKce of English consul. 



And a' your views may coiqo to naught 
Where every nerve is straiudd. 

I'll no say men are villaius a' : 

The real, hardened wicked, 
Wha hae nae check but human law, 

Are to a few restricked. 
But och ! mankind are unco weak. 

An' little to be trusted ; 
If self the wavering balance sliake, 

It's rarely right adjusted! 

Y'et they wha fa' in fortune's strife. 

Their fate we should nae censure; 
For still the important end of life 

They equally may answer : 
A niau may hae an honest heart, 

Though poortith' hourly stare him ; 
A man may tak a neebor's part, 

Y'et hae nae cash to spare him. 

Aye free, aft' han' your story tell, 

When wi' a bosom crony ; 
But still keep something to yoursel 

Y'e scarcely tell to ouy. 
Conceal yonrsel as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
Hut keek tlirongh every other man 

Wi' sharpened, sly iuspection." 

Tlie sacred lowe' o' wecl-placcd love, 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Thongh naetliing should divulge it! 
I waive the quantum o' the sin, 

The hazard of concealing ; 
But och ! it hardens a' within, 

And petrifies the feeling ! 

To catch Dame Fortune's golden smile, 

Assiduous wait npou her ; 
And gather gear by every wile 

Thiit's justified by honor; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge. 

Not for a traiu-attendant, 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of beiug independent. 



1 Poverty. 

2 Here Burns wns in en-or, nnd recommended what n gener- 
one nature like liis own would have shrunk frotn — s^ell-conceal- 
nient at the expense of oilier.-*. Probably he felt that prudence 
in checking his own impulsive feelings wns what he lacked. 

3 Flame. 



EOBERT BURNS. 



257 



The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, 

To hand the wretch in order ; 
But where ye feel your honor grip, 

Let that aye be your border : 
Its slightest touches, iustaut pause — 

Debar a' side preteuces ; 
And resolutely keep its laws, 

Uncaring consequences. 

The great Creator to revere 

Must sure become the creature ; 
But still tlie preaching cant forbear, 

And e'en the rigid feature : 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity oifeuded! 

Wlicu ranting round iu pleasure's ring, 

Keligiou may be blinded ; 
Or if she gie a random sting, 

It may be little minded ; 
But when on life we're tempest-driven, 

A conscience but a canker, 
A correspondence tixed wi' heaven 

Is sure a noble auchor ! 

Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting : 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth 

Erect your brow undannting ! 
Iu ploughman phrase, "God send you speed" 

Still daily to grow wiser ; 
And may you better reck the redo' 

Than ever did th' adviser. 



BANNOCKBUEN. 

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

Barns made another version of this poem, inferior, we thinlc, 
to tlie original, which we give. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled ; 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ! 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to victory! 

Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lower ; 
See approach proud Edward's power — 
Chains and slavery! 



' Heed the .idvice. 
17 



Wiia will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Let him turn aud flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strouglj' draw. 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa', ' 
Let him follow me. 

By oppression's woes aud pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will draiu our dearest veins. 
But they shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall iu every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Let us do or die ! 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL,1V86. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 
Thou's met me iu au evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amaug the stoure' 

Tliy slender stem : 
To spare thee uow is past my power. 

Thou bounie gem. 



Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonnie lark, companion meet. 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, 

Wi' speckled breast, 
When upward springing, blithe to greet 

The purpling east! 

Canld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm ; 
Scarce reared above the parent earth 

Thy tender form ! 

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield 
High sheltering woods and wa's mauu shield ; 
But thou beneath the random biehP 

O" clod or stane 
Adorns the histie^ stibble-field, 

Un.seen, alane. 



Dust. 



> Protection. 



Dry. 



258 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISS AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



There, in tliy scanty mantle clad, 
Tliy siiawy bosom sunward spread, 
Tbou lifts tliy unassuming bead 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uiitears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless maid, 
Sweet floweret of the rural shade! 
By love's simplicity betrayed, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soiled is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Sitch is the fate of simple bard. 

On life's rough ocean luckless starred ! 

Unskilfnl he to note the card 

Of prudent lore. 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate to suffering worth is given, 

Who long with wants and woes has striven. 

By human pride or cunning driven 

To misery's brink. 
Till, wrenched of every stay bnt Heaven, 

He, ruined, sink ! 

E'en thou who monru'st the daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate. 

Full on thy bloom. 
Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight. 

Shall be thy doom ! 



FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 

Is there, for honest poverty 

That hangs his head, and a' that? 
The coward slave, we pass him by; 

We dare be poor for a' that! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Onr toils obscure, and a' that: 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The man's the gowd for a' that ! 

What though on liamilv fare wo dine, 
Wear hoddin gray,' and a' that? 

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wii 
A man's a man for a' that ! 

' Co.irse woollen cloth. 



For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that : 

The honest man, though e'er sae poor. 
Is king o' men for a' that ! 

Ye see yon birkie," ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that: 
Though hundreds worship at his word, 

He's bnt a coof" for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 

His ribbon, star, and a' that : 
The man of indepeudeut mind. 

He looks and laughs at a' that ! 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, dnke, aud a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his might: 

Quid faith, he manna fa'^ that ! 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their dignities, and a' that. 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth. 

Are higher rank' than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may — 

As come it will for a' that — 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 

May bear the gree,' aud a' that : 
For a' that, and a' that. 

It's coniin' yet for a' that. 
That man to man, the warld o'er. 

Shall brothers be for a' that ! 



HIGHLAND MARY. 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Greeu be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Y'our waters never drumlie !" 
There simmer first unfauld her robes. 

And there the langest tarry! 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloomed the gay green bii-k. 
How rich the hawthorn's blossom. 

As underneath their fragrant shade 
I clasped her to my bosom ! 

The golden hours on angel wings 
Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 



' A coiiccited fellow. ' A fool. 

3 Attempt. < So ill MS., but usil.nlly printed ranka. 

5 Supremacy. ' .Miulciy. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



259 



For dear to nio as liglit and life 
Was luy sweet Hiyhlaiul Maiy. 

Wi' moiiy a vow ami locked embrace 

Our parting was fii' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But oil ! fell death's untimely frost. 

That nipped my flower sae early! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's tlio clay. 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

O pale, pale now those rosy lips 

I aft hao kissed sae fondly! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on mo sae kindly ! 
xVnd mouUlering now iu silent dust 

Tliat heart that loed mo dearly ! 
But still witliiu my bosom's eoro 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



BONNIE LESLEY. 

O saw ye bonnie Lesley 

As she gaed o'er the border ? 

She's gane, lilie Alexander, 

To sjiread her coni[uests further. 

To see her is to love her. 
And love but her forever ; 

For nature made her wliat she is, 
And never made anithcr ! 

TIiou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we, before thee ; 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
Tlie hearts o' men adore thee. 

Tb(^ deil he could ua scaith thee, 
Or anglit that wad belang thee ; 

He'd look into thy bonnie face. 
And say, "1 canua wrang thee." 

The powers aboon ^ill tent thee ; 

Misfortune sha' na steer thee ; 
Thou'rt like themselves, sae lovely 

Tliat lU they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Calcdonie ! 
That we may brag we hae a lass 

There's uane again sae bonnie. 



AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And never brought to mind ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And days o' lang syne ? 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne ; ; 

We'll tak a cup o' kinduessVet; 
For auld lang syne. 

We twa hae run about the braes. 

And pu't the gowans fine ; 
But we've wandered mony a weary foot 

Sin' auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, etc. 

We twa h.ie paidl't i' the burn 

Frae mornin' sun till dine ; 
But seas between us braid hae roared 

Sin' auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, etc. 

And here's a hand, my trusty flere,' 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught' 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, etc. 

Anil surely ye'll bo your pint-stowp. 

And surely I'll be mine; 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, etc. 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, 

Tliat lovest to greet the early mom, 
Again thou nslierest iu the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 

That sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live oue day of parting love ? 



Compauiou. 



2 Drnusht. 



CGO 



CYCLOrjEDIA OF VBITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past ; 
Tliy image at our last embrace — 

Ab ! little tbouglit we 'twas our last! 

Ayr, gnrgliug, kissed liis pebbled sbore, 

O'erbung with wild woods, tbickeuing green ; 
'i'lie fragrant bircb and hawthorn hoar 

Twined amorous round the raptured scene ; 
The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed, 

Tlie birds sang love on every spray, — 
Till too, too soon the glowing west 

Proclaimed tbe speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, 

And fondly broods with raiser care ! 
Time but the impression stronger makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
Bce'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 



AE FOND KISS. 

Ae fond kiss, and then wo sever! 
Ae fareweel, and then forever ! 
Deep iu Leart-wrnng tears I'll pledge thee, 
AVarriug sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him. 
While the star of hope she leaves liim ? 
Me — nae cheerful twiukle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights mo. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy ; 
]3ut to see her was to love her, 
Love but her, and lovo forever. 
Had we never loved sae kindly. 
Had wo never loved sae blindly. 
Never met — or never parted, 
Wc had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Faro thee weel, tliou lirst and fairest ! 
Fare thee weel, tlion best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, Enjoyment, Love, and Pleasure ! 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! 
Ae fareweel, alas ! forever! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee. 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 



JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 

John Audersou my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your boniiie brow was breut ; 
But now your brow is held, John, 

Y''onr locks are like the suaw, 
But blessiugs on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither ; 
And mouy a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But band-iu-baud we'll go. 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 



DUNCAN GRAY. 

Duncan Gray cam here to woo. 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't; 

On blithe Y'ulo night when we were fuu, 
Ha, lia, the wooing o't. 

Maggie coost' her head fu' higli. 

Looked asklent and uuco skeigh,'' 

Gart" poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan fleeehed,* and Duuean prayed. 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 

Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,' 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 

Duucau sighed baith out and in, 

Grat" his een baith bleer't and blin', 

Spak o' lowpiu" ower a linn. 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Time and chance are but a tide. 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 

Slighted love is sair to bide. 

Ha, ha, tlie wooing o't ; 

Shall I, like a fool, (jnoth he, 

For a haughty hizzie die ? 

She may gae to — France for me ! 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



> Cast. » Coy. 

' Compelled. * Flattered. 

' A well-kuowii rocky islet in ttie Firili of Clyde. 
• Wept. ' Le.ipiiij;. 



ROBERT BURKS. 



2G1 



How it comes let doctors tell, 

H:i, Iia, tlie wooing o't ; 

Meg grew sick — as he grew heal, 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Something in her bosom wrings. 

For relief a sigh she brings ; 

And oh, her een they spak sic things ! 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 

Maggie's was a jiiteous case. 

Ha, ha, the w'ooing o't ; 

Duncan couldna be her death. 

Swelling pity smoored his wrath ; 

Now thej-'re cronse' and canty baith, 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



SOMEBODY. 

My heart is sair, I darena tell. 

My heart is sair for somebody ; 
I could wake a winter night 
For the sake of somebody ! 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I conld range the world aroiind 
For the sake o' somebody. 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

O sweetly smile on somebody ! 
Frae ilka danger keep him free, 
Aud send me safe my somebody ! 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey! for somebody! 
I wad do — what wad I not ? — 
For the sake o' somebody. 



A RED, RED ROSE. 

O my luve's like a red, red rose. 

That's newly sprung in June ; 
O my luve's like the melodic 

That's sweetly played in tune. 
As fair art thou, my bonnie las.s. 

So deep in luve am I ; 
Aud I will luve thee still, my dear. 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

1 Bri.-^k. 



Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun : 
I will luve thee still, my deai-. 
While the samls o' life shall run. 
Aud fare thee weel, my only luve! 

Aud fore thee weel awhile ! 
And I will come again, my luve. 
Though it were ten thousand mile. 



THE BANKS 0' DOON. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doou, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ? 
How cau ye chaut, ye little birds, 

Aud I sae weary, fu' o' care ? 
Thoii'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird. 

That wantons through the flowering thorn : 
Thou minds me o' departed joys. 

Departed never to return. 

Aft liae I roved by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbiue twine: 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve. 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upou its thorny tree; 
And my fiiuse luver stole my rose. 

But ah! he left the thoru wi' me. 



AFTON WATER. 

Flow gently, sweet Aftou, among thy green braes. 
Flow gently, FU sing thee a song iu thy praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmnring stream. 
Flow gently, sweet Aftou, disturb uot her dream. 

Thou stockdove whose echo resounds through the 

glen. 
Ye wild whistliug blackbirds in you thorny den. 
Thou greeu-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, ' 
Far marked with the courses of clear, winding rills. 
There daily I wander as noon rises high. 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot iu my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below. 
Where wild iu the woodlands the jirimroses blow ; 
There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary aud me. 



2&2 



CICLOPJEDIA OF BlUTISH JXD AMEEICAX rOKTHT. 



Tby crystal stream, Aftoii, how lovely it glides, 
Ami wiuds Iiy the cot where niy Mary resides ; 
How waiitou thy waters her snowy feet lave. 
As gatlieiiug sweet flowerets she stems thy clear 
wave. 

Flow geiitl)-, sweet Afton, among thy groeii braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 
ily Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 



iJolju illaiinc. 



John Mayne (1759-1830) was a native of Dumfries, 
Scotland. After sueb an education as he could get at 
tlie grammar-school of his native town, he entered the 
jirinting-officc of the Dumfries Jovrval as a type-setter. 
In 1T81 he published his song of "Logan Braes," of 
which Burns afterward composed a new, hut inferior, 
version. Mayne wrote "The Siller Gun," a descriptive 
poem, the latest edition of which contains five cantos. 
In 1787 he settled in London. Allan Cunningham said 
of him : "A better or warmer -hearted man never ex- 
isted." 

LOGAN BRAES. 
By Logan streams that riu sac deep 
Fu' aft wl' glee I've herded sheep; 
Herded sheep, and gathered slaes, 
Wi' my dear lad on Logan braes. 
But, wae's ray heart ! thae days are gane, 
And I wi' grief may herd alane ; 
While my dear lad mann face his faes, 
Far, far frac mo and Logan braes. 

Nae mair at Logan kirk will he 
Atween the preachings meet wi' me; 
Meet wi' me, or, whan it's mirk. 
Convoy me hanie frae Logan kirk. 
I weel may sing thae days are gane; 
Frae kirk and fair I come alane; 
While my dear lad maun face his faes. 
Far, far frao me and Logan braes. 

At e'en, when hope aniaist is gane, 
I daunder' out, and sit alane ; 
Sit alane beneath the tree 
Whore aft ho kept his tryst wi' inc. 
O could I see thae days again. 
My lover skaithless, and my ain ! 
Beloved by friends, revered by foes. 
We'd live in bliss on Logan braes. 

1 To walk thoughtlessly. 



ioclcn iUitria lUilliams. 

Miss Williams (1763-1S27) was a native of the North of 
England, and was nshered into public notice when she 
was eighteen by Dr. Kippis. Slie published "Edwin and 
Elfrida," a poem: "Peru," a poem; and other pieces, 
afterward collected in two volumes. In 1790 she settled 
in Paris. There she became intimate with Madame Ro- 
land and the most eminent of the Girondists ; and in 1794 
was imprisoned, and nearly shared their fate. She es- 
caped to Switzerland, but returned to Paris in 179(), and 
resided there till her death. She shared the religious 
opinions of the "Theophilauthropists," who were pure 
Theists. The one exquisite liymu by which she is known 
has been freely adopted, however, by all Christian sects. 
In 1S2.3 she collected and republished her poems. Of 
one of her sonnets she says: "I commence the sonnets 
with that to Hope, from a predilection in its favor for 
which I have a proud reason : it is that of Mr. Words- 
wortli, who lately honored me with his visits while at 
Paris, having icpeated it to me from memory after a 
lapse of many years." 



SONNET TO HOPE. 

Oh, ever skilled to wear the form we love, 
To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart, — 
Come, gentle Hope ! with one gay smile remove 
The lasting sadness of an aching heart. 
Thy voice, benign enchantress ! let me hear ; 
Say that for mc some pleasures yet shall bloom ; 
That Fancy's radiance, Friendship's precious tear, 
Sliall soften or shall cbase misfortune's gloom. 
But come not glowing in the dazzling ray 
Which once with dear illusions charmed ray eye ; 
Oh, strew no raore, sweet flatterer, on my way 
Tlie flowers I fondly thought too bright to die ! 
Visions less fair will soothe my jiensive breast. 
That asks not happiness, but longs for rest. 



TRUST IN PROVIDENCE. 

While thee I seek, iirotecting Power, 

Be my vain wishes stilled; 
And n\ay this consecrated hour 

With better hopes be tilled. 

Thy love the powers of thought bestowed ; 

To thee ray thoughts would soar: 
Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed; 

That mercy I adore ! 

In each event of life, how clear 
Thy ruling band I see ! 



ANDREW CHEBRT.— GEORGE COLMAX. TEE YOUNGER. 



26:i 



P 



Each blessing to luy soul more dear 
Because conferred by thee! 

In every joy that crowns my days, 

lu every pain I bear, 
My heart shall find delight in praise. 

Or seek relief in prayer. 

When gladness wings my favored honr, 
Thy love my thoughts shall fill ; 

Resigned, when storms of sorrow lower. 
My soul shall meet thy will. 

My lifted eye, without a tear, 
The gathering storm shall see ; 

My steadfast heart shall know no fear ; 
That heart shall rest on thee ! 



iHnlirciu (L'ljcvrn. 

Born in Limerick, IreUnul, Andrew Cherry (1763-1812) 
was an actor and dramatic author of second-rate abili- 
ties ; but he made one conspicuous hit in his well-known 
song of the " Bay of Biscay," whicli, defective as it is in 
literary merit, is wedded to music that Icceps it alive. 
Braham used to sing it with thrilliug effect. 



THE B.A,Y OF BISCAY. 

Loud roared the dreadful thnuder, 
Tlie rain a deluge showers ; 

The clouds were rent asunder 
By lightning's vivid powers : 

The night both drear and dark. 

Our poor devoted bark. 

Till next day there she lay. 

In the Bay of Biscay*, ! 

Now dashed upon the billow. 
Her opening timbers creak : 

Each fears a watery pillow: 
None stops the dreadful leak. 

To cling to slippery shrouds 

Each breathless seaman crowds, 

As she lay till the day 

In the Bay of Biscay, O ! 

At length the wished-for morrow 
Broke through the hazy sky ; 

Absorbed in silent sorrow. 
Each heaved a bitter sigh : 

The dismal wreck to view 

Struck horror to the crew. 



As she lay, on that day, 
In the Bay of Biscay, O ! 

Her yielding timbers sever, 

Her pitchy seams are rent. 
When Heaven, all bonnteons ever. 

Its boundless mercy sent : — 
A sail in sight appears! 
We hail it with three cheers! ^ 
Now we sail with the gale 
From the Bay of Biscay, O ! 



(6corgc (llolman, tl)e Uoungcr. 

The sou of George Colmau, the Elder, author of " The 
Jealous Wife," and other successful plays, George the 
Younger (1763-1S36) early gave his attention to the writ- 
ing of plays. He produced several which still keep their 
place on the stage: "The Iron Chest" (1796); "The 
Heir at Law" (1797); "The Poor Gentlem.an" (1803); 
"John Bull" (1805) ; with numerous minor pieces. Col- 
man wrote poetical travesties and light forcic.al pieces In 
verse, which were collected and published (1803) under 
the title of " Broad Grins." 



SIR MARMADUKE. 

Sir Marmaduke was a hearty knight — 

Good man ! old man ! 
He's painted standing bolt upright. 

With his hose rolled over his knee ; 
His periwig's as white as chalk. 
And on his fist he holds a hawk ; 

And he looks like the head 
Of an ancient family. 

His diniug-room was long and wide — 

Good man ! old man ! 
His spaniels lay by the fireside ; 

And iu other parts, — d'ye see ? 
Cross-bows, tobacco-pipes, old hats, 
A saddle, his wife, and a litter of cats; 

And he looked like the head 
Of an aueient family. 

He never turned the poor from the gate — 

Good man ! old man ! 
But was always ready to break the pate 

Of his country's enemy. 
What knight could do a better thing 
Thau serve the poor and fight for his king ! 

And so may every head 
Of au ancient family! 



•264 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Cjjcrton Crubgies. 



Sii- Samuel E-^erton Brydges (1763-1837) first saw the 
light at the manor-house ot Wootton, between Canter- 
bury and Dover. By his motlier, an Egerton, he claimed 
to have inherited the most illustrious blood of Europe. 
Having entered Queen's CoUeue, Cambridge, he left it 
without a degree. He tried the law, was admitted to the 
Bar, but made no mark as a lawyer. In 1785 he publish- 
ed a volume of poems; and in 1S14 his volume of "Occa- 
sional Poems" appeared. His "Bertram," a poem, was 
given to the world in 1815. Byron writes of him as "a 
strange but able old man." He was immensely proud 
of his noble ancestry, sensitive, and morbidly anxious for 
literary fame, as some of his sonnets show. The latter 
part of his life, having involved himself in pecuniary em- 
barrassments, he resided chiefly at Geneva. His sonnet 
upon "Echo and Silence" was pronounced by Words- 
worth the best sonnet in the language ; and Southey 
said he knew of none more beautifully imaginative- 
commendation that now must seem extravagant and in- 
appropriate. Brydges was too self-conscious, introspec- 
tive, and jealous of what he thought his dues, to warble 
any "native wood-notes wild." His long poems have 
little poetic value ; but he shows imaginative power, 
and some of the high gifts of the poet. He edited with 
much ability an edition of Milton, which was republislied 
in New York, and is still in demand. 



ECHO AND SILENCE. 

In eddying course when leaves began to fly. 

And Autumu iu ber lap the store to strew, 

As 'mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo, 

Thro' glens iintrod, and woods that frowned on high. 

Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I spy ! 

And lo, she's gone ! — In robe of dark-green hi\e 

'Twas Echo from ber sister Silence llew. 

For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky! 

In shade affrighted Silence melts away. 

Not so her sister. — Hark ! for onward still, 

With far-heard step, she takes her listening way, 

Bounding from rock to rock, and bill to hill. 

Ah, mark the merry maid in mockfnl play 

With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest till ! 



THE APPROACH OF COLD WEATHER. 

One morn, what time the sickle 'gan to play, 
The eastern gates of heaven were open laid. 
When forth the rosy Hours did lead a maid, 
From her sweet eyes who shed a softened ray. 
Hlushing and fair she was ; and from the braid 
Of ber gold locks she shook forth perfumes gay : 



Yet languid looked, and indolently strayed 
Awhile, to watch the harvest borne away. 
But now, with sinews braced, and aspect hale-, 
With buskined logs, and quiver 'cross her flung ; 
With hounds and horn, she seeks the wood and vale ; 
And Echo li.stens to her forest song. 
At eve she flies to hear the poet's tale, 
And "Autumn's" name resounds his shades among. 



WRITTEN AT PARIS, MAY 11, 1826. 

High name of poet ! — sought in every age 

By thousauds — scarcely won by two or three, — 

As with the thorns of this sad pilgrimage 

My bleeding feet are doomed their war to wage, 

W^ith awful worship I have bowed to thee ! 

And yet, perchance, it is not Fate's decree 

This mighty boou should be assigned to me, 

My heart's consuming fever to assuage. — • 

Fountain of Poesy! that liest deep 

Within the bosom's innermost reces.ses. 

And rarely burstest forth to human ear. 

Break out ! — and, while profoundly magic sleep 

With pierceless veil all outward form oppresses, 

Let me the music of thy murmurs hear. 



WRITTEN AT LEE PRIORY', AUGUST 10, 182(!. 

Praise of the wise and good ! — it is a meed 
For which I would lone years of toil endure ; 
Which many a peril, many a grief would cure! 
As onwanl I with weary feet proceed. 
My swelling heart continues still to bleed ; 
The glittering prize holds out its distant lure, 
But seems, as nearer I approach, less sure, 
And uever to my prayer to be decreed ! — 
With anxious ear I listen to the voice 
That shall pronounce the precious boou I ask ; 
But yet it comes" uot, — or it comes iu doubt. 
Slave to the passion of my earliest choice, 
From youth to age I ply my daily tivsk, 
And hope, e'en till the lamp of life goes out. 



lUilliam Cisle Comics. 

But for tlie praise bestowed by Coleridge and Words- 
worth on the sonnets of Bowles — praise which seems a 
little overstrained a century later — he would hardly be 
entitled to a place among British poets of note. Born 
in the county of Wilts in 17G2, he died in 1850. He 



WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.— JOANXA BAILLIE. 



265 



was educated at Oxford, studied for tlie ministry, was 
made rrebcndary of Salisbury, 1804, and incumbent of 
Bremliiil, Wiltsliire, 1S05. He was a voluminous writer 
botli of prose and poetry. Hallam says: "The sonnets 
of Bowles may be reckoned among the first-fruits of a 
new era in poetry." Bowles had a controversy with By- 
ron and Campbell on the writings of Pope, and took the 
ground that Pope was no poet. Many pamphlets were 
issued on both sides, and the question was left where 
the combatants found it. Pope's must always be a great 
name in English literature. 



THE TOUCH OF TIME. 

Time ! ivho know'st a leuieut baud to lay 
Softest on Sorrow's wound, and slowly thence 
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) 

The faint pang stealest unperceivcd away! 
On tliee I rest my only hope at last, 
And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear 
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, 

1 may look back on every sorrow past, 

And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile; 
As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, 
Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower 
Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while: — 
Yet ah, how much must that poor heart endure 
Which ho])es from thee, aud thee alone, a cure ! 



THE BELLS OF OSTEND. 

WRITTEN ON A BE.\UTIFUL MORNING, AFTER A STORM. 

No, I never, till life and its shadows shall end, 
Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend! 
The day set in darkness; the wind it blew loud, 
Aud rung, as it passed, through each murmuring 

shroud. 
My forehead was wet with the foam of the spray, 
My heart sighed in secret for those far away ; 
When slowly the morulug advanced from the east, 
The toil and the noise of the tempest had ceased : 
The peal, from a land I ne'er saw, seemed to say, 
"Let the stranger forget every sorrow to-day!" 

Yet the short-lived emotion was mingled with pain : 
I thought of those eyes I should ne'er see again ; 
I thought of the kiss, the last kiss which I gave ; 
Aud a tear of regret fell unseen on the wave. 
I thought of the schemes fond affection had planned. 
Of the trees, of the towers, of my own native land. 
But still the sweet sounds, as they swelled to the air. 
Seemed tidings of pleasure, though mournful, to 
bear; 



Aud I never, till life aud its shadows shall end. 
Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend ! 



SONNET, OCTOBER, 1792. 

Go, then, and join the roaring city's throng! 
Me thou dost leave to solitude and tears. 
To busy fantasies, and boding fears, ^ 
Lest ill betide thee. But 'twill not be long, 
And the hard season shall be past : till then 
Live happy, sometimes the forsaken shade 
Remembering, aud these trees now left to fade ; 
Nor 'mid the busy scenes and "hum of men" 
Wilt thou my cares forget : in heaviness 
To me the hours shall roll, weary and slow, 
Till, monrufnl autumn past, and all the snow 
Of wiuter pale, the glad hour I shall bless 
That shall restore thee from the crowd again. 
To the green hamlet in the peaceful iilain. 



SONNET: ON THE ElVER RHINE. 

'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow 
(Hung with the beamy clusters of the viue) 
Streamed the blue light, when on the sparkling 

Rhino 
We bounded, and the white waves round the prow 
In mnrmnrs parted. Varying as we go, 
Lo, the woods open, and the rocks retire, 
^Some convent's ancient walls or glistening spire 
'Mid the bright landscape's track unfolding slow. 
Here dark, with furrowed aspect, like despair, 
Frowns the bleak cliff; there on the woodland's side 
The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide ; 
While Hope, euchanted with the scene so fair, 
Would wish to linger many a summer's day. 
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away. 



loanna 33ailUc. 

Miss Baillie (1T63-1S.51) was the daughter of a Scottish 
minister, and was born in Bothwell, county of Lanark. 
Her latter years were spent at Hampstead. She wrote 
"Plays of the Passions," of which "De Montfort" is, 
perhaps, the best, and which made for her quite a litera- 
ry reputation in her day. The lines on "Fame" form 
the conclusion of a narrative poem, entitled "Christo- 
pher Columbus." According to Ballantyne, she was at 
one time pronounced "the highest genius" of Great 
Britain by Sir Walter Scott. Her dramatic and poetic 
works, with a Life, were published in 1853. 



266 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BlilTISn AXD AMEltlCAN POETRY. 



TO A CHILD. 

Whose imp art tbon, \yith ilimiilcd cheek, 

Ami ciiily pate, and merry eye. 
Ami arm ami shoulders nmud, and sleek, 

Aud soft, aud fair? thou urchin sly! 

What boots it vho, vrith sweet caresses, 
First called thee his, or squire or bind ? — 

Since thou in every wight that passes 
Dost now a friendly playmate find. 

Thy downcast glances, grave, but cunning, 

As fringdd eyelids rise and fall, — 
Tiiy shj'ness, swiftlj' from me running, — • 

'Tis infantine coquetry all! 

But far afield thou bast not flown. 

With mocks and threats, half lisped, half spoken, 
I feel thee pulling at my gown. 

Of right good-will thy simple token. 

And thou must laugh and wrestle too, 

A mimic warfare with me waging, 
To make, as wily lovers do. 

Thy after kindness more engaging. 

The wilding rose, sweet as thyself, 

Aud new-cropped daisies are thy treasure : 

I'd gladly part with worldly pelf. 

To taste again thy youthful i)leasure. 

But yet, for all thy merry look, 

Thy fiisks and wiles, the time is coming 

When tbou sbalt sit in cheerless nook. 
The weary spell or horn-book tbumbing. 

Well, let it be ! Through weal and woe 
Thou know'st not now thy future range ; 

Life is a motley, shifting show. 

And thou a thing of hope and change. 



FAME. 



Oh, who shall lightly say that fame 
Is nothing but an empty name, 
While iu that sound there is a charm 
The nerve to brace, the heart to warm, 
As, thinking of the mighty dead. 
The young from slothful couch will start, 
Aud vow, with lifted bands outspread. 
Like then), to act a noble part f 



Oh, who shall lightly say that fame 
Is nothing but an empty name, 
When, but for those, our mighty dead, 
All ages past a blank would be, 
Sunk iu oblivion's murky bed, 
A desert bare, a shipless sea ? 
They are the distant objects seen, — 
The lofty marks of what hath been. 

Oh, who shall lightly say that fame 
Is nothing but an empty name. 
When memory of the mighty dead 
To earth-worn pilgrim's wistful eye 
The brightest rays of cheering shed 
That point to immortality ? 

A twiukling speck, but fixed and bright. 
To guide us through the dreary uigUt, 
Each hero shines, and lures the soul 
To gain the distant, happy goal. 
For is there one who, musing o'er the grave 
Where lies interred the good, the wise, the brave ; 
Can poorly think beneath the mouldering lieap 
That noble being shall forever sleep ? 
"No," saith the generous heart, aud proudly swells, 
"Though his cored corse lies here, with God his 
spirit dwells." 



Sljomas Husscll. 



Russell (176'i-17S8) was a native of Bctiminstcr, Dor- 
setshire. He studied for the Church, but died young. 
After bis death appeared "Sonnets and Miscellaneous 
Poems, by the late Thom.is Russell, Fellow of New Col- 
lege, O-xford, 1789." Southey spoke of him in exagger- 
ated terms as "the best English sonnet-writer;" and 
Bishop Mant says, "there are no better sonnets in the 
English language than Russell's." Wordsworth also 
praised him. Of the sonnet, " To Valclusn," H. F. Cary, 
in his "Notices of Miscellaneous English Poets," says: 
"The whole of this is exquisite. Nothing can be more 
like Milton than the close of it." 



TO VALCLUSA. 

What though, Valclusa, the fond bard be fled 
That wooed his fair iu thy sequestered bowers, 
Long loved her living, long bemoaned lier dead, 
Aud hung her visionary shrine w ith flowers ? 
What though no more ho teach thy shades to mourn 
The hapless chances that to love belong. 
As erst, when drooping o'er her turf forlorn, 
Ho charmed wild Echo with his jilaiutive song? 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 



267 



Yet still, enamored of the tender tale, 

Pale Passiou lianuts tby grove's romantic gloom. 

Yet still soft music breatbes in every gale, 

Still nndecayed tbe fairy-garlands bloom, 

Still heavenly' incense fills each fragrant vale, 

Still Petrarch's Genius weeps o'er Laura's tomb. 



SONNET. 

Could then the Bal>es from yon unsheltered cot 

Imi>lore thy passing charity in vain ? 

Too thonglitless Youth! what though thy happier 

lot 
Insult their life of poverty and pain ! 
What though their Maker doomcil them thus forlorn 
To brook the mockery of the taunting throng. 
Beneath the Oppressor's iron scourge to mourn, 
To mourn, but not to murmur at his wrong! 
Yet when their last late evening shall decline, 
Their evening cheerful, though their day distressed, 
A Hope perhaps more Leavenly-bright than thine, 
A Grace by thee unsought, and unpossessed, 
A Faith more fixed, a R.apture more divine 
I Shall gild their jiassage to eternal Rest. 



Samuel Uogcrs. 



Roircrs (1763-18.5.5) was the son of a banker, resident 
near London. In 1776 he entered the banking-house as 
a clerk. Once, when a boy, lie resolved to call ou Dr. 
Johnson in Bolt Court, but his courage failed him as he 
placed his hand on tbe knocker, and they never met. In 
1783 Rogers published " The Pleasures of Memory." Its 
success was remarkable. In 1793 his father died, and 
Samuel, inheriting a large fortune, bad ample leisure for 
literature. At his residence in St. James's Place, he de- 
lighted to gather round him men eminent in letters and 
art. In 1830 he published a superb edition of his poem, 
"Italy," illustrated with engravings after drawhigs done 
for him by Stothard, Turner, and other artists. Rogers 
was a careful and fastidious writer. His "Italy" has 
passages of liigh artistic merit, and will long make his 
place good among British poets. A certain quaint sar- 
casm eliaracterized some of his sayings. The late Lord 
Dudley (Ward) had been free in his criticisms on the 
poet, who retaliated with this epigrammatic couplet: 

"Ward has no heart, they say; bnt I deny it; 
lie has a heart — he gets his speeches by it." 

On one occasion Rogers tried to extort from his neigh- 
bor, Sir Philip Francis, a confession that be was the au- 
thor of "Junius ;" but Francis gave a surly rebuff, and 
Rogers remarked that if he was not Junius, he was at 
least Brutus. The poet's recipe for long life was, " tem- 



perance, the bath and flesh-brush, and don't fret." He 
thus, in his "Italy," refers to himself: 

"Nature denied him much. 
But gave him at his birth what most he values : 
A passionate love for music, sculpture, painting. 
For poetry, the language of the guds, 
For all things here, or gi-aiid or beautiful, 
A setting sun, a lake among the mountains. 
The light of an ingenuous couutenance. 
And, wh.at tiansceuds them all, a uoble ijct'ion." 

Rogers died in bis ninety -third year, bis life having 
ranged over four successive generations in the history 
of English literature. 



THK OLD ANCESTRAL MANSION. 

From " The I^leasures of Memoet." 

Mark yon old mausiou frowning through the trees, 
AVliose hollow turret woos flic whistling breeze. 
That casement, arched with ivy's brownest shade, 
First to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed. 
The mouldering gate-way strews the grass-grown 

court. 
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport ; 
When nature pleased, for life itself was new, 
And the heart promi.sed what tbe fancy drew. 

See, through the fractured pediment revealed 
Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured shield, 
The nmrtin's old, hereditary nest : 
Long may the ruin spare its hallowed guest ! 

As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call ! 
O haste, unfold the hospitable hall ! 
That hall, where once, in antiquated state. 
The chair of justice held the grave debate. 

Now stained with dews, with cobwebs darkly 
hnng. 
Oft has its roof with jieals of rapture rung ; 
Wheu round yon ample board, iu due degree, 
We sweeteued every meal with social glee. 
The heart's light laugh pursued the circliug jest, 
And all was sunshine iu each little breast. 
'Twas here wo chased the slipper by the sound ; 
And turned the blindfold hero round and round. 
'Twas here, at eve, we formed our fairy ring ; 
And fancy fluttered on her wildest wing. 
Giants and genii chained each wondering ear ; 
And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear. 
Oft with the babes we wandered iu the wood, 
Or viewed the forest feats of Robin Hood : 
Oft fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour, 
With startling step we scaled the lonely tower ; 
O'er infant innocence to hang and weep. 
Murdered by ruffiau hands, wheu smiling iu its sleep. 

Ye household deities I who.se guardian eye 
Marked each pure thought, ere registered ou high; 



26« 



CrCLOI'J^DIA OF lililTISIl AND JMICHICAX I'OETRY. 



Still, still ye walk the cousecrateil groiiud, 
Auil breathe the soul of Iiisiiiiatiou rouud. 

As o'ei' the dusky furniture 1 beud, 
Each chair awakes the feeliugs of a friend. 
The storied arras, source of fond delight, 
With old achievemeut charms the 'wildered sight ; 
And still, with heraldry's rich hues impressed. 
On the dim window glows the pictured crest. 
The screeu unfolds its many-colored chart, 
The clock still points its moral to the heart. 
That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear. 
When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near : 
And has its sober hand, its simple chime. 
Forgot to trace the feathered feet of time ? 
That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought. 
Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensi\"e 

thought ; 
Tliose muskets cased with venerable rust; 
Those ouce - loved forms, still breathing through 

tlieir dust. 
Still from the frame, in mould gigantic cast, 
Starting to life — all whisper of the past ! 

As throngh the garden's desert paths 1 rove. 
What fond illusions swarm in every grove ! 
How oft, when purple evening tinged the west. 
We watched the emmet to her grainy nest; 
Welcomed the wild-bee home on weary wing, 
Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring ! 
How oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive rhyme, 
The bark now silvered by the touch of time ; 
Soared in the swing, half pleased and half afraid. 
Through sister elms that waved their summer 

shade ; 
Or strewed with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat. 
To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat! 



HOPES FOR ITALY. 
From " Italy." 

Am I in Italy ? Is this the Mincius f 

Are those the distant turrets of Verona ? 

And shall I sup where Juliet at the mask 

Saw her loved Montague, and now sleeps by him ? 

Such questions hourly do I ask myself; 

And not a finger-post by the roadside 

"To Mantua" — "To Ferrara" — but excites 

Surprise, and doubt, and self-congratulation. 

O Italy, how beautiful thou art! 
Yet could I weep — for thou art lying, alas! 
Low iu the dust; and they who come, admire thee 
As we admire the beautiful iu death. 
Thine was a dangerous gift, the gift of beauty. 



Would thou hadst less, or wert as once thou wast, 
Inspiring awe in those who now enslave thee! 
— But why despair? Twice hast thou lived already, 
Twice shone among the nations of the world, 
As the sun shines among the lesser lights 
Of heaven; and sbalt again. The hour shall come, 
When they who think to bind the ethereal spirit. 
Who, like the eagle cowering o'er his prey, 
Watch with quick eye, and strike and strike again 
If but a sinew vibrate, shall confess 
Their wisdom folly. E'en now the flame 
Bursts forth where once it burnt so gloriously. 
And, dying, left a splendor like the day. 
That like the day dift'used itself, and still 
Blesses the earth — the light of genius, virtue, 
Greatness in thought and act, contempt of death. 
Godlike example. Echoes that have slept 
Since Athens, Lacediemon, were themselves. 
Since men invoked " By those in Marathon !" 
Awake along the .35gean ; and the dead. 
They of that sacred shore, have heard the call. 
And through the ranks, from wing to wing, are seen 
Moving as ouce they were — instead of rage 
Breathing deliberate valor. 



VENICE. 

From " Italy." 

There is a glorious City in the Sea, 

The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets. 

Ebbing and flowing, and tlie salt sea-weed 

Clings to the marble of her palaces. 

No track of men, no footsteps to and fro. 

Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the sea, 

Invisible ; and from the land we went, 

As to a floating city — steering in. 

And gliding up her streets as in a dream, 

So smoothly, silently — by many a dome 

Mosque-like, and many a stately portico, 

The statues ranged along an azure sky; 

By many a pile in more than Eastern splendor, 

Of old the residence of mercliant-kings ; 

The fronts of some, though time had shattered tlieni, 

Still glowing with the richest hues of art. 

As though the wealth within them had run o'er. 



ROMAN RELICS. 
From " Italy." 

I am in Rome! Oft as the moruiug ray 
Visits these eyes, waking, at once I cry. 



SAMUEL liOGEBS.—JOSN MASON GOOD.— JAMES GRAHAME. 



269 



Wbeuce this excess of joy ? What has befallen me ! 
And from within a thrilling voice replies, 
Thou ait in Rome ! A thousand busy thoughts 
Rush on my mind, a thousand images ; 
And I spring up as girt to run a race ! 

Thou art iu Rome! the city that so long 
Reigned absolute, the mistress of the world: — 
Thou art iu Rome ! the' city where the Gauls, 
Entering at sunrise through her open gates. 
And, through her streets silent and desolate, 
Marching to slay, thought they sa\r gods, not men ; 
The city that by temperance, fortitude. 
And love of glory, towered above the clouds, 
'J'hen fell — but, falling, kept the highest seat, 
And in her loneliness, her pomp of woe. 
Where now she dwells, withdrawn into the wild. 
Still o'er tho mind maintains, from ago to age. 
Her empire undiminished. 

There, as though 
Grandeur attracted grandeur, are beheld 
All things that strike, ennoble — from the depths 
Of Egypt, from the classic fields of Greece, 
Her groves, her temples — all things that inspire 
Wonder, delight ! Who would not say the forms 
Most perfect, most divine, had by consent 
Flocked thither to abide eternally. 
Within those silent chambers where they dwell 
In happy intercourse? 

And I am there ! 
Ah ! little thought I, when iu school I sat, 
A school-boy on his bench, at early dawn 
Glowing with Roman story, I should live 
To tread the Appian, once an avenue 
Of monuments most glorious, palaces. 
Their doors sealed up and silent as the night. 
The dwellings of the illustrious dead ; — to turn 
Toward Tiber, and, beyond the city-gate, 
Pour out my unpremeditated verse, 
Where on his mule I might have met so oft 
Horace himself; — or climb the Palatine, 
Dreaming of old Evauder and his guest, — 
Dreamiug and lost on that proud eminence, 
Longwhile the seat of Rome, hereafter found 
Less than enough (so monstrous was the brood 
Engendered there, so Titan-like) to lodge 
One iu his madness ;' and, the summit gained. 
Inscribe my name on some broad aloe-leaf, 
That shoots and spreads within those very walls 
AVhere Virgil read aloud his tale divine. 
Where his voice faltered, and a mother wept 
Tears of delight ! 

^ Nero. 



Jol)n illason <&ooii. 



Good (1764-1827) was born at Epping, in Essex, and 
was an indefatiguble worker. He was apprenticed as a 
surgeon, and afterward settled in London as a surgeon 
and apothecary. His "Book of Nature" (1836) was a 
great success. 



THE DAISY. 

Not worlds on worlds, in phalanx deep. 
Need we to prove a God is here ; 

The daisy, fresh from Nature's sleep. 
Tells of his hand in lines as clear. 

For who but He that arched the skies, 
And pours the day-spring's living flood. 

Wondrous alike in all he tries. 

Could raise the daisy's purple bud. 

Mould its green cup, its wiry stem. 
Its fringed border nicely spin, 

And cut tho gold-embossed gem, 
That, set in silver, gleams within. 

And fling it, unrestrained and free. 
O'er hill, and dale, and desert sod. 

That man, where'er he walks, may see. 
In every step, the stamp of God ? 



lames ©raljamc. 

Grahame (1765-1811 ), a native of Glasgow, exchanged 
the profession of a barrister for that of a curate in tlie 
Churcli of England. Amiable, modest, pious, his poe- 
try consists of a drama, "Mary, Queen of Scots;" "The 
Sabbath," the best of his poems; "The Birds of Scot- 
land;" "British Georgics," etc. His style is moulded 
on the model of Cowper. 



SABBATH MORNING. 

From "The Sabbath." 

How still the morning of the hallowed day ! 
Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed 
The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song. 
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath 
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers. 
That yester-moru bloomed waving in the breeze. 
Sounds the most faint attract the ear, — the hum 
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, 



270 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEUICAX POETRY. 



The distant bleating midway up the hill. 
Calmness sits throned on you uuraoviug cloud. 
To him wlio wanders o'er the upland leas, 
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale, 
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark 
Warbles his heaven-tuned song ; the lulling brook 
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen ; 
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke 
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals, 
The voice of psalms, the siuiple song of praise. 



A WINTER SABBATH WALK. 
From " The Sabbath." 

How dazzliug white the snowy scene! deep, deeji 
The stillness of the winter Sabbath-day, — 
Not even a footfall heard ! Smooth are the fields. 
Each hollow pathway level with the plain : 
Hid are the bushes, save that here and there 
Are seen the topmost shoots of brier or broom. 
High-ridged, the whirled drift has almost reached 
The powdered key-stone of the church-yard porch. 
Mute hangs the hooded bell ; the tombs lie buried ; 
No step approaches to the house of prayer. 

The tlickering fall is o'er : the clouds disperse. 
And show the sun hung o'er the welkin's verge, 
Shooting a bright but iueiiectual beam 
Oq all the sparkling waste. Now is the time 
To visit Nature iu her grand attii'e : 
Though perilous the iiionutaiuous ascent, 
A noble recompense the danger brings. 
How beautiful the plain stretched far below. 
Unvaried though it be, save by you stream 
With azure windings, or the leafless wood! 
But what the beauty of the plain, compared 
To that sublimity which reigns euthroned, 
Holding joint rule with solitude divine. 
Among you rocky fells that bid defiauce 
To steps the most adventurously bold ? 
Tliere silence dwells profound ; or, if the cry 
Of high-poised eagle break at times the calm, 
The iiuintled echoes no response return. 

Bnt let me now explore the deep-sunk dell : 
No footprint, save the covey's or the flock's, 
Is seen along the rill, where marshy springs 
Still rear the gra.ssy blade of vivid green. 
Bewan", ye shepherds, of these treacherous haunts, 
Nor linger there too long! The wintry day 
Soon closes; and full oft a heavier fall. 
Heaped by the blast, fills up the sheltered glen, 
While, gurgling deep below, the buried rill 
Mines for iLself a snow-eoved way. Oil, then, 



Your helpless charge drive from the tempting spot, 
And keep them on the bleak hill's stormy side. 
Where night-winds sweep the gathering drift away. 
So the great Shepherd leads the heaveuly flock 
From faithless pleasures full into the storms 
Of life, where long they bear the bitter blast, 
Until at length the vernal sun looks forth, 
Bedimmed with showers : then to the pastures greeu 
He brings them, where the quiet waters glide, 
The streams of life, the Siloah of the soul. 



A PRESENT DEITY. 

From "The Sabbath." 

O Nature ! all thy seasons please the eye 
Of him who sees a present Deity iu all. 
It is his presence that dift'n.ses charms 
Unspeakable o'er mountain, wood, and stream. 
To think that He who hears the heavenly choirs 
Hearkens complacent to the woodland song ; 
To think that He who rolls you solar sphere 
Uplifts the warbling songster to the sky : 
To mai'k his presence iu the mighty bow 
That spans the clouds as in the tints minnte 
Of tiniest flower ; to hear his awful voice 
In thunder speak, aud whisper in the gale ; 
To know and feel his care for all that lives, — 
'Tis this that makes the barren waste appear 
A fruitful field, each grove a paradise. 

Yes! place me 'mid far-stretching woodless wilds, 
Wliere no sweet song is heard ; the heath-bell tliere 
Would please my weary sight, and tell of thee ! 
There would my gratefully uplifted eye 
Survey the heavenly vault by day, by night. 
When glows the firmament from pole to jiole ; 
There Mould my overflowing heart exclaim, 
'•The heavens declare the glory of the Lord, 
The firmament shows forth his handiwork !"' 



Carolina, 13arouci35 ^'ainic. 

Carolina Olipliau!, afterward Baroness Nainic (1766- 
1845), was born in the county of Pcrtli, Scotland, and 
wrote several lyrical pieces, still popular. She was cel- 
ebrated for her beauty, talents, and estimable character. 
She married her second -cousin, Major Nairne, who, in 
18;M, was restored to his rank in the peera;;e, and became 
Lord Nairne. A collection of her poems, edited by Dr. 
Charles Rogers, with a memoir, was published in 1863. 
There is a shorter version of " The Land o' the Leal." 



CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRXE.— ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 



271 



THE LAND O' THE LEAL. 

I'm wcariii' awa', John, 

Like snaw-wreaths iu tbaw, John ; 

I'm weariii' awa' 

To tbo laud o' the leal. 
There's uae sorrow there, John ; 
There's neither cauld nor care, John ; 
The (lay is aye fair 

I' the land o' the leal. 

Our bouuio bairn's there, John ; 
Sho was baith gude aud fair, John ; 
Aud oh, we grudged her sair 

To the laud o' the leal. 
But sorrow's sel' wears past, John, 
Aud joy's a-comiu' fast, John, 
The joy that's aye to last 

I' the land o' the leal. 

Sae dear's that joy was bought, Jobri, 
Sae free the battle fought, John, 
That siufu' man e'er brought 

To tbe laud o' tlie leal. 
O dry your glistening e'e, John! 
My soul langs to be free, Johu, 
And angels beckon me 

To the laud o' the leal. 

O baud ye leal aud true, Johu ; 
Your day it's wearin' through, John, 
And I'll welcome you 

To the land o' the leal. 
Now fare ye weel, my aiu Johu! 
This warld's cares are vaiu, John ; 
We'll meet, and we'll be fain, 

r the land o' the leal. 



WOULD YOU BE YOUNG AGAIN? 

Aiit : "Aiken Akoon." 

Would you bo young again ? 

So would not I ! 
One tear to memory given. 

Onward I'd hie. 
Life's dark flood forded o'er. 
All but at rest on shore. 
Say, would you plunge once more. 

With hoiuo so uigh ? 

If you might, would you now 
Ketracu your way ? 



Wander through stormy wilds, 

Faint and astray? 
Night's gloomy watclies fled. 
Morning all beaming red, 
Hope's smiles around us shed. 

Heavenward — away ! 

Where, then, are those dear ones/ 
Our joy aud delight ? 

Dear aud more dear, tbough uow 
Hidden from sight ! 

Where they rejoice to be. 

There is the laud for me : 

Fly, time, fly speedily ! 
Come, life aud light ! 



Robert Slooinfu'lb. 

Bloomfieia (1766-1833), an English pastoral poet, was 
a native of Honington, in Suffolk. He was tbe youngest 
sou of a tailor, who died before Robert was a year old. 
At tlie age of eleven the lad was employed as a former's 
hoy, and next as a shoemaker in London. While work- 
ing with others in a garret, he composed mentally, ar- 
ranged and re -arranged, his poem of " The Farmer's 
Boy," comprising some sixteen hundred lines, without 
committing a line to paper. Having procured paper, 
he " had nothing to do," he said, " but to write it down." 
It was printed in the year 1800, under the patronage of 
Capel Loift, and 26,000 copies were sold in three years. 
Through imprudent liberality to poor relations, and an 
unfortunate adventure in tlic book business, the poet's 
last days were darkened by poverty, ill-health, and dis- 
tress. He left a widow and four children. In all that 
he wrote there is an artless simplicity, an exquisite sen- 
sibility to the beautiful, and an unerring rectitude of 
sentiment, worthy of all praise. In " The Soldier's 
Home," a trite subject is dignified by the touching 
tid.elity to nature in every part. It has all the neatness, 
truthfulness in detail, and perfect simplicity of a chef- 
iVauvye by Teniei'S. 



THE SOLDIER'S HOME. 

My untried Muse shall no high tone assume. 
Nor strut in arms — farewell my cap and plume ! 
Brief be ray verse, a task within my power ; 
I tell my feelings iu one happy hour : 
But what an hour was that ! when from the main 
I reached this lovely valley once again ! 
A glorious harvest filled my eager sight. 
Half shocked, half waving in a sea of light : 
On that poor cottage roof where I was born, 
Tbe sun looked down as in life's early morn. 
I gazed around, but uot a soul appeared; 
I listened ou the threshold, nothing heard; 



272 



VXCLOP^DIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETHY. 



I called my father tbrice, but no one came ; 
It was uot fear or grief that shook my frame, 
But an o'erpoweriiig sense of peace and home, 
Of toils gone by, perhaps of joys to come. 
The door invitingly stood open wide ; 
I shook my dust, and set my staff aside. 

How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air, 
And take possession of my father's chair! 
Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame. 
Appeared the rough initials of my name, 
Cut forty years before ! The same old clock 
Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock 
I never can forget. A short breeze sprung. 
And while a sigh was trembling on ray tongue, 
Caught tlie old dangling almanacs behind. 
And up they flew like banners in the wind; 
Then gently, singly, down, down, down they went. 
And told of twenty years that I had spent 
Far from my native land. That instant came 
A robin on the threshold ; though so tame, 
At first ho looked distrustful, almost shy. 
And cast on me his coal-black steadfast eye. 
And seemed to say — past friendship to renew — 
"Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you?" 
Through the room rauged the imprisoned humble- 
bee, 
And boomed, and bounced, and struggled to be free ; 
Dasliing against the panes with sullen roar. 
That threw their diamond sunlight on the floor; 
That floor, clean sanded, where my fancy strayed. 
O'er undulating waves the broom had made ; 
Reminding me of those of hideous forms 
That met us as we passed the Cape of Storms, 
Where high and loud they break, and peace comes 

never ; 
They roll and foam, and roll and foam forever. 
But hero was peace, that peace which home can 
yield ; 
The grasshopper, the partridge in the field. 
And ticking clock, were all at once become 
The substitute for clarion, fife, and drum. 
While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still. 
On beds of moss that spread the window-sill, 
I deemed no moss my eyes had ever seen 
Had been so lovely, brilliiint, fresh, and green, 
Aud guessed some infant hand had placed it there. 
And prized its hue so exquisite, so rare. 
Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose; 
My heart felt everything but calm repose ; 
I could uot reckon minutes, hours, nor years. 
But rose at once — rose, aud burst into tears ; 
Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again, 
Aud thought upon the past with shame aud pain. 



I raved at war and all its horrid cost, 
Aud glory's qnagmire, where the brave are lost. 
On carnage, fire, and plunder long I ninsed, 
Aud cursed the murdering weapons I had nsed. 

Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard. 
One bespoke age, and one a cliild's appeared. 
In stepped my father with convulsive start, 
And in an instant clasped me to his heart. 
Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid ; 
And stooping to the child, the old man said : 
" Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again : 
This is your uncle Charles, come home from Spain." 
The child approached, aud with her fingers light 
Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of sight. 
But why thus spin my tale — thus tedious be ? 
Happy old soldier ! what's the world to me ? 



llkljarli aifrcb lUillikcn. 

Milliken (1707-1815) was a native of the county of 
Cork, Ireland. He seems to have been the originator 
of a humorous vein of vcisc, afterward cultivated with 
success by Maliony and otlier Irish poets. There are 
several versions of the following comical extravaganza. 



THE GROVES OF BLARNEY. 

The groves of Blarney, they look so charming, 

Down by the purling of sweet silent brooks ; 
Being banked with posies that spontaneous grow 
there. 

Planted in order in the rocky nooks. 
'Tis there's the daisy, and the sweet carnation. 

The blooming pink, and the rose so tiiir ; 
The d.aftadowudilly, likewise the lily, — 

All flowers that scent the sweet, open air! 

'Tis Lady Jeffers owns tliis plantation, 

Like Alexander, or like Helen fair; 
Tliere's no commander in all the nation 

For emulation can with her compare. 
Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder 

Could ever plunder her place of strength ; 
But Oliver Cromwell, ho did her pommel, 

Aud made a breach in her battlement. 

There's gravel-walks there for speculation 
And conversation in sweet solitude : 

'Tis there the lover may hear the dove, or 
The gentle plover in the afternoon. 

Aud if a lady should be so engaging 

As to walk alone in those shady bowers, 



RICHAED ALFRED MILLIKEN.—JOHN HOOKHAM FREEE. 



2T3 



Tis tliere lier courtier he may transport her 
Into some fort, or all luulergroiiml. 

For 'tis there's a cave where no daylight enters, 

But hats and hadgers are forever hred ; 
Hi-ing mossed hy natnr', that makes it sweeter, 

Tliau a coach-and-six, or a fcather-hed. 
Tis there the lake is, well stored with perches. 

And comely eels in the verdant mud ; 
Uesides the leeches and groves of heeches, 

Standing in order for to guard the flood! 

'Tis there's the kitchen hangs many a flitch in. 

With the maids a-stitching upon the stair; 
The bread aud hiske', the beer and whiskey, 

Would make you frisky if you were there. 
'Tis there you'd see Peg Murphj-'s daughter 

A-uashing praties forenent the door. 
With Roger Cleary and Father Healy, 

All blood-relations to my Lord Dououghmore. 

There's statues gracing this noble place in, — 

All heathen gods and nymidis so fair ; 
Bold Neptune, Plutarch, and Nieodemus, 

All standing naked in the open air. 
There is a boat on the lake to float on, 

Aud lots of beauties which I can't entwine ; 
But were I a preacher or a classic teacher, 

lu every feature I'd make 'em shine. 

Tliere is a stone there that whoever kisses, 

Oh, he never misses to grow eloquent ; 
'Tis he may clamber to a lady's chamber, 

Or become a member of Parliament : 
A clever spouter he'll soon turn out, or 

Au out-and-outer, to be let alone : 
Don't hope to hinder him, or to bewilder him. 

Sure he's a pilgrim from the Blarney Stone ! 
So now to finish this brave narration 

Which my poor genius could not entwine : 
But were I Homer or Nebuchadnezzar, 

'Tis in every feature I would make it shine. 



loljn C)ooK-|)am Jrcrc. 

Fi-ere (1769-1846) was a native of Norfolk. lie entered 
tlie (li|)lomatic service of Eni^land, and was minister to 
Spain in 1808. At one time he contributed to tlie Eto- 
nian, with Moultrie and Praed. He is commended \>y 
Scott and Bvron. In 1817 Mr. Murray published a small 
poetical volume, under the eccentric title of "Prospec- 
tus and Specimen of an Intended National Work by Wil- 
liam and Robert Wliistlecraft, of Stowmarket, in Suffolk, 
18 



Hai-ncss and Collar Makers : intended to comprise the 
most interesting particulars relating to King Arthur and 
his Round Table." For many years Mr. Frcre resided in 
Malta, in the enjoyment of a handsome pension for dip- 
lomatic services ; and in Malta he died, on the 7th of 
January, 1846, aged seventy-seven. In 1871 his works hi 
prose and verse, and a memoir by his nephews, were 
published in two volumes. 



THE PROEM. 

I've often wished that I could write a hook, 
Such as all English people might peruse : 

I never should regret the pains it took ; 

That's ju.st the sort of fame that I should choose. 

To sail about the world like Captain Cook, 
I'd sling a cot up for my favorite Muse; 

And we'd take verses out to Demarara, 

To New South Wales, and up to Niagara. 

Poets consume excisable commodities: 

They raise the nation's spirit when victorious ; 

They drive an export trade in whims and oddities, 
Making our commerce and revenue glorious. 

As an industrious .and painstaking body 'tis 
That poets .should be reckoned meritorious ; 

And therefore I submissively propose 

To erect one board for verse, aud one for prose. 

Princes protecting sciences and art 

I've often seen, in copper-plate and print ; 

I never saw them elsewhere, for my part, 

Aud therefore I conclude there's nothing in't : 

But everybody knows the Regent's heart 

(I trust he won't reject a well-meant hint) — 

Each board to have twelve members, with a seat 

To bring them in per ann. five hundred neat. 

From princes I descend to the nobility: 

In former times all persons of high stations, 

Lords, baronets, and iiersons of gentility. 
Paid twenty guineas for the dedications. 

This practice was attended with utility : 
The patrons lived to futnre generations. 

The poets lived by their industrious earning, — 

So men alive and dead could live by learning. 

Then twenty guineas was a little fortune; 

Now we must starve unless the times should 
mend : 
Our poets nowadays are deemed importune 

If their addresses are diffusely penned. 
Most fashionable authors make a short one 

To their own wife, or child, or private friend. 



274 



CTCLOP^DIA OF BRITISH AND AMEEICAN POETItY. 



To show their independence, I snppose ; 
And that may do for gentlemen like those. 

Lastly, the common people I beseech: 

Dear people, if you think my verses clever, 

Preserve with care your noble parts of speech, 
And take it as a maxim to endeavor 

To talk as yonr good mothers used to teach, 
And then these lines of mine may last forever ; 

And don't confound the language of the nation 

With long-tailed words in osili/ and atioii. 

I think that poets — whetlier Whig or Tory — 
Whether they go to meeting or to church — 

Should study to promote their couutry's glory 
With patriotic, diligent research. 

That children yet unborn may learn the story. 
With grammars, dictionaries, canes, and birch. 

It stands to reason — this was Homer's plan ; 

And we must do — like him — tlio best we can. 

Madoc, and Marmion, and many more. 

Are out iu print, and most of them are sold ; 

Perhaps together they may make a score. 
Richard the First has had liis story told ; 

Bnt there were lords and princes long before 
That had behaved themselves like warriors bold : 

Among the rest there was the great King Arthur — 

What hero's fame w.as ever carried farther? 

King Arthur, and the Knights of his Round Table, 
Were reckoned the best king, and bravest lord.s, 

Of all that flourished since the tower of Babel, 
At least of all that history records ; 

Therefore, I shall endeavor, if I'm able. 

To paint their famous actions by my words. 

Heroes exert themselves in hopes of fame ; 

And, having such a strong decisive claim. 

It grieves me much that names that were re- 
spected 

In former ages — persons of such mark, 
And countrymen of onrs — slionld lie neglected. 

Just like old portraits Inmberiug in the dark. 
An error such as this should 1)0 corrected ; 

And if my Muse can strike a single .sjiark, 
Why, then (as poets say), I'll string my lyre ; 
And then I'll light a great poetic lire : 

I'll air lliem all, and rnb down the Round Table, 
And wash the canvas clean, and scour the frames. 

Ami put a coat of varuish on the fable, 

And try to puzzle out the dates and names ; 



Then (as I said before) I'll heave my cable. 

And take a pilot, and drop down the Thames: 
— These first efeven stanzas make a Proem, 
And now I must sit down and write my poem. 



WHISTLECRAFT AND MURRAY. 
From Canto III. 

I've a proposal here from Mr. Mnrray. 

He offers handsomely — the money dowu. 
My dear, yon might recover from your Hurry 

Iu a nice airy lodging out of town. 
At Croydon, Epsom — anywhere in Surrey : 

If every stanza brings us in a crown, 
I think that I might venture to bespeak 
A bedroom and front parlor for next week. 

Tell me, my dear Thalia, what yon think. 

Your nerves have undergone a sudden shock ; 
Your poor dear spirits have begnn to sinli : 

On Banstead Downs you'd muster a new stock ; 
Aud I'd bo sure to keep away from drink, 

And always go to bed by twelve o'clock. 
We'll travel down there in the morning stages; 
Onr verses sh.all go down to distant ages. 

Aud hero in town we'll breakfast on hot rolls. 
And you shall have a better shawl to wear : 

These pantaloons of mine are chafed in holes ; 
By Monday next I'll compass a new pair. 

Como now, fling up the cinders, fetch the coals. 
And take away the things yon Imng to air; 

Set out the tea-things, and bid Plufbe bring 

The kettle up. Anns and the Monkn I Kiiirj. 



3ol}n (Lobin. 



Tobin (1770-1S()4) was .a native of Salisbury, England, 
and was educated For the law. " He passed many years," 
says Mrs. Inehbald, "in the anxious labor of writing 
pluys, whicli were rejected by tlie managers ; and no 
sooner liad they accepted 'The Houey-moon ' than he 
died, and he never enjoyed the recompense of seeing it 
perfonned." He attempted to unite literary composi- 
tion with a faitliful attention to legal studies. He over- 
worked himself, and fell a victim to a pulmonary com- 
plaint. In tlie liope of relieving it, lie had embarlced for 
the West Indies. "Tlie Honey-moon" is a romantic 
drama, cliielly in blank verse, and still keeps honest pos- 
session of the stasv. It shows tlie true poetical fnculty. 
The plot resembles that of " The Taming of the Shrew." 
Tlic Duke of Aranza eouducts bis bride to a cottage in 
the country, pretending that he is a peasnnt, and tbul he 



JOHN TOBIN.— GEORGE CANNING. 



has obtained her hand by deception. The proud Juli- 
ana, after a struggle, submits; and the dulce, having ac- 
complished his object, asserts his true rank, and places 
her in his palace. 

"This tiiitli to manifest: a gentle wife 
Is still the sterling comfort of mau's life; 
To fools a torment, but a lasting boon 
Tj those who — wisely keep their honey-moon." 



THE DUKE ARANZA TO JULIANA. 

From " Tde Honet-moon." 

DuT;e. I'll liave no glittering gewgaws stuck about 
you, 
To stretch the gaping eyes of idiot wonder, 
And make men stare upon a piece of eartli 
As on the star-wrought iirmaraeii t ; no feathers 
To wave as streaiuers to your vanity ; 
Xor cumbious silk, that, with its rustling sound, 
Makes proud the flesh that bears it. She's adorned 
Amply that in her husband's eye look's lovely — 
The truest mirror that an honest wife 
Can see her beauty in ! 

Jidiana. I shall observe, sir. 

Vulce. I should like to see you in the dress 
I last iiresented you. 

Juliana. The blue one, sir ? 

Did'e. No, love, the white. Thus modestly attired, 
A half-blown rose stuck in thy braided hair, — 
With no more diamonds than those eyes are made of, 
No deeper rubies than compose thy lips. 
Nor pearls more precious than inh.abit them, — 
With the pure red and white which tliat same band 
Which blends the rainbow mingles iu thy cheeks, — 
This well-proportioned form (think not I flatter) 
In graceful motion to harmonious sounds. 
And thy free tresses dancing in the T,vind, — 
Tliou'lt fix as much observance as chaste dames 
Can meet without a blush. 



©corge Cauiuug. 



Canning {1770-1827), a native of London, was educated 
at Eton and Oxford. He entered I'arlianicnt iu 1793, 
and became distinguished as a statesman and orator. In 
1797, with some associates, he started a paper, st.vlcd T/ie 
Autl-Jacobin, the object of which was to attack the writ- 
ers of the day wliose sympathies were with the French 
Revolution. Gilford was the editor. The contributions 
of Canning consist of parodies on Southey and Darwin. 
In a satire entitled. "New Morality" occur the follow- 
ing often-quoted lines : 

"Give me the avowed, the erect, the manly foe; 
Bold I can meet, perhaps may turn, the blow ; 



Bat of .all phignes, Kood Heaven, thy wratli can semi. 
Save, save, oh, save me from the candid friend !" 

The poetry of T7te Anti-Jacobin, collected and published 
iu a separate form, reached a sixth edition. One of the 
writers was John Hookham Frere, who showed an ele- 
gant and scholarly wit iu various poetical productions. 
Southey had written the following Inscrii)tiou for the 
Apartment in Chepstow Castle, where Henry Marten, 
the regicide, was iinprisoued thirty years : 

INSCRIPTION. 

"For thirty years secluded from mankind 
Here Marten liugered. Often have these walls 
Echoed his footsteps, as, with even tread, 
lie paced around his prison. Not to him 
Did Nature's fair varieties exist : 
He never saw the sun's delightful beams, 
Save when through you high bars he poured a sad 
And broken splendor. Dost thou ask his crime ? 
He had rebelled against the king, and sat 
In judgment on him ; for his ardent mind 
Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth. 
And peace, and liberty. Wild dreams ! but such 
As Plato loved ; such as with holy zeal 
Our Milton worshipped. Blessed hopes ! awhile 
From man withiield, even to the latter days. 
When Clnist shall come, and all things be fulfilled! 

The above was thus wittily parodied. Canning, Frere, 
and George Ellis each having a hand iu the burlesque : 

INSCRIPTION FOE THE DOOR OP THE CELL IN 
NEWGATE, 

WUERK uns. liP.owsuioo, run 'rRrNTicF.-niT>K, was ooNFiNri) 

ruEVlOCS TO lllitt EXECUTION. 

" For one long term, or e'er her trial came. 
Here Brownrigg lingered. Often h.ive these cells 
Echoed her blasphemies, as, with shrill voice. 
She screamed for fresh geneva. Not to her 
Dill the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street, 
St. Giles, its fair varieties expand, 
Till at the last, in slow-drawn cart, she went 
To execution. Dost thou ask her crime ? 
She whipped two female 'prentices to death, 
And hid them in the coal-hole ; for her mind 
Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes ! 
Such as Lycurgns taught, when at the shrine 
Of the Orthyan goddess he bade flog 
The little Spartans; snch as erst chastised 
Our Milton, when at college. For this act 
Did Brownrigg swing. Harsli laws! But time shall come 
When France shall reign, and laws be all repealed !" 



THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE 
KNIFE-GRINDER. 

A PARODY ON SOL'THET'S LINES, ENTITLED "THE WIDOW." 
FRIEND OF HL'JIAXITY. 

Needy knife-grinder, whither are yon going ? 
Hough is the road, your wheel is out of order ; 
Bleak blows the blast ; your hat has got a hole in't. 
So have your breeches ! 



276 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEBICAN POETRY. 



"Weary kuife-griuder ! little tliiuk tlie piouil ones 
Who iu their coaches roll along the tiinipiUo- 
-road, what hard work 'tis cryiug all day, " Knives 
aud 

Scissors to griud, O !" 

Tell me,kiiife-griuder,how you came to grind knives. 
Did some rich man tyrannically nse yon ? 
Was it the sqnire ? or parson of the parish ? 
Or the attorney '? 

Was it the sauire for killing of his game ? or 
Covetous parson for his tithes distraining t 
Or roguish lawyer made yon lose your little 
All in a lawsuit ? 

(Have yon not read the "Rights of Man," by Tom 

Paine ?) 
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, 
Koady to fall as soon as yon have told your 
Pitiful story. 

KXIFE-GEINDER. 

Story! God bless yon! I have none to tell, sir; 
Ouly last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, 
This poor old hat and breeches, as you sec, were 
Torn in a scuffle. 

Constables came up for *o take me into 
Custody; they took me before the justice; 
Justice Oldmixou put me in the parish- 

-stocks for a vagrant. 

I should be glad to drink your honor's health in 
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence ; 
But for my part, I never love to meddle 
With politics, sir. 

FRIEXD OF IIU.MAXITY. 

/ give thee sixpence ! I will see thee damned first — 
Wretch ! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to 

vengeance — 
Sordid, unfeeling, repndjate, degraded, 

Spiritless outcast ! 
[KkTxS the Inife-grirulcr, orerturns Itis icheel, and 
exit in a transport of repuhlican enthusiasm and 
universal ijhilanthropy.'} 



Yet, merciful in chastening, gave thee scope 
For mild redeeming virtues — faith and hope, 
Meek resignation, pious charity; 
And, since this world was not the world for thee, 
Far from thy path removed, with partial care. 
Strife, glory, gtiiu, .and pleasure's flowery snare, 
Bade earth's temptations pass thee harmless by, 
Aud fixed on heaven thino unreverted eye ! 
Oh, marked from birth, and nurtured for the skies ! 
In youth with more than learning's wisdom wise! 
As sainted martyrs, patient to endure ! 
Simple as unweaned infancy, and pure — 
Pure from all stain (save that of human clay, 
Which Christ's atouiug blood hath washed away) ! 
By mortal sufferings now no more oppressed. 
Mount, sinless spirit, to thy destined rest ! 
While I — reversed our nature's kindlier doom — 
Pour forth a father's sorrows on thy tomb. 



ON THE DEATH OF HIS ELDEST SON. 

Though short thy space, God's unimpeachcd decrees, 
Which made that shortened span one long disease ; 



SONG BY EOGERQ. 

Scene FR05r " The Rovers." 

This was levelled nt Schiller's "Robbers," nnd Goethe's 
"Stella." It is iutroclncetl by a soliloquy, supposed to be spo- 
ken by Rogevo, a studeut who hiis been immuied eleven years 
in "a subteiiaueons vault in the Abbey of Qciedlinbnrgh." 

Whene'er with haggard eyes I view 
This dungeon that Pm rotting in, 
I think of those companions true 
Who studied with me at the U- 

-niversity of Gottingen — ■ 
-niversity of Gottingen. 
[TTccjJS, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which 
he tripes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he pro- 
ceeds — 

Sweet kerchief, checked witli heavenly blue, 

Which once my love sat knotting in! — 
Alas ! Slatilda" then was true ! — 
At least I thought so at the U- 

-niversity of Gottingen — 
-niversity of Gottingen. 
[J( the repetition of this line, Rogero chinks his 
chains in cadence.'] 

Barbs ! barbs ! .alas ! how swift you flew, 

Her neat post-wagon trotting in ! 
Ye bore Matilda from my view; 
Forlorn I languished at the U- 

-niversity of Gottingen — 
-nivensitv of Gottingen. 



JJMES HOGG. 



•277 



This failed form! this pallid hue! 

This blood my veius is clotting iu ! 
My years are many — they were few 
When first I entered at the TJ- 

-niversity of Gottingen — 
-uiversity of Gottingen. 

Tliere first for thee my passion grew, 

Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen ! 
Thou wast the daughter of my Tu- 
-tor, Law Professor at the U- 

-niversity of Gottingen — 
-uiversity of Gottingen. 

Sun, moon, and thou, vain world, adieu, 

That kings and priests are plotting iu ! 
Here doomed to starve on water-gru- 
-el, never shall I see the U- 

-uiversity of Gottingen — ■ 
-uiversity of Gottingen. 
\_DnrUig the last stanza, Soyero (lashes his head 
repeatedly against the walls of his prison, and 
finalhi so hard as to produce a risible contusion. 
He then throws himself on the floor in an agony. 
The curldiii drops, the music continuing to play.] 



3amts C)oc[([. 



One of the best lyric poets of Scotland, Hogg (1770- 
1S3.5), often called the "Ettrick Shepherd," was bora iu 
a cottnge at Ettrick Hall, and was the sou of a shepherd. 
His mother had good humor and a rich store of sons- 
He had little eilucation, hut showed great aptitude in 
imitating the old strains which he got from liis mother. 
He had withal a taste for music. In 1801 he published a 
small volume of poems, and in 1807 another. He helped 
Scott in collecting old ballads for the " Border Min- 
strelsy." It was not till 1813 that he established his 
reputation by "The Queen's Wake," largely made up 
of Scottish songs and short romantic ballads. Among 
them that of "Bonny Kilmeny" is one of the most 
charming and poetical of fairy tales. Hogg wrote sev- 
eral novels. His worldly schemes were seldom success- 
ful, and he failed .as a sheep-farmer. He had a passion 
for tield sports. He was generous, kind-hearted, and 
charitable far beyond his means, and his death was deep- 
ly mourned in the vale of Ettrick, where he had lived 
on seventy acres of moorland, presented to him by the 
Duchess of Buccleuch. He breathed his last with the 
calmness and freedom from pain that he might have ex- 
pericnced in falling asleep in his gray plaid on the hill- 
side. Hogg's prose is very unequal. He had no skill 
in arranging incidents or delinealiug character. He is 
often coarse and extravagant; yet some of his stories 
have much of the literal truth and happy, minute paint- 
ing of Defoe. 



BOXXY KILMEXV. 

FRoai " TiiE Queen's Wake." 

Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the gleu ; 

But it wasna to meet Duneira's men, 

Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, 

For Kilmeny was pure as pure could bfe. 

It was only to hear the yorliu sing, 

And pu' the cress-flower round the spring — 

The scarlet hj-jip and the hindberrye, 

And the uut that hung frae the hazel-tree; 

For Kilmeny was pnre as pnro could be. 

But lang may her miuny look o'er the wa', 

And laug may she seek iu the greeu-wood shaw ; 

Lang the laird of Duneira blame, 

And laug, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame. 

Wlien many a day had come aud fled, 
When grief grew calm, aud hope was dead. 
When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung, 
When the bedesman had prayed, and the dead-bell 

rung. 
Late, late iu a gloamin', when all was still, 
W'iien the fringe was red on the westlin hill. 
The wood was sere, the nioou i' the wane, 
The reek o' the cot hung over the plain — 
Like a little wee cloud iu the world its lane. 
When the ingle lowed with an eyrie leme, — 
Late, late iu the gloamin' Kilmeny came hame! 

"Kilmeny, Kilmeny, wliere have you been? 
Lang hae we sought baith holt and den — 
By liu, by ford, and green-wood tree ; 
Yet you are halesome aud f;iir to see. 
Where got you that joup o' the lily sheen ? 
That bonny snood of the birk sae green? 
And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen ? 
Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ?" 

Kihiieny looked up with a lovely grace. 
But nae smile was seen on Kilmenj-'s face ; 
As still was her look, and as still was lier e'e 
As the stillness that lay on the eraerant lea. 
Or the mist that sleeps ou a waveless sea. 
For Kilmeny had been she knew not where, 
And Kilmeny had scan what sUo coiild not declare ; 
Kilmeny had been where tha ccie'i never crew, 
Where the rain never fell, anft the v "l never blew; 
But it seemed as the harp of t'>"sky had rnng, 
And the airs of heaven "played round her tongue. 
When she spake of the iovely forms she had seen. 
And a land where sin had never been — 



278 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN FOETRY. 



A liuul (if love, and a land of liglit, 
Withonten sun, or moon, or uigbt ; 
Where tbe river swa'd a living stream, 
Aud tbe ligbt a pure celestial beam : 
The laud of vision it would seem, 
A still, an everlasting dream. 

lu you greeu-Tvood there is a waik, 
Aud in that walk there is a weuc, 

Aud iu that -weue there is a niaike, 
That ueither has flesh, nor blood, nor bane ; 
And down in you green-wood he walks his lane. 

In that green ■\veuG, Kilnieny lay, 
Her bosom happed wi' the flowerets gay ; 
Hut the air was soft, aud the silence deep, 
Aud bouuy Kilmcuy fell souud asleep ; 
SIic keuued uae mair, uor opeued her e'e. 
Till waked by the hyraus of a f;ir couutrye. 

She wakened ou a couch of the silk sae slim, 
All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's riui ; 
Aud lovely beings around were rife. 
Who erst had travelled mortal life ; 
And aye tliey smiled, and 'gau to speer: 
"What spirit has brought this mortal here?" 

'• Lang have I journeyed the world wide,'' 

A meek aud reverend fere replied : 

" Baith night aud day I have watched the fair 

Eideut a thousand years and mair. 

Yes, I have watched o'er ilk degree. 

Wherever blooms femeuityo ; 

But sinless virgin, free of stain, 

In mind and body, fand I naue. 

Never, since the banquet of time, 

Fonnd I a virgin in her prime. 

Till late this bonny maiden I saw. 

As sjiotless as the morning suaw. 

Fidl twenty years she has lived as free 

As the spirits that sojourn In this couutrye. 

I have brought her away frae the snares of nieu. 

That sin or death she may never ken.'' 

They clasped her waist and her hands sae fair ; 
They kissed her cheek, and they kemed her hair ; 
And round came many a blooming fere. 
Saying, " Bonny Kilmcuy, ye're welconie here ; 
Wonieu are fr. > yf the littand scorn; 
Oh, blessed be -^e da.r Kilineny was horn ! 
Now shall the la. of t.'ie spirits see, 
Now shall it ken what a -vomau may bo! 
Many a laug year in sorrow aud pain, 
Many a lang year through the world we've gane. 



Commissioned to watch fair womankind, 

For it's they who uurice the immortal mind. 

We have watched their steps as tbe dawning shoue, 

Aud deep iu tbe green-wood walks alone ; 

By lily bower aud .silken bed 

Tlie viewless tears have o'er them shed; 

Have soothed their ardent minds to sleep. 

Or left the couch of love to weep. 

We have seen ! we have seen ! but the time uuist como, 

And tbe angels will weep at the daj' of doom. 

'■ Oh, would the fairest of mort.al kind 
Aye keep the holy truths iu mind. 
That kindred spirits their motions see, 
Who watch their ways with anxious e'e, 
Aud grieve for the guilt of humauitye ! 
Oh, sweet to Heaven the maiden's prayer. 
And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair ! 
And dear to Heaven the words of truth 
Aud the praise of virtue frae beauty's mouth ! 
Aud dear to the viewless forms of' air, 
The minds that kythe as tlie body fair! 

" Oh, bonny Kilmeny ! free frae staiu. 
If ever you seek the woi-ld again, — • 
That world of sin, of sorrow aud fear, — ■ 
Oh, tell of the joys that are waiting here ; 
Aud tell of the joys you shall shortly see ; 
Of the times that are now, aud the times that 
shall be." 

They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away, 

Aud she walked in the light of a sunless day ; 

The sky was a dome of crystal bright, 

The fountain of vision, aud fountain of light ; 

The emerald fields were of dazzling glow, 

Ami the flowers of everlasting blow. 

Then deep iu the stream her body they laid, 

That her youth aud beauty never might fade ; 

Aud they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lie 

In the stream of life that wandered by. 

And she heard a song — she heard it sung, 

•She kenned not where ; but sae sweetly it ruug, 

It fell on her ear like a dream of the morn — 

" Oh, blessed be the day Kilmeny was born ! 

Now shall the land of the spirits see. 

Now shall it ken what a woman may be! 

The sun that shines ou the world sae bright, 

A borrowed gleid frae the fountain of light ; 

Aud the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun. 

Like a gouden bow, or a beamless sun. 

Shall wear away, aud be seen nae mair ; 

Aud the angels shall miss them, travelling the air 



JAMES HOGG. 



279 



But lang, lang after baitli night and day, 
Wlien tUe suu aud the ■world have died away, 
Wheu the sinuer had gaue to his waesome doom, 
Kihiieiiy shall smile iu eternal bloom !" 

They hore her away, she wist not how, 

For she felt not arm nor rest below ; 

But so swift they waiued her through tlie light, 

'Twas like the motion of sound or sight ; 

Thoy seemed to split the gales of air, 

And yet nor gale nor breeze was there. 

Unnumbered groves below them grew ; 

They came, they passed, they backward flew, 

Like floods of blossoms gliding on, 

In moment seen, iu moment gone. 

Oh, never vales to mortal view 

Appeared like those o'er which they flew, 

That laud to human spirits given. 

The lowermost vales of the Rtorie<l heaven ; 

From whence they can view the world below. 

And heaven's blue gates with sapphires' glow — 

More glory yet unmeet to know. 

Tliey bore her to a mountain green, 
To see what mortal never had seen ; 
And they seated her high on a purple sward. 
And bade her heed what she saw and heard. 
And note the changes the spirits wrought ; 
For now she lived in the land of thought. — 
She looked, and she saw nor sun nor skies, 
But a crystal dome of a thousand dies ; 
She looked, and she saw nae land aright, 
But an endless whirl of glory and light; 
And radiant beings went and came. 
Far swifter than wind, or the linked flame ; 
She hid her een frae the dazzling view ; 
She looked again, and the scene was new. 

She saw a sun on a summer sky, 

And clouds of amber sailing by ; 

A lovely land beneath her lay, 

Aud that land had glens and monntains gray; 

And that land had valleys and hoary piles, 

And marled seas, aud a thousand isles; 

Its fields were speckled, its forests green, 

And its lakes were all of the dazzling sheen, 

Like magic mirrors, where slumbering lay 

The sun and the sky aud the cloudlet gray, 

Which heaved aud trembled, and gently swung ; 

On every shore they seemed to be hung ; 

For there they were seen on their downward 

plain 
A thousand times and a thousand again ; 



In winding lake and placid firth — 

Like peaceful heavens in the bosom of earth. 

Kilmcny sighed, and seemed to grieve. 

For she found her heart to that land did cleave ; 

She saw the corn wave on the vale ; 

She saw the deer run down the dale ; 

She saw the plaid and the broad clayn\p{e. 

And the brows that the badge of freedom bore ; 

Aud she thought she had seen the laud before. 

She saw a lady sit on a throne, 
The fairest that ever the sun shone on ! 
A lion licked her hand of milk. 
And she held hira in a leash of silk, 
And a leifu' maideu stood at her knee, 
With a silver wand and melting e'e — 
Her sovereign shield, till Love stole Iu, 
And poisoned all the fount within. 

Then a gruff, untoward bedesman came, 

And hundit the lion on his dame; 

Aud the guardian maid wi' the dauntless e'e. 

She dropped a tear, and left her knee ; 

Aud she saw till the queen frae the lion fled. 

Till the bonniest flower of the world lay dead ; 

A coflin was set ou a distant plain. 

And she saw the red blood fall like raiu. 

Then bonny Kilmcnys heart grew sair. 

And she turned away, and could look no mair. 

Then the gruff, grim carle girudd amain. 

And tliey trampled him down — but he rose 

again ; 
Aud he baited the lion to deeds of weir, 
Till he lapped tlie blood to the kingdom dear ; 
Aud, weening his head was danger-iireef 
When crowned with the rose and clover-leaf. 
He growled at the carle, aud chased him away 
To feed with the deer on the mountain gray. 
He growled at the carle, and he geckcd at Heaven ; 
But his mark was set, and his arlds given. 
Kilmeny awhile her een withdrew ; 
She looked again, aud the scene was new. 

She saw below her, fair unfurled. 
One half of all the glowing worltl, ■_ 
W'here oceans rolled and rivers E. . 
To bound the aims of sinful man. •' ' 
She saw a people fierce and fell. 
Burst frae their bounds like fiends of hell ; 
There lilies grew, aud the eagle flew ; 
Aud she herked on her ravening crew. 



280 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRT. 



Till the cities and towers were wraiipeil iu a 

blaze, 
Ami tlie tbmuler it roared o'er tbe lands and tbo 

seas. 
The widows they wailed, and tbo red blood ran. 
And sbe threatened an end to tbe race of man ; 
She never lered, nor stood in awe, 
Till caught by the lion's deadly paw. 
Oh ! then the eagle swinked for life, 
And braiuzelled up a mortal strife ; 
But flew she north, or flew sbe south. 
She met w i' the growl of the linn's mouth. 

With a mooted wing and waeful mien. 

The eagle sought her eyrie again ; 

But laug may sbe cower in her bloody nest, 

And lang, lang sleek her wonude<l breast. 

Before she sey another flight, 

To pbiy \vi' the norland lion's might. 

But to sing the sights Kilmeny saw, 

So far surpassing Nature's law. 

The singer's voice wad sink away, 

And the string of his harp wad cease to play. 

But she saw till the sorrows of man were by, 

And all was love and harmouy ; 

Till tbe stars of heaven fell calmly away. 

Like the flakes of snaw on a winter's day. 

Then Kilmeny begged ag.aiu to see 
The friends she had left in her own countryc. 
To tell of the place -where she had been. 
And the glories that lay in the land unseen ; 
To warn tbe living maidens fair, 
The loved of Heaven, the spirits' care. 
That all whose minds uumeled remain 
Shall bloom in beauty -when time is gaue. 

With distant music, soft and deep, 

They lulled Kilmeny sound asleep ; 

And when sbe awakened sbe lay her lane. 

All hapiicd with flowers in the green-wood wene. 

When seven laug years had come and fled ; 
When grief was calm, and hope was dead ; 
When scarce was remembered Kilmeny's name. 
Late, late in a gloamin', Kilmeny cam' hame ! 
And oh, her beauty was fair to see, 
But still and steadfast was her e'e ! 
Such beauty bard m.ay never declare, 
l''(U' there w.as no prido nor jtassion there ; 
And the soft desire of maidens' e.en 
In that mild face could never be seen. 



Her seymar was the lily flower. 

And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower ; 

And her voice like the distant melodie 

That floats along the twilight sea. 

But she loved to raike the lanely glen. 

And keepit afar frae tbe haunts of men ; 

Her holy hynnis unheard to sing, 

To suck tbe flowers, and drink the spring. 

But, wherever her peaceful form appeared, 

The wild beasts of the hill were cheered: 

The wolf played blithely round the field, 

Tbe lordly bison lowed and kneeled ; 

Tbe dun-deer wooed with manner bland, 

And cowered aneath her lily band. 

And when at even the woodlands rung. 

When hymns of other worlds she sung. 

In ecstasy of sweet devotion. 

Oh, then the glen was all in motion : 

The wild beasts of the forest came ; 

Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame, 

And goved around, charmed and amazed ; 

Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed. 

And murmured, and looked with anxious pain 

For something the mystery to explain. 

The buzzard came with the throstle-cock, 

Tbe corby left her houf in the rock ; 

Tbo blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew ; 

The bind came tripping o'er tbe dew ; 

The wolf and the kid their raike began. 

And the tod, aud tbe lamb, and the leveret ran ; 

Tbo hawk and the hern atour them hung. 

And the merle aud the mavis forhooyed their young ; 

And all in a peaceful ring were hurled: 

It was like an eve in a sinless world ! 

When a month and day had come and gaue, 
Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene ; 
There laid her down on the leaves sac green. 
And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen. 
But oh! tbe words that fell from her mouth 
Were words of Wonder and words of truth ! 
But all the land were in fear and dread, 
For they kenned na whether she was living or 

d(_-ad. 
It wasna lior hame, aud sbe conldna remain ; 
Sbe left this world of sorrow and pain, 
And returned to the Land of Thought again." 

* " 'Kilmeny' alone places oar shepherd anioufj the uiulyiiii^ 
ones," says Professor Wilson, in Blackwood'n Magazine. " Front 
'liilmeny' ulone," says Lord Jeffrey, "no doubt can be enter- 
tained that Hiigg is a poet in the highest acceptation of the 
name.'' " 'Kilmeny' Inis been the theme of nniversal admira- 
tion, and deservedly so, for it U pure poetry," says D. M. Sloir. 
"It caiuiot he matched iu the whole compass of British song," 
says Allan Cunningham. 



JAMES SOGG.— niLLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



281 



THE SKYLARK. 

Bird of the wilderness, 

Blitbesorae and ciiniberless, 
Sweet be thy niatiu o'er moorlaud aud lea ! 

Emblem of liappiiicss, 

Blessed is thy dwelling-place — 
Oh, to abide iu the desert with tbee ! 

Wild is thy lay aud loud 

Far in the dowuy cloud. 
Love gives it eucrgy, love gave it birth. 

Where, on thy dewy wiug, 

Where art thou jonrueyiug 1 
Thy lay is iu heaveu, thy love is on earth. 

O'er fell and fountain sheen, 

O'er moor and mouutain green, 
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, 

Over the cloudlet dim. 

Over the rainbow's rim. 
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away : 

Then, when the gloaming comes, 

Low iu the heather blooms, 
Sweet will thy welcome aud bed of love be ! 

Emblem of happiness. 

Blessed is thy dwelling-place — 
Oh, to abide iu the desert with thee ! 



WHEN MAGGY GANGS AWAY. 

Ob, what will a' the lads do 

When Maggy gangs away ? 
Oh, what will a' the lads do 

Wheu Maggy gangs away ? 
There's no a heart iu a' the glen 

That disna dread the day : 
Oh, what will a' the lads do 

Wheu Maggy gangs away ? 

Y^iuug Jock has ta'en the hill for't— 

A waefu' wight is he ; 
Poor Harry's ta'eu the bed for't, 

An' laid him down to dee; 
Au' Sandy's gaue unto the kirk, 

Au' learn i n' fast to pray : 
Aud oh, what will the lads do 

Wheu Maggy gangs away ? 

The young laird o' the Lang-Shaw 
Has drunk her health in wine ; 

The priest has said — iu conlldeace — 
The lassie was divine, — 



And that is mair iu maiden's praise 

Thau ony priest should say : 
But oh, what will the lads do 

Wheu Maggy gangs away ? 

The wailing iu our green glen 

That day will qu.aver high; 
'Twill draw the redbreast frae the wood, 

The laverock frae the sky ; 
The fiiiries frae their beds o' dew 

Will rise an' join the lay : 
An' hey ! what a day will be 

Wheu Maggy gangs away ! 



lUilliam lHovbGiuortl). 

Wordsworth (1770-1850) was born at Cockermouth, 
England, April 7tli, 1770. His father was law-agent to 
Sir James Lowthcr, afterward Lord Lonsdale. His moth- 
er died when he was eight years of age ; his father, when 
he was thirteen. He went to St. John's College, Cam- 
bridge, in 1787, and took his Bachelor's degree there in 
17yi. On leaving the University he travelled abroad, 
and was in France when Louis XVL was dethroned. At 
that time he was a strong republican, aud sympathized 
with the revolutionary party. He soon clianged his 
views. His friends wished him to enter the Churcli ; 
but a bequest of £900 from Raisley Calvert, a young 
friend, who urged him to become a poet, led him to de- 
vote himself thenceforth to literary pursuits. The cir- 
cumstance was commemorated by Wordsworth iu a no- 
ble sonnet. In 1793 he put forth a modest volume of 
descriptive verse ; and in 1798 appeared "Lyrical Bal- 
lads," containing twenty-three pieces, the tirst being 
"The Ancient Mariner," by liis friend Coleridge, and 
the rest poems by Wordsworth. Joseph Cottle, book- 
seller of Bristol, gave thirty guineas for the copyright; 
lie printed five hundred copies, but the venture w.is 
tinaucially a failure, and he got rid of the edition at a 
loss. The attempt of Wordsworth to substitute tlie 
simple language of rustic life for the tumid diction of 
the sentimental school was assailed with bitter ridicule 
hy tlie critics of the day. The Edinburgh Review con- 
demned his innovations. He had to educate his public. 

After a tour in Germany, Wordsworth settled, with his 
sister, at Grasnicre. The payment to them of £3600 from 
a debt due their father had placed them above w.int. In 
1803 the poet was married to his cousin, Mary Hutchin- 
son, tlie lady who became the subject of the well-known 
lines, begiuning, "She was a phantom of delight." In 
1808 he removed to Allan Bank, and in 1813 to Kydal 
Mount, both places lying in sight of the beautiful lakes; 
whence the name of the "Lake School of Poetry" was 
given to the style represented by himself, Coleridge, and 
Southey. Holding the views he did — that poetry should 
be true to nature, and represent real, and not exagger- 
ated, feelings — Wordsworth purposely selected simple 
subjects, and treated them with a simplicity which diew 



282 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BEITISS AND AMERICAN rOETRX. 



down much opposition, and gave rise to a controvei-sy 
wliicli lasted for some years. 

Tlie income from his writings was small, because of 
the existing distaste for them, and because lie had to ed- 
ucate a public up to the appreciation of his standard. 
It was, therefore, a great assistance when, through the 
influence of Lord Lonsdale, he was, in 1813, appointed 
distributor of stamps for Westmoreland, which brouglit 
him in £500 a year. In 1814 " The Excursion " was pub- 
lished. Only five hundred copies were disposed of the 
first six years. "This will never do," wrote Jeffrey, in 
the Edinburgh Review; but he lived to see that he had 
been far from infallible in his prediction. As a mere 
narrative, "The Excursion" is faulty: it has little dra- 
matic interest. The conception of a peddler who can 
converse like a poet, pliilosophcr, and scholar on the 
highest themes, is not in harmony with the probabili- 
ties; but tlie poem is full of some of the grandest pas- 
sages in tlie whole range of English verse. Notwith- 
standing the ridicule launched at it by Byron, its fame 
has been daily extending; and it will, perhaps, outlast 
tlie brilliant "Childe Harold" of his lordship. It has 
certaiuly had more influence upon the poetical culture 
and taste of the latter half of the nineteenth century 
tliaii all that Byron ever wrote. 

In 181.5 "The White Doe of Rylstone" appeared. In 
1819 "The Wagoner," dedicated to Charles Lamb, and 
" f etcr Bell," to Southcy, were published. In 1833 "Me- 
morials of a Tour on the Continent," containing poems 
and sonnets, was produced ; and in 1835 appeared "Yar- 
row Revisited," dedicated to Rogers. "The Prelude," 
a fragment of autobiography, was not published until 
the author was dead. 

"In my ode on the 'Intimations of Immortality,'" 
says Wordsworth, " I do not profess to give a literal 
representation of the state of the affections, and of the 
moral being in childhood. I record my own feelings at 
tliat time — my absolute spirituality — my atl-sotdncss, if I 
may so speak. At that time I could not believe that I 
should lie down quietly in the grave, and that my body 
would moulder into dust." Elsewhere he says of it: "I 
took hold of the notion of pre-existence as having suf- 
ficient foundation iu humanity for authorizing me to 
make, for my purpose, the best use of it I could as a 
poet." The ode referred to stands unapproaclied in 
sublimity by any similar work in the English language. 

In his Sonnets (a poetic form of which he was fond), 
Wordswortli is uuexcelled, even by Milton. His higher 
efforts are described by Coleridge as being characterized 
by "an austere purity of language, both grammatically 
and logically." No English poet who has dealt with 
lofty themes is more thoroughly English in his style. 

In 1813 the now venerable poet resigned his oflice as 
distributor of stamps in favor of one of his sons. A 
pensi<m of £300 a year was bestowed on him; and, on 
the death of his friend Southcy, iu 1843, he was appoint- 
ed poet-laureate. He died a few days after the comple- 
tion of his eightieth year. 

Wordsworth tells us that when he first thought seri- 
ously of being a poet, he looked into liimself to see how- 
far he was fitted for the work, and seemed to find then 
" the first great gift, the vital soul." In this sclfesti- 
mate ho did not err. He was thoroughly in earnest. 



THE DAFFODILS. 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 

That floats ou high o'er vales and hills. 
When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host of golden daffodils, 
Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 
Fluttering and dancing iu the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that .shine 
And twinkle ou the Milky Way, 

They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay ; 

Ten thonsand saw I at a gUince, 

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The w.aves beside them danced, but they 
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee; — 

A poet could not but be gay 
In such a jocund company: 

I gazed, and gazed, but little thought 

What wealth the show to mo had brought. 

For oft, Tvheu on my couch I lie. 
In vacant or iu iiensive mood. 

They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude; 

And then my heart with pleasure fills, 

And dances with the daffodils. 



TO THE CUCKOO. 

O blithe new-comer! I have beard, 

I hear thee and rejoice : 
O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird, 

Or but a wandering voice ? 

While I am lying on the grass, 

Thy twofold shout I hear. 
That seems to fill the vrhole air's space, 

As loud far off as near. 

Though babbling only to the vale 

Of sunshine and of flowers. 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 

Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the siiring! 

Even yet thou art to me 
No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery ; 



WILLIAM WOEDSWORTB. 



283 



The same whom in luy school-boy days 

I listeued to ; that cry 
Which made me hiolc a thousaud Tvays 

lu bush and tree aud sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 

Through woods aud on the green ; 

And thou wert still a hope, a love, 
Still louged for, never seen ! 

Aud I can listen to thee yet — 

Can lie upon the i)lain 
And listen, till I do beget 

That goldeu time again. 

O blessdd bird ! the earth we pace 

Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial, fairy place, 

That is fit home for thee ! 



ODE TO DUTY. 

Stern daughter of the Voice of God ! 
O Duty! if that name thou love 
Who art a light to guide, a rod 
To check the erring, and reprove ; 
Thou who art victory and law 
When empty terrors overawe; 
From vain temptations dost set free. 
And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity; — 

There are who ask not if thine eye 
Be on them ; who, in love and truth. 
Where no misgiving is, rely 
Upon the genial seuse of youth : 
Glad hearts ! without reproach or blot. 
Who flo thy work, aud know it not. 
Long may the kindly impulse last ! 
But thou, if they .should totter, teach them to stand 
fast! 

Serene will be our days, and bright. 
And hajipy will our nature be. 
When love is an uuerriug light, 
And joy its own security. 
And they a blissful course may hold 
Even uow who, not unwisely bold. 
Live in the spirit of this creed, 
Yet find that other strength, according to their need. 

I, loving freedom, aud untried. 
No sport of every random gust, 



Yet being to myself a guide. 
Too blindly have reposed my trust ; 
Aud oft, when in my heart was heard 
Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 
But thee I uow would serve more strictly, if I may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul, ' 
Or strong compunction in me wrought, 
I supplicate for thy control. 
But iu the quietness of thought. 
Me this nnch.artered freedom tires; 
I feel the weight of chance-desires : 
My hopes no more must chauge their name ; 
I long for a repose that ever is the same. 

Stern law-giver ! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignaut grace ; 
Nor kuow we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face. 
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, 
Aud fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
Aud the most ancient heavens through thee are 
fresh and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful power ! 
I call thee: I myself commeud 
Unto thy guidance from this hour; 
Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 
Give unto me, made lowly wise. 
The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
The confidence of rea.son give ; 
Aud, in the light of truth, thy bondman let me live! 



SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 

She was a jdiautom of delight 

When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 

A lovely apparition, sent 

To be a moment's ornamcut : 

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 

Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 

But all things else about her drawn 

From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; 

A dancing shape, an image gay, 

To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her, upon nearer view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too ! 

Her household motions light aud free. 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 



■2Si 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH J^D AMEKICAX POETRY. 



A counteuauco iu which did meet 
Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 
A creature not too bright or good 
For huraau nature's daily food, 
For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The verj- pulse of tlie machine ; 
A being breathing thoughtful breatu, 
A traveller between life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
A perfect woman, nobly planned. 
To waru, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel light. 



CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 

Who is the happy warrior f Who is he 

That every man iu arms should wish to be ? — 

It is the generous spirit who, when brought 

Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 

Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought: 

Whose high endeavors are an inward light. 

That makes the path before him always bright ; 

Who, with a natural instinct to discern 

What knowledge can perform, is diligent to leani ; 

Abides bj' this resolve, and stops not there, 

But makes his moral being his prime can^ : 

Who, doomed to go in company with Pain 

And Fear and Bloodshed, miserable train ! 

Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 

Iu face of these doth exercise a power 

Which is our humau nature's highest dower ; 

Controls tliem, and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 

Of their bad influence, and their good receives: 

By objects which might force the soul to abate 

Her feeling rendered more compassionate ; 

Is placable, because occasions rise 

So ofteu that demand such sacrifice ; 

More skilful iu self-kuowledge, even more pure. 

As tempted more ; more able to endure, 

As more exposed to sufleriug and distress ; 

Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. — 

'Tis he whose law is reason ; who depends 
Upon that law as on the best of friends ; 
Whence, iu a state where men are tempted still 
To evil for a guard against worse ill. 
And what in quality or act is best 
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, 



He fixes good on good alone, and owes 
To virtue every triumph that ho knows : — 

Who, if he rise to station of command. 
Rises by open means, and there will stand 
On honorable terms, or else retire, 
And iu himself jiossess his own desire : 
Who comprehends his trust, and to the same 
Keeps faithful with a singleuess of aim, 
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait 
For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state ; 
Whom they must follow; on whose head must fill. 
Like showers of manna, if they come at all : 
Whose powers shed round hiraiu the common strilV. 
Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 
A constant influence, a ijeculiar grace ; 
But who, if he be called upon to face 
Some awful moment to which Heaven has joiiieil 
Great issues, good or bad for humankind, 
Is happy as a lover, and attired 
With sudden brightness, like a man inspired; 
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law 
In calumess made, and sees what he foresaw ; 
Or, if an unexpected call succeed. 
Come when it will, is equal to the need : — 

He who, though thus endued, as with a sense 
And faculty for storm and turbulence. 
Is yet a soul whose master-bias leans 
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes ; 
Sweet images ! which, wheresoe'er he be, 
Are at his heart ; and such fidelitj' 
It is his darling passion to approve ; 
More brave for this, that he hath much to love. — 

'Tis, finally, the mau who, lifted high. 
Conspicuous object iu a nation's eye. 
Or left unthought-of iu obscurity, — 
Who, with a toward or untoward lot, 
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not, — 
Plays, in the many games of life, that one 
Wliore what he most doth value must be won : 
Whom neither shajie of danger can dismay. 
Nor thought of tender happiness betray : 
Who, not content that former worth stand fust. 
Looks forward, persevering to the last. 
From well to better, daily self-suri)as.sed ; 
Who, whether jiraise of him must walk the enrtli 
Forever, and to noble deeds give birth. 
Or he must go to dust without his fame, 
And leave a dead, unprofitable name, — 
Finds comfort in himself and iu his cause; 
And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws 
His breath in coulidence of Heaven's applause: — 
This is the happy warrior ; this is he 
Whom every mau iu arms should wish to be. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



285 



THE FOUNTAIN. 

A CONVERSATION. 

We talked with open heart, aud tongue 

Aflectioiiate and true, 
A pair of frieud.s, thongh I was young, 

Ami Matthew seventy-two. 

We lay beneath a spreading oak, 

Beside a mossy seat ; 
Aud from the tnrf a fountain broke, 

Aud gurgled at our feet. 

"Now, Matthew," said I, "lot us match 

This water's pleasant tune 
With some old border-soug, or catch. 

That suits a summer's noou ; 

"Or of the church-clock aud the chimes 
Sing here beneath the shade — 

That half-mad thing of witty rhymes 
Which you last April made." 

In sileuce Matthew lay, and eyed 
The spring beneath the tree ; 

And thus the dear old man replied, 
The gray-haired mau of glee : 

" Down to the vale this water steers ; 

How merrily it goes ! 
'Twill murmur ou a thousand years, 

And ilow as now it flows. 

"Aud here, on this delightful day, 

I cannot choose but think 
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 

Beside this fountain's brink. 

" My eyes are dim with childish tears, 

M}- heart is idly stirred : 
For the same sound is iu my ears 

Which iu those days I heard. 

"Thus fares it still iu our decay; 

Aud yet the wiser mind 
Mourns less for what age takes away 

Thau what it leaves behind. 

"The blackbird iu the summer trees. 

The lark ui>on the hill. 
Let loose their carols when they please. 

Are quiet when they will. 



"With Nature never do they wage 

A foolish strife ; they see 
A happy youth, aud their old age 

Is beautiful aud free. 

"But we are pressed by heavy laws; 

Aud often, glad uo more, 
We wear a face of joy because , 

We have been glad of yore. "^ 

"If there be one who need bemoan 

His kindred laid iu earth. 
The household hearts that were his own. 

It is the mau of mirth. 

" My days, my friend, are almost gone ; 

My life has been approved, 
Aud many love me; but by none 

Am I enough beloved." 

" Now both himself and me he wrongs. 
The man who thus complains ! 

I live aud sing my idle songs 
Upon these happy plains; 

"And, Matthew, for thy children dead 

I'll be a sou to thee !" 
At this he grasped my hand, aud said, 

"Alas! that cannot be." 

We rose up from the fountain-side ; 

And down the smooth descent 
Of the green sheep-track did we glide. 

And through the wood we went : 

And, ere we came to Leonard's rock. 
He sang tho.so witty rhymes 

About the crazy old chnrch-clock, 
And the bewildered chimes. 



FROM LINES 

COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TIXTERN ABBEY, ON 

REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WVE DURING 

A TOUR, JULY 13, 1T98. 

Five years have passed ; five summers with the 

length 
Of five long winters ! aud again I hear 
These waters rolling from their mountain-spriugs 
With a sweet inland mnrmnr. Once again 
Do I behold these steep aud lofty cliff's. 
That on a wild secluded scene impress 
Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect 



286 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



The landscape Tvitli the quiet of the sky. 
Tlie day is come when I again repose 
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 
Tlicse plots of cottage-grouud, these orchard-tnfts. 
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits. 
Are clad in one green hue, aud lose themselves 
Among the woods aud copses, uor disturb 
Tho wild green landscape. Once again I see 
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little liues 
Of siiortive wood run wild : these pastoral farms. 
Green to the very door ; aud wreaths of smoke 
Sent up in silence, from among the trees 
With some uncertain notice, as might seem 
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods. 
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire 
The hermit sits alone. 

These beauteous forms. 
Through a long abscuce, have not been to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
But oft in lonely rooms, and "mid the din 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them. 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; 
Aud passing even into my purer mind. 
With tranquil restoration : — feelings too 
Of unremembered pleasure : such, iierhaps, 
As have no slight or trivial influence 
On that best portion of a good man's life, 
His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 
To them I may have owed another gift. 
Of aspect more snblime ; that blessed mood. 
In which the burden of tlio mystery. 
In wliich the heavy and the weary weight 
Of all this unintelligible world, 
Is lightened : — that serene and blessed mood. 
In which the aflfections gently lead us on, — 
Until tho breath of this corporeal frame, 
Aud even the motion of onr human blood 
-Vlmost suspended, we are laid asleep 
In body, and become a living soul : 
Wliile with an eye made quiet by tho power 
Of harmony, aud the deep power of joy. 
We see into tho life of things. 

For I have learned 
To look on nature, not as in the hour 
Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 
The still, sad music of humanity, 
Nor harsli nor grating, though of ample power 
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
A presence that disturbs mo with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 



Of something far more deeply interfused, 
Whoso dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
Aud the round ocean and the living air, 
Aud the blue sky, aud in the mind of man : 
A motion and a spirit, that impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 
Aud rolls tlirough all things. Therefore am I still 
A lover of the meadows and the woods. 
And mountains; and of all that we behold 
From this green e.arth ; of all the mighty world 
Of eye and ear, both what they half create 
And what iierceive ; well pleased to recognize 
In nature aud the language of tho sense. 
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 
The guide, the guardian of my heart, — aud soul 
Of all my moral being. 

Nor iierchauce. 
If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
Suffer my genial spirits to decay : 
For thou art with me, here, upon the banks 
Of this fair river ; thou, my dearest friend, 
My dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I eafch 
The language of my former heart, and read 
Sly former jileasures in the shooting lights 
Of thy wild eyes. Oh, yet a little while 
May I behold in thee what I was once. 
My dear, dear sister! and this prayer I make, 
Kno'.viug that Nature never did betray 
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, 
Tlirough all the years of this our life, to had 
From joy to joy ; for she can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, ami so feed 
Witli lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
Tlie dreary intercoui-se of daily life. 
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith, that all which we beliold 
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
Shino on thee in thy solitary walk ; 
And let the misty mountain winds bo free 
To blow against thee : aud, in after years. 
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind 
Sliall be a m.-insion for all lovely forms. 
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh, then, 
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. 
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 
Of tender joy wilt tlion remember me, 
Aud tliese my exhortations! 



WILLIAM WOBDSWORTH. 



287 



LAODAMIA. 

"With sacrifice Ijefore tbo risiug morn 

\o\\s have I made by fniitlcss hope iusinrcil ; 

Aud from tbe infernal gods, 'luid shades forlorn 
Of night, my slaughtered lord have I required : 

Celestial pity I again implore ; — 

Restore him to my sight — great Jove, restore !" 

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 

With faith, the suppliant heavenward lifts her 
hands ; 

While, lil;e the sun emerging from a cloud. 

Her countenance brightens, and lier eye expands: 

Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows ; 

And she expects the issue in repose. 

terror! what hath she perceived? — O joy! 
What doth she look ou ? whom doth she behold ? 

Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy ? 

His vital presence? his corporeal mould? 
It is — if seuse deceive her not — 'tis lie ! 
And a god leads him — wiugdd Mercury ! 

Mild Ileinics spake, and touelied her witli his wand. 
That callus all fear: ''Such grace hath crowned 
thy prayer, 

Laodaniia! that at Jove's command 

Thy husband walks the paths of upper air : 

He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space ; 

Accept the gift, behold him face to face!" 

Forth sprang the impassioned queen her loixl to 
clasp ; 

Again that consummation she essayed : 
But unsubstantial form eludes her grasp 

As often as that eager grasp was made. 
Tlie phantom iiarts — but jiarts to reunite, 
And reassume his iilaco before her sight. 

" Protesilaus, lo, thy guide is gone! 

Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice ! 
This is our palace, — yonder is thy throne : 

Speak, and the floor thou tread'st ou will rejoice. 
Not to apiiall me liave the gods bestowed 
This precious boon, and blessed .a sad abode." 

"Great Jove, Laodamia, dotli not leave 
His gifts imperfect. Spectre though I be, 

1 am not sent to scare tliee, or deceive, 
But in reward of thy fidelity : 

And something also did my worth obtain ; 
For fearless virtue briugeth boundless gain. 



"Thou knowest the Delphic oracle foretold 

That the lirst Greek who touched the Trojan 
strand 

Should die; but me the tlrreat could not withhold: 
A generous cause a victim did dem.and ; 

Aud forth I leajied upon the sandy plain, 

A self-devoted chief — by Hector slain." 

f 
" Supremo of heroes ! bravest, noblest, best ! 

Thy matchless courage I bewail no more. 
Which then, when tens of thousands were depressed 

By doubt, propelled theo to the fatal shore. 
Thou found'st — aud I forgive thee — here thou art — 
A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 

"But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 
Wert kind as resolute, aud good as brave ; 

And he whose power restores thee hath decreed 
Tliat thou shouldst cheat the malice of the grave : 

Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 

As when their breath enriched Thessaliau air. 

"No spectre greets me, — no vaiu shadow this: 
Come, blooming hero, place thee by my side ! 

Give, ou this well-known conch, one nuptial kiss 
To me this day, a second time thy bride !'' 

Jove frowned in heaveu ; the conscious Parca; 
threw 

Upon those roseate lips a Stygiau hue. 

"This visage tells thee that my doom is passed: 
Know virtue were not virtue if tlie joys 

Of sense were able to return as fast 

And surely as they vanish. — Earth destroys 

Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains : 

Calm pleasures there abide — majestic paius. 

"Be taught, O faithful consort, to control 
Rebellious passion! for the gods approve 

The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul, — 
A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 

Thy transports moderate, aud meekly moiiru 

AVhen 1 depart — for brief is my sojourn — " 

"All, wherefore ? Did not Hercules by force 
Wrest from the guardian monster of the tomb 

Alcestis, a reanimated corse. 

Given back to dwell ou earth iu vernal bloom ? 

Medea's spells dispersed tlio weight of years. 

And .lEson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers. 

"The gods to us are merciful — and they 
Yet further may relent; for mightier far 



288 



CYCLOPMDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Tliau strength of nerve and sine^v, or the sway 

Of magic potent over sun and star, 
Is love, though oft to agony distressed. 
And tliongh his favorite seat be feeble woman's 
breast. 

" But if thou goest, I follow — " " Peace !"' he said — 
She looked upon him, and was calmed and 
cheered. 

The ghastly color from his lips h.ad fled; 
In his deportment, shape, and mien appeared 

Elysiau beauty, melancholy grace. 

Brought from a pensive though a happy place. 

He spake of love, such love as spirits feel 
In worlds whose course is equable and pure ; 

No fears to beat away, no strife to heal, — ■ 
The past unsighed-for, and the future sure; — 

Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 

Kevived, with fiuer harmony pursued ; 

Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there 
In happier beauty: more pellucid streams. 

An amjiler ether, a diviner air. 

And fields invested with jiurpureal gleams ; 

Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day 

Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 

Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earned 
That privilege by virtue. — "111,"' said he, 

" The end of man's existence I discerned, 
Who from ignoble games and revelry 

Could draw, when we had jiarted, vain delight. 

While tears were thy best pastime day and night: 

"And while my youthful peers before my eyes 
(Each hero following his peculiar bent) 

Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise 
By martial si>orts, — or, seated in the tent. 

Chieftains and kings in council were detained. 

What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained : 

"The wishcd-for wind was given. I then revolved 

Tile oracle upon the silent sea ; 
And, if no wortliier led the way, resolved 

That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 
The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, — 
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. 

"Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter, was the pang 
When of thy loss I thought, belov6d wife! 

On thee too fondly did my memory hang. 
And on tlie joys we shared in mortal life, — 



The paths which we had trod, — these fountains. 

flowers, — 
My new-jilanned cities, and unfinished towers. 

" But should suspense permit the foe to cry, 
' Behold they tremble ! — haughty their array, 

Y'et of their number no one dares to die V 
In soul I swept the indignity away: 

Old frailties then recurred ; but lofty thought, 

In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 

"And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak 
In reason, in self-government too slow : 

I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 

Our blessed reunion in the shades below. 

The invisible world with thee hath sympathized ; 

Be thj' affections raised and solemuized. 

"Learn by a mortal yearning to asccud 
Toward a higher object. Love was given, 

Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end ; 
For this the passion to excess was driven — 

That self might be annulled, — her bondage prove 

The fetters of a dream opposed to love." 

Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes reappears ! 

Round the dear shade she would have clung : 
'tis vain : 
The hours are past — too brief had they been years ; 

And him no mortal effort can detain. 
Swift toward the realms that know not earthly 

day. 
He through the portal takes his silent way. 
And <ui the palace floor a lifeless corse she lay. 

By no weak pity might the gods be moved : 
She who thus perished, not without the crime 

Of lovers that iu reason's spite have loved. 
Was doomed to wear out her appointed time 

Apart from happy ghosts — that gather flowers 

Of blissful quiet' 'mid unfading bowers. 

Y'et tears to human suffering are due ; 

And mortal hopes defeated and o'crthrown 

Are mourned by man, and not by man alone. 

As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 

Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) 

A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 

From out the tomb of him for whom she died ; 

And ever, when such stature they had gained 

Tluit Ilium's walls were subject to their view, 

The ti-ees' tall summits withered at the sight, 

A constant interchange of growth and blight. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



289 



ODE. 

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY, FROM RECOLLECTIONS 
OF EAULY CHILDHOOD. 



Tlieie w.is a time ■when meadow, grove, and 

stream, 
The earth, and every common sight. 
To me did seem 
Apparelled In celestial light, 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it h.ath been of yore ; — 
Tnrn wheresoe'er I may, 
By night or day, 
The things which I have seen I now can see no 
more ! 



The rainbow comes and goes, 
And lovely is the rose ; 
The moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 
Waters on a starrj" night 
Are beautiful and fair; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth ; — 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 



Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 
And while the young lambs bouud 
As to the tabor's sound, 
To me alone there came a thought of grief; 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief; 

And I again am strong. 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the 

steep — 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong : 
I hear the echoes throngli the mountains throng; 
The winds conio to me from the tields of sleep; 
And all the earth is gay. 
Land and sea 
Give them-selves up to jollity ; 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every beast keep holiday ; — 
Thou child of joy, 
Shout ronnd mc, let mo hear thy shouts, thou hajipy 
shepherd-boj' ! 

IV. 

Ye bless(5d creatures, I have heard the call 
Ye to each other make ; I see 



The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 
My heart is at your festival, 

My head hath its coronal, 
The fulness of your bliss I feel — I feel it all. 
Oh, evil day ! if I were sullen. 
While Earth herself is adorning. 

This sweet M.ay morning ; 
And the children are culling, 

On every side. 
In a thousand v.alleys far and wide. 
Fresh liowers ; while the sun shines warm. 
And the babe le.aps up on his mother's arm : — 
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 
— But there's a tree, of many one, 
A single field which I have looked uiion — 
Both of them speak of something that is gone : 
The pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat: 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 



Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 
Hath had elsewhere its setting, 

And Cometh from afar ; 
Not in entire forgetfulness. 
And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home : 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing boy ; 
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows. 

He sees it in his joy ; 
The youth, who daily farther from the east 
Slust travel, still is Nature's priest, 
And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended ; 
At length the man perceives it die away. 
And fade into the light of common dav. 



Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; 
^'earnings she hath in her own natural kind. 
And, even with something of a mother's mind, 

And no unworthy aim, 

The homel}' nurse doth all she can 
To make her foster-child, her imnate man. 

Forget the glories he h.ath known. 
And that imperial iialace whence he came. 



290 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BIUTISH AXD AMEIUCAN POETRY. 



Bebolil the cliild ninoiig bis iiew-l>oni blisses, 
A six-years' dailiug of a pigmy size ! 
See, wbero 'niiil work of Lis own baud be lies. 
Fretted by sallies of bis motber's kisses, 
With ligbt 111)011 biiu from bis father's eyes! 
See, at bis feet, some little plan or chart. 
Some fragment from his dream of human life. 
Shaped by himself with uewly-learued art ; 

A woddiug or a festival, 

A uionruiiig or a funeral ; 

And this hath now his heart. 
And unto this he frames bis song: 
Tbeii will bo tit bis tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 

But it will not be b>ng 

Ero this be thrown aside, 

And with new joy and piido 
The little actor cons another part ; 
Filling from time to time bis "humorous stage" 
With all the persons, down to palsied age, 
That Life briugs with her iu her equipage ; 

As if bis whole vocation 

Were endless imitatiou. 



Thou, whose exterior seinblauce dost belie 

Thy soul's immensity ; 
Tbon best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Tbj- heritage ; thou eye among the blind. 
That, deaf and silent, readest the eternal deep, 
Hanntcd forever by the eternal niiud, — 

Jligbty Prophet! Seer blessed! 

On whom those truths do rest, 
Wbicb wo are toiling all our lives to find ; 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 
Thon, over whom tby immortality 
Hroods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 
A presence which is not to be put li\ : 
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom, on thy being's beigbt, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
Thus blindly with tby blessedness at strifi^ ? 
Fnll soon thy soul shall have her earthly freigbl. 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! 



O joy! that iu our embers 
Is something that doth live, 



That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years iu me dotb breed 
Perpetual benedictions : not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blessed ; 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With uew-fledged hope still fluttering iu his breast, — 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and jiraise ; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense aud outward things, 
Fallings from us, vanishiugs ; 
Blank misgivings of a creature 
Moving about iu worlds not realized, 
High instincts, before which our mortal nature 
Did tremble, like a guilty thing surprised : 
But for those first aflections. 
Those shadowy recollectious. 
Which, bo they what they may. 
Are yet the fountain liijlit of all our day. 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 

Uphold us, cherish, aud have power to make 
Our uoisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal silence : truths that wake 

To perish never ; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor. 

Nor man, nor boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence, iu a seasou of calm weather, 
Though inland far we be, 
Our sonls have sight of that immortal sea 
Wbicb brought us hither; 
Can iu a moment travel thither, 
Aud see the children sjiort upon the shore, 
And bear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 



Tlieu sing, ye birds — sing, sing a joyous song! 
And let the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound! 
We, iu thought, will join your throng, 
Ye that pipe aud ye that play. 
Ye that through your hearts to-day 
Feel the gladness of the May ! 

What tbongh the radiance'which was once Sebright 

I!e now forev(!r taken from my sight, — 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 

Of splendor iu the grass, of glory in the llowcr; 
We will grieve not, rather find 
Strength in w bat rcinaius behind ; 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



2yi 



111 tbe piiiiuil synipatliy, 
Wliich, having been, iiiiist ever be; 
III tbe soothing thoughts that spring 
Out of human suffering ; 
lu the faith that looks through death. 
In years that bring the pbikisopbic inind. 



And oh, ye fountains, meadows, bills, and groves. 

Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 

Yet iu my heart of hearts I feel your might : 

I only have relinquished one delight. 

To live beneath your more habitual swny. 

I love tbe brooks, which down their channels fret, 

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; 

Tlie innocent brightness of a new-born day 

Is lovely yet ; 
Tlie clouds that gather round the setting snu 
Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality : 
Another race bath been and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live ; 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Tlioiigbts that do often lie too deep for tears. 



EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH 
OF JAMES HOGG. 

Of tliose referred to in these gtanz.ip, WaUer Scott died Sep- 
tem!]ci- 21st, 1832 ; S. T. Ciileridge, July 25th, 1S34 ; Charles 
Lamb, Decembei- 2Tth, IS.W : Geor^'c Ci:i1ibe, February 3d, 1S32 : 
Felicia Hemaus, May ICth, 1S3S; James Ili>t'S, Niivember 21st, 
1S35. 

When first, descending from tlie moorlands, 
I saw the stream of Yarrow glide 

Aloug a bare and open valley, 

Tbe Ettrick Shepherd was my guide. 

When last along its banks I wandered. 
Through groves that had begun to shed 

Their golden leaves upon the pathways. 
My steps the Border-minstrel led. 

Tbe mighty minstrel breathes no longer, 
'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies ; 

And death upon the braes of Yarrow- 
Has closed the shepherd-poet's eyes : 

Nor has the rolling year twice measured, 
From sign to sign its steadfast course, 

Since every mortal power of Coleridge 
Was frozen at its marvellous source ; 



The rapt one of the godlike forehead, 

The heaven-eyed creature sleeps iu earth : 

And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, 
Has vanished from his lonely hearth. 

Like clouds that rake the mountain summits. 
Or waves that owu no curbing hand, 

IIow fast has brother followed brother, 
From sunshine to tbe sunless laudY 

Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber 
Were earlier raised, remain to hear 

A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
" Who next shall drop and disappear ?" 

Our haughty life is crowned with darkness, 
Like London with its own black wreath, 

On which with thee, Crabbe ! forth-looking, 
I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath. 

.A.S if but yesterday departed. 

Thou too art gone before ; but why. 

O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered. 
Should frail survivors lieave a sigh? 

Mourn rather for that holy spirit. 
Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep ; 

For her who, ere her summer faded. 
Has sunk into a breathless sleep. 

No more of old romantic sorrows. 

For slaughtered youth or love-lorn maid ! 

With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten. 

And Ettrick mourns with her their poet dead. 
Rydal Jlolint, Nnvcmbcr 30lh, IS35. 



THE SONNET'S SCANTY PLOT. 

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room ; 
And hermits are contented with their cells. 
And students with their pensive citadels: 
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom. 
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom 
High as the highest peak of Fnrness Fells 
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells : 
In truth, the prison unto which we doom 
Ourselves no prison is ; and hence to me. 
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound 
Within the Sonnet's scanty idot of ground ; 
Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be) 
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty. 
Should llud brief solace there, as I have found. 



■^92 



CrCLOPJEDIA OF BlilTISB AXD AMESICAX POETRY. 



SCORN NOT THE .SONNET. 

Scorn not tlie Souuct. Critic, you have frowned, 
Mindless of its just honors : ^vith this key 
Sbakspeare unlocked bis heart ; the melody 
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; 
A thousaud times this pipe did Tasso sound ; 
Camijens soothed with it an exile's grief; 
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle-leaf 
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned 
His visionary hrow ; a glowworm lamp, 
It cheered lujld Spenser, called from fairy-land 
To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp 
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 
The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew 
Smil-animatinc; strains — alas, too few! 



EVENING. 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free; 

The holy time i.s quiet as a nun 

Breathless with adoration ; the broatl sun 

Is sinking down iu its tranquillity ; 

The gentleness of heaven is on the sea. 

Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, 

And doth with his eternal motion make 

A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear child ! dear girl, that walkest with mc here ! 

If thou appearest untouched by solemn thought. 

Thy nature is not therefore less divine: 

Tbon liest iu Abx-abam's bosom all the year. 

And Avorshippest at the temidc's inner shrine, 

God being with thee \vheu we know it not. 



TO SLEEP. 

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by, 
One after cue ; the sound of rain, and bees 
Miirninriug; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, 
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky, — 
By turns have all been thought of, yet I lie 
Sleepless ; and soon the small birds' melodies 
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees, 
And the first cnckoo's melancholy cry. 
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay 
And could not win thee. Sleep ! by .any stealth : 
So do not let me wear to-night away : 
Without thee what is all tlie morning's wealth? 
Come, hlessdd barrier between day and day, 
Dc.ir mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health 



THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. 

The world is too much with us; late and soon. 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: 
Little we see iu Nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
This sea that hares her bosom to the moon ; 
The winds that will be howling at all hours. 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; — 
For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; 
It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather ho 
A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn. 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
Have glimps&s that would make me less forlorn ; 
Have sight of Protens rising from the sea. 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 



THE FAVORED SHIP. 

With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, 

Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed ; 

Some lying fast at anchor iu the road, 

Some veering up and dowu, one knew not why. 

A goodly vessel did I then espy 

Come like a giant from a haven broad ; 

And lustily along the bay she strode, 

"Her tackling rich, and of apparel high." 

This ship was naught to mo, nor I to her. 

Yet I pursued her with a lover's look ; 

This ship to all the rest did I prefer: 

When will she turn, and whither? She will brook 

No tarrying; where she comes the winds must stir: 

On went she, and due north her journey took. 



THE MIND THAT BUILDS FOR AYE. 

A volant tribe of bards on earth are found. 
Who, while the flattering zephyrs round them play, 
Ou "coignes of vantage" hang their nests of clay: 
How quickly, from th.it aerie hold unbound, 
Dust for oblivion ! To the solid ground 
Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye. 
Convinced that there, there only, she can lay 
Secure foundations. As the year runs round. 
Apart she toils within tlio chosen ring. 
While the stars shine, or while day's purple eye 
Is gently closing with tho flowers of spring ; 
Where even the motion of an angel's wing 
Would interrupt tho intense tr.iuquillity 
Of silent hills, and more than silent skv. 



WILLIAM WORDSrVORTB. 



29?, 



WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPTEMBER 3, 180:!. 

Earth has not aiiytliing to show more fair: 
Dull would he bo of soul who could pass by 
A sight so tonchiug iu its majesty: 
This City now doth like a garment wear 
The beauty of the morniug; silent, bare, 
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
Open unto the fields, and to tlie sky. 
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
Never did sun more beautifully steep. 
In his fii'st siilendor, valley, rock, or hill ; 
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 
The river glideth at his own sweet will : 
Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 



TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. 

Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men ! 
Whether the whistling rustic tend his plough 
Within thy hearing, or thy head bo now 
Pillowed in some deep dnngeon's earless den ; — 
miserable chieftain! where and when 
Wilt thou find patience ? Yet die not ; do thou 
Wear rather in thy Ijouds a cheerful brow: * 
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again. 
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind 
Powers that will work for thee : air, earth, and 

skies : 
There's not a breathing of the common wind 
That will forget thee ; thou hast great allies ; 
Tliy friends are exultations, agonies. 
And love, and man's uuconqnerable mind. 



PHILOCTETES. 

When Philoctetes iu'the Lerauiau isle 

Lay couched, — upon that breathless monument. 

On him, or on his fearful bow unbent, 

Some villi bird oft might settle, and beguile 

The rigid features of a transient smile. 

Disperse the tear, or to the sigh give vent. 

Slackening the pains of ruthless banishment 

From home affections and heroic toil. 

Nor doubt that spiritual creatures round ns move, 

Griefs to allay that reason cannot heal ; 

And very reptiles have sufficed to prove 

To fettered wretchedness that no Bastile 

Is deep enough to exclude the light of love. 

Though man for brother-mau has ceased to feel. 



THY ART BE NATURE. 

A poet ! — He hath put his heart to school. 
Nor dares to move uupropped upon the staff 
Which art hath lodged within his hand; must 

laugh 
By precept only, and shed tears by rule ! 
Thy art be nature ; the live curreut qyaff, 
And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool. 
In fear that else, when critics grave and cool 
Have killed him, scorn should write his epitaph. 
How does the meadow-flower its bloom unfold I 
Because the lovely little flower is free 
Down to its root, and in that freedom bold ; 
And so the grandeur of the forest-tree 
Comes not by casting iu a formal mould. 
But from its own diviue vitality. 



LONDON, 1802. 

Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour ! 

England hath need of thee : she is a feu 

Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen. 

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower. 

Have forfeited their ancient English dower 

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men : 

Oh, raise us up, return to us again ; 

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power ! 

Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart : 

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea : 

Pure as the naked heavens, m.'ijestic, free. 

So didst thou travel on life's common way 

III cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 

The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 



WE MUST BE FREE, OK DIE. 

It is not to be thought of that the flood 

Of British freedom, which to the open sea 

Of the world's praise from dark antiquity 

Hath flowed, " with pomp of waters nnwithstood,'' 

Roused though it be full often to a mood 

Wliich spurus the check of salutary bauds, — 

That this most famous stream in bogs and sauds 

Should perish, and to evil and to good 

Be lost forever ! In our halls is hung 

Armory of the invincible knights of old : 

We must be free or die who speak the tongue 

That Shakspeare spake, the faith and morals hold 

Wliich Milton held. — In everything we are sprung 

Of earth's first blood, have titles manifold. 



294 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BIUTISJI JXD AilERlCAX POETRY. 



OCTOBER, 1803. 

These times touch moneyed worldliugs with dismay : 

Even rich men, brave by nature, taint tlie air 

With words of apprehension and despair; 

While tens of thousands, thinking on the affray, — 

Men unto whom sufBcient for the daj'. 

And minds not stinted or untitled, are given, — ■ 

Sound, healthy children of the God of heaven, — 

Are cheerfnl as the rising sun in May. 

What do we gather hence but firmer faith 

That every gift of noble origin 

Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath ? 

That virtue and the faculties within 

Are vital, — and that riches are akin 

To fear, to change, to cowardice, and death. 



ON PERSONAL TALK. 

IN FOUR SONNETS. 



I am not one who much or oft delight 
To season my fireside with personal talk,— 
Of friends who live witliin an easy walk, 
Or neighbors daily, weekly, in my sight: 
And, for my chauce-acqnaintauce, ladies bright. 
Sous, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk ; 
These all wear out of me, like forms, with chalk 
Painted ou rich men's floors, for one feast-night. 
Better than such discourse doth silence long. 
Long, barren silence, square with my desire; 
To sit without eraotiou, hope, or aim, 
lu the loved presence of my cottage-fire. 
And listen to the flapping of the flame, 
Or kettle, whispering its faint under-soug. 



'■ Yet life," yon say, " is life ; wo have seen and sec. 
And with a living pleasure we describe ; 
And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe 
The languid mind into activity. 
Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee. 
Are fostered by tlio comment and the gibe." 
Even bo it so : yet still among your tribe. 
Our daily world's true worldlings, rank not me ! 
Children are blessed, and powerful ; their world lies 
More justly balanced; partly at their feet 
And part far from them : sweetest melodies 
Are those that are by distance made more sweet. 
Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes, 
IIo is a slave — the meanest we can meet ! 



Wings have we — and as far as we can go. 
We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood. 
Blank ocean and mere skj-, support that mood 
Which, with tlie lofty, sanctifies the low; 
Dreams, books, are each a world ; and books, we 

know. 
Are a substantial world, both pure and good : 
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood. 
Our pastime and our happiness will grow. 
There find I personal themes, a plenteous store 
Matter wherein right voluble I am, 
To which I listen with a ready ear ; 
Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear, — 
The gentle lady married to the Moor ; 
And heavenly Una with her milk-white lamb. 



Nor can I not believe but that hereby 
Great gains arc n\ine ; for thus I live remote 
From evil-spe.aking ; rancor, never sought, 
Comes to me not ; malignant truth, or lie. 
Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I 
Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous 

thought : 
And -thus, from day to day, my little boat 
Rocks in its harbor, lodging peaceably. 
Blessings be with them — and eternal jiraise, 
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares — 
The poets — who on earth have made us heirs 
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays! 
Oil, might my name be numbered among theirs. 
Then gladly would I end my mortal days. 



iJoscpI) C)opliin5on. 

AMERICAN. 

Hopkinson (1770-1843) was a native of Philatlclpliia, 
son of Fmneis Hopkinson, a member of tlic Continental 
Congress, and one of tlic signers of the Declaration of 
Intlcpentlence. Francis was also the author of several 
humorous pieces in verse, of which "The Battle of the 
Kegs" is the best known. Joseph became a member of 
Congress, and in 1828 was appointed United States Dis- 
trict Judge. His one patriotic song of " Hail, Colum- 
bia" possesses but sliglit lyrical merit, and owed mucli 
of its popularity to the felicitous music of "The Presi- 
dent's Mareh," to which it was adapted. It was written 
in 1798, when a war with France was thought humiucnt. 
The song drew l:\r<re audiences to tlie tlieatrcs wlicre it 
was sung niglit aftei- night for a whole scasou. It has 
made the mclodv one of tlie national airs. 



JOSEPH HOPKIKSON.—HOX. WILLIAM EGBERT SPENCER. 



295 



HAIL, COLUMBIA! 

Hail, Coliimliia! liapiw laiul ! 
Hail, ye heroes! Leaveu-born band! 

Who fought aud bled iu Freedom's cause. 
Who fought aud bled iu Freedom's cause, 
Aud when the storui of war was gone, 
Eujoyed the peace your valor wou. 
Let independence bo our boast, 
Ever mindful what it cost; 
Ever grateful for the prize. 
Let its altar reach the skies. 

Firm, united let ns be, 
Rallyiug round our Liberty; 
As a baud of brothers joined, 
Peace aud safety we shall tind. 

Imniiirtal patriots ! rise once more : 
Defend your rights, defend your shore ; 
Let uo rude foe with impious hand, 
Let no rude foe with impious hand, 
Invade the slirine where sacred lies 
Of toil aud blood the well-earued prize. 
While ofl'eriug peace sincere and just, 
Iu Heaven wo place a manly trust. 
That truth aud justice will prevail, 
Aud every scheme of bondage fail. 
Firm, united let us be, etc. 

Sound, sound the trump of Fame ! 

Let Washington's great name 

Ring through the world with loud applause. 
Ring through the world with loud applause ; 

Let every clime to Freedom dear 

Listen with a joyful ear ! 

With equal skill and godlike power. 
He governed in the fearful hour 
Of horrid war ; or guides with ease 
The happier times of honest jieace. 
Firm, united let us be, etc. 

Behold the chief who now commands, 
Ouce more to serve his country stands — 

The rock ou which the storm will beat ; 
The rock on which the storm will heat. 
Bnt, armed in virtue firm and true, 
His hopes are fixed ou Heaven and yon. 
When hope was siukiug iu dismay, 
Aud glooms obscured Columbia's day, 
His steady mind, from changes free. 
Resolved ou death or liberty. 

Firm, united let us be, etc. 



C)on. lUilliam liobcrt Spencer. 

Spencer (1770-1834), a younger son of Lord Charles 
Speucer, was educated at Harrow and Oxford. Ho held 
for some time tlie appointment of Commissioner of 
Stamps. He became a society-man, and his poetical fame 
rests chiefly on three short stanzas, Ijcgiuning "Too late 
I stayed." His ballad of "Beth Gelcrt" is^also well 
known. His poems are mostly ephemeral "society 
verses." Falling into pecuniary difficulties he removed 
to Paris, where he died. His poems were collected and 
published iu 1835. As a companion he was courted by 
the brilliant circles of the metropolis; but if we may 
credit the account given of liim by Rogers, he was heart- 
less aud artificial — less a friend than a pleasure-seeker. 



TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON. 

Too late I stayed, — forgive the crime ; 

Unheeded flew the hours ; 
How noiseless falls the foot of Time, 

That ouly treads ou llowers ! 

What eye with clear account remarks 

The ebbing of the glass, 
When all its sands are diamond sparks. 

That dazzle as they pass! 

Oh, who to sober measurement 
Time's happy swiftness brings, 

When birds of paradLso have leut 
Their plumage for his wings! 



BETH GELERT; OR, THE GRAVE OF THE 
GREYHOUND. 

The spearmen heard the buglo sound. 

And cheerily smiled the morn ; 
Aud many a brach, aud many a hound. 

Attend Llewelyn's horn. 
And still he blew a louder blast, 

And gave a louder cheer : 
" Come, Gelert, come, wert never last 

Llewelyn's horu to bear ! 
Oh, where does faithfnl Gelert roam — 

The flower of all his race : 
So true, so brave — a lamb at home, 

A liou iu the chase ?" 

'Twas only at Llewelyn's board 
The faithful Gelert fed; 



296 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BBITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



He watched, ho served, he cheered his lord. 

And sentinelled his bed. 
In sooth he was a peerless lioiiud, 

The gift of royal John ; 
But now no Gelert conhl be found, 

Aud all the chase rode on. 
Aud now, as o'er the rocks aud dells 

The gallant chidlugs rise, 
All Suowdou's craggy chaos yells 

The mauy-miugled cries ! 

That day Llewelyn little loved 

The chase of hart and hare ; 
Aud scant and small the booty proved, 

For Gelert was not there. 
Uupleased, Llewelyn homeward hied, 

When, near the portal-seat, 
His truant Gelert he espied. 

Bounding his lord to greet. 
But when he gained his castle door. 

Aghast the chieftain stood ; 
The hound all o'er was smeared with gore ; 

His lips, his fangs, ran blood ! 

Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise, 

Unused such looks to meet ; 
His favorite checked his joyful guise, 

And crouched and licked his feet. 
Onward in hasto Llewelyn passed, 

And on went Gfelert too ; 
And still, where'er his eyes were cast. 

Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view ? 
O'erturned his infant's bed he found, 

Witli blood-staiued cover rent. 
And all around, the walls and ground 

With receut blood besprent. 

He called his child — no voice replied — 

Ho searched witli terror wild ; 
Blood, blood, he found on every side, 

But nowhere found his child ! 
" Hell-hound ! my child's by thee devoured !"' 

The frantic father cried ; 
And to the hilt his vengeful sword 

He plunged iu Gelert's side ! 
Ilis suppliant looks, a.s prone he fell, 

No jiity could impart ; 
But still his Gelert's dying yell 

Passed heavy o'er his heart. 

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, 
Some slumbcrcr wakened nigh: 



■\Vhat words the parent's joy could tell, 

To hear his iufaut's cry! 
Concealed beneath a tumbled heap, 

His hurried search h.ad missed, 
All glowing from his rosy sleep, 

Tlie cherub boy he kissed! 
Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread. 

But, the same couch beueath. 
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead — 

Tremendous still iu death ! 

Ah ! what was then Llewelyn's pain ! 

For now the truth was clear ; 
His gallant hound the wolf had slain 

To save Llewelyn's heir. 
Vain, vaiu, was all Llewelyn's woe ; 

" Best of thy kind, adieu ! 
TIio frantic blow which laid thee low, 

Tliis heart shall ever rue !" 
And now a gallant tomb they raise. 

With costly sculpture decked ; 
Aud marbles, storied with his praise, 

Poor Gelert's bones protect. 

There, never could the spearman pass 

Or forester unmoved ; 
There oft the tear-bespriukled grass 

Llewelyn's sorrow proved. 
Aud there he hung his horn aud spear, 

And there, as evening fell. 
In fancy's ear he oft would hear 

Poor Gfelert's dying yell. 
And till great Suowdou's rocks grow old, 

And cease the storm to brave. 
The consecrated spot shall hold 

The name of " Gelert's Grave." 



C)cnrn CuttrcU. 



Luttrcll (17T0-1S.51), said to have been a natural son 
of Lord Carhampton, was well educated, and grew to be 
a mau of wit anil fashion in London. He publislied "Ad- 
vice to Julia: a Letter in Rhyme" (1S20), and "Crock- 
ford House" (18'37). Kogers, the poet, said of him: 
" None of the talkers whom I meet iu Loudon society 
can slide iu a brilliant thing with such readiness as he 
does." The following epigram was made by Luttrcll ou 
the once famous vocalist, Miss Maria Tree : 

" On this tree when a nightingale settles and sings, 
The tree will reUiru her as good as she biiugs." 

Luttrell's graphic and truthful description of a London 
fog is quite equal to the best passages to be fouud in the 



HEXIIT LVTTEELL.—SIR WALTER SCOTT. 



297 



poems of Dean Swift. But his literary ambition was 
sliglit. It was as a convei'sationist tliat lie excelled, and 
he gave to society talents that might have won for him 
a lasting fame as a man of letters. 



THE NOVEMBER FOG OF LONDON. 

First, at the dawn of lingering day, 
It rises of au ashy gray ; 
Then deepening with a sordid staiu 
Of yellow, like a lion's mane. 
Vapor importunate and dense. 
It wars at once with every sense. 
The ears escape uot. All around 
Returns a dull unwonted souud. 
Loath to stand still, afraid to stir, 
The chilled and puzzled passenger, 
Oft blundering from the pavement, fails 
To feel his way along the rails ; 
Or at the crossings, in the roll 
Of every carriage dreads tlio pole. 

Scarce an eclipse, with pall so dnn, 
Blots from the face of heaven the sun. 
But soon a thicker, darker cloak 
Wraps all the town, behold ! iu smoke. 
Which steam-compelling trade disgorges 
From all her furnaces and forges 
In pitchy clouds; — too dense to rise. 
It drops rejected from the skies ; 
Till struggling day, extinguislied quite, 
At noon gives jilace to candle-light. 

O Chemistry, attractive maid ! 
Descend in pity to our aid : 
Come with thy all-pervading gases. 
Thy crucibles, retorts, and glasses. 
Thy fearful energies and wonders. 
Thy dazzling lights and mimic thunders: 
Let Carbon in thy train be seen. 
Dark Azote and fair Oxygen, — 
And Wollaston and Davy guide 
Tiie car that bears thee, at thy side. 
If any power can, anyhow. 
Abate these nuisances, 'tis thou ; 
And see, to aid thee in the blow, 
The bill of Michael Angelo ; 
Oh join — success a thing of course is — 
Thy heavenly to his mortal forces ; 
Make all our chimneys chew the cud 
Like hungry cows, as chimneys should! 
And since 'tis only smoke we draw 
Within our lungs at commou law, 
luto their thirsty tubes be sent 
Fresh air, by act of Parliament ! 



Sir llKiltcr Scott. 



Walter Scott (1771-1833), a younger son of a Writer to 
the Signet, was born in Edinburgh, on thelStli of August, 
1771. Some of his earliest years were, on account of a 
malady that caused lameness, passed on the farm of his 
paternal grandfather in Roxburghshire. Here he ac- 
quired his taste for border legends and stories of chival- 
ry. In 1779 he entered the High School of Eiiinburgh, 
and iu 1783 the University. In neither did~he display 
much ability ; his Latin w.is little, and his Greek less. 
Before his sixteenth year he had run through a vast cir- 
cle of miscellaneous reading, including many works of 
fiction. 

In 1786 Scott was apprenticed to his father, and in 1793 
was admitted to the Bar; but of his legal profession he 
says, in the language of Slender to Anne Page, "There 
was little love between us at first, .and it pleased God to 
decrease it on better acquaintance." His first serious 
efforts in composition were some translations of German 
ballads. In 1797 he married Miss Carpenter, a lady of 
some beauty, and with a small fortune. In 1799 he be- 
came Sheritr of Selkirkshire, and in 1806 one of the prin- 
cipal clerks of the Court of Session. He now resolved 
to make literature the basis of his fortunes. In 1803 ap- 
peared his " Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border;" in ISOi 
ho edited the metrical romance of "Sir Tristrem." In 
1805 appeared the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," which 
was enthusiastically received, and added largely to his 
growing fame. Tliis poem was followed in ISOS by 
"Marmion;" in 1809, by the "Lady of the Lake;" iu 
1811, by "Don Roderick;" in 1813, by "Rokeby;" and 
in 1814, by the "Lord of the Isles." 

Seeing that his poetical star w-as now beginning to 
pale before the rising fame of Byron, Scott prudently 
retired from the field where he was no longer without 
a rival, and commenced his series of "Wave rley Novels," 
so memorable in literature. For fifteen years he kept 
the authorship of them a secret, and was referred to as 
the "Illustrious Unknown." In 1814 "Waverley" ap- 
peared. Within four years it was followed by "Guy 
Mannering,""The Antiquary," "Old Mortality," " Rob 
Roy," and " The Heart of Mid-Lothian." From 1814 to 
1826, during the publication of tlicse novels, Scott was at 
the summit of his fame and worldly success. In 1820 he 
was created a baronet. Meanwhile he had purchased an 
estate at a price much above its value, and built his house 
at Abbotsford, " a romance in stone and lime," and thith- 
er the family removed in 1812. The house had cost him, 
with tlie garden, £20,000. 

But Scott's wealth was wholly illusory. He had been 
paid for his works chiefly in notes, which proved value- 
less. His connection with the publishing firm of Bal- 
lantyne & Co. had entangled him in the responsibilities 
of an ill-conducted business ; and the disastrous year 1826 
involved him in the ruin of his latter publishers. Con- 
stable & Co. The poet's liabilities from his relations 
with these two houses amounted to more than £120,000. 
Nothing could be more admirable than the attitude in 
which his adversity exhibited hiin. He sat down, at tlie 
age of fift5'-fivc, with the heroic determination of labor- 
ing to pay off his debts and redeem his fair fame. "Wood- 



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CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



stock " alone, the labor of three months, cleared to his 
creditors £8000. But the busy brain and the big, manly 
form did not suffice. Before he could reach the longed- 
for goal, he sank iu the struggle; a paralytic attack ar- 
rested his work. A journey to Italy did not restore 
his shattered constitution. Returning in haste, that he 
might be under the shade of his own trees, he expired 
September 21st, 1S32, after fourteen days of prostration 
and insensibility, with occasional flashes of consciousness. 

One of the most pathetic incidents of the last two 
months of his life was the failure of his attempt to write. 
On the 17th of July, awaking from sleep, he called for his 
writing materials. When the chair, in which he lay 
propped up with pillows, was moved into his study and 
placed before the desk, his daughter put a pen into his 
hand ; but there was no power in the fingers to close on 
the too familiar instrument. It dropped upon the paper, 
and the helpless old man sank back to weep in silence. 

"The great strength of Scott," says Dr. Carruthers, 
" undoubtedly lay in the prolific richness of his fancy, in 
his line healthy moral feeling, and in the abundant stores 
of his remarkable memory, that could create, collect, and 
arrange such a multitude of scenes and adventures ; that 
could find materials for stirring and romantic poetry in 
the most minute and barren antiquarian details; and 
that could reanimate the past, and paint the present, in 
sceuei-y and manners, with a vividness and energy un- 
known since the period of Homer." 



LOCHINVAE. 

Lady Heron's Song, from "Marmion." 

Oil, yonng Locbinvar is come ont of tbo ■west ; 
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best ; 
And save bis good broadsword bo weapon had none ; 
He rode all nnarraed, and he rode all aloue. 
iSo faithful iu love, and so dauntless iu war. 
There never was knight like the young Locbinvar. 

He stayed not for brake and be stopped not for 

stone ; 
He swam the E.sk River where ford there was none ; 
Hut ore he alighted at Netherby gate, 
The bride bad consented, the gallant came late ; 
For a laggard in love and a dastard in war 
Was to wed the fair Elleu of bravo Locbinvar. 

So boldly be entered the Netherby hall. 
Among bridesmen and kinsmen, and brothers and all : 
Then spoke the bride's father, his band on bis sword, 
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) 
" O, come ye in peace here or come ye iu war, 
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Locbinvar?" 

" I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied : 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide ; 



And now am I come, with this lost love of miue 
To lead but one measure, drink one cui) of wiue. 
There are maidens iu Scotland, more lovely by far, 
That would gladly be bride to the young Locbinvar !" 

The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up; 
He quatt'ed oil" the wine, and he threw down the cup. 
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh. 
With a smile on her lips and a tear iu her eye. 
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar; 
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Locbinvar. 

So stately bis form, and so lovely her face, 
That never a ball such a galliard did grace ; 
While her mother did fret and her father did fume, 
Ami the bridegroom stood dangling bis bonnet and 

plume, 
And th(! brido-maideus whispered, "'Twcre better, 

by far. 
To liavo nuitchcd our fair cousin with young Locb- 
invar!" 

One touch to her band and one word in ber ear, 
When they reached the hall door and the charger 

stood near ; 
So light to the cronji the fair lady he swung, 
So light to tbo saddle before her be sprung. 
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur: 
They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" (luoth youug 

Locbinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Grsemes of the Netherby 

clan ; 
Forsters, Feuwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and 

they ran ; 
There was racing and chasing on Canoubie Lee, — 
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see! 
So daring iu love and so dauntle.ss iu war. 
Have ye e'er beard of gallant like youug Locbinvar? 



SCENE FROM "MARMION." 

Not far advanced was morning day 
AVheu Marmion did his troop array 

To Surrey's camp to ride ; 
He had safe-conduct for bis band 
Beneath the royal seal aud hand. 

And Douglas gave a guide ; 
The ancient earl, with stately grace, 
Would Clara on her palfrey place, 
And whispered, iu au undertone, 
"Let the hawk stoop, bis prey is flown." 



SIR JT ALTER SCOTT. 



299 



The train from out the castle drew, 
But Mamiion stoppeil to bid adieu : — 
"ThoiigU something I might 'plain," he said, 
" Of cold respect to stranger gnest, 
Sent hither by yonr king's behest, 
While iu Tantallon's towers I stayed, — 
Part wo in friendship from your land ; 
And, noble earl, receive my hand." 
But Douglas round him drew his cloalv. 
Folded his arms, and thus lie spoke : — 
"My manors, halls, and bowers shall still 
Be open, at my sovereign's will. 
To each one whom he lists, howc'cr 
Unmeet to be the owner's peer. 
My castles are my king's alone, 
From turret to foundation-stone ; 
Tlie hand of Douglas is his own, 
And never shall iu friendly grasp 
The hand of such as Marniiou clasp." 

Burnt Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire. 
And shook his very frame for ire ; 

And — " This to me !" he said, — 
"An 'twere not for thy hoary beard, 
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared 

To cleave the Douglas' head ! 
And first, I tell thee, haughty peer, 
He who does England's message here. 
Although the meanest iu her state, 
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate : 
And, Douglas, more I tell tliee here. 

E'en in thy pitch of pride, — 
Here, iu thy hold, thy vassals near 
(Nay, never look upon your lord, 

And lay your hands npou your sword), — 

I tell thee, thou'rt defied ! 
And if thou saidst I am not peer 
To any lord in Scotland here, 
Lowland or Highland, far or near, 

Lord Angus, thou hast lied !'' 
On the earl's cheek the flush of rage 
O'ercame the ashen hue of age : 
Fierce he broke forth : "And darcst thon, then. 
To beard the liou iu his den, 

Tlie Douglas in his hall ? 
And liopest thou hence unscathed to go ? 
No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no !— 
Up drawbridge, grooms — what, warder, ho ! 

Let the portcullis fall." 
Lord Mamiion turned — well was his need— 
And dashed the rowels in his steed ; 
Like arrow through the archway sprung ; 
The ponderous gate behind him rung : 



To pass there was such scanty room, 
The bars, descending, razed his jilume. 

The steed along the drawbridge flies. 
Just as it trembled on the rise ; 
Not lighter does the swallow skim 
Along the smooth lake's level brim : 
And when Lord Mamiion reached his band, 
He halts and turns with cleuch€d hand, 
And shout of loud defiance pours. 
And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 



ALLEN-A-DALE. 

SoSG FROM "HOKEBY." 

Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning, 
Allen-a-Dalc has no furrow for turning, 
Allen-a-Dalo has no fleece for the spinning. 
Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning. 
Come, read rao my riddle ! come, hearken my tale ! 
And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale. 

The Baron of Ravens worth prances in pride, 
And he views his domains upon Arkindale side. 
The mere for his net, and the land for his game. 
The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame ; 
Yet the fish of the lake, aud the deer of the vale. 
Are less free to Lord Dacro than AUeu-a-Dale ! 

Allen-a-Ualo was ne'er belted a knight, 

Though his spur be as sharp, aud his blade be as 

bright ; 
Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord. 
Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word : 
And the best of our nobles his bonnet will veil. 
Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale. 

Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come ; 

Tlie mother, she asked of his household and home : 

" Tbougli the castle of Richmond stand fair on the 

hill. 
My hall," quoth bold Allen, ".shows gall.anter still; 
'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so 

pale, 
Aud with all its bright spangles!" said Allen-a-Dale. 

The fatlier was steel, and the mother was stone; 
They lifted the latch, and they bade him begone ; 
But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry ! 
He had laughed on the lass with his bonny black eye, 
Aud she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, 
Aud the youth it was told by, was AUeu-a-Dale ! 



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CVCLOPJEDIA OF BHITISH AND AMERICAN POETRT. 



HKLVELLYN. 

Ill the sprinj}; of 1305 a yonng man lust his way on the niniin- 
taiii Helvellyu ; aud three muiilhs afterward liie remains were 
discovered, guarded by a faithful terrier bitch, the companion 
of his rambles. 

I clinibeil the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, 
Lakes and nioiiutaius beueath nic gleamed misty 
and wide ; 
All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yelling, 

And starting around rao the echoes replied. 
On the right, Striden-edge rottud the Red-taru was 

bending, 
And Catchedicam its left vei-ge was defending, 
One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending. 
When 1 marked the sad spot where the wanderer 
had died. 

Dark green was the spot 'mid the brown moutitain 
heather. 
Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in 
decay. 
Like the corpse of au outcast abandoned to weather, 
Till the mountain winds wasted the tenautless 
clay. 
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended ; 
For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended, 
The much-loved remains of her master defended. 
And chased the hill fox and the raven away. 

How long did.st thou tliink that his silence was 
slumber ? 
When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst 
thou start ? 
How many long days and long weeks didst thou 
number 
Ere he fiided before thee, the friend of thy heart f 
And oh, was it meet that, no requiem read o'er him. 
No mother to weeii, .and no friend to deplore him, 
And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him, 
Uuhonored the pilgrim from life should depart f 

When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded, 
The tapestry w.aves dark round the dim-lighted 
hall; 
With '.scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded. 
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall : 
Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches 

;ire gleaming ; 
In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beam- 
ing ; 
Far adowu the lone aisle sacred music is streaming. 
Lamenting a chief of the people should fall. 



But meeter for thee, gentle lover of miture. 

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain 

lamb. 

When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in 

stature, 

And draws his last sob by the side of his dam : 

And more stately thy couch by this desert lake 

lying. 
Thy obsequies snug by the gr.ay plover flying. 
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying 
In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam. 



JOCK OF HAZELDEAN.' 

"Why weep ye by the tide, ladle? 

Why weep ye by the tide ? 
I'll wed ye to my youngest son, 

And ye sail be his bride; 
And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 

Sae comely to be seen " — 
But aye .she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

"Now let this wilfu' grief be done. 

And dry that cheek so pale; 
Young Frank is chief of Erringtou, 

And lord of Langley-dale ; 
His step is first in peaceful ha'. 

His sword in battle keen" — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

"A chain of gold ye sail not lack, 

Nor braid to bind your hair ; 
N(U- mettled bound, nor managed hawli, 

Nor palfrey fresh anil fair ; 
And you, the foremost of them a', 

Shall ride our forest queen " — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Joct'of H.azeldean. 

The kirk was decked at morning-tide, 

The tapers glimmered fair ; 
The priest anil bridegroom wait the briile, 

And dame and knight are there. 
They sought her baith by bower and h.a' ; 

The ladie was not seen ! 
She's o'er the Border, and aw.V 

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 



* Suggested by the old ballad of "Joel; o' Ilazelgreen," wliich 
see, page 102. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 



301 



CORONACH. 

He is gouo oil the iiiouutaiii, 

Ho is lost to the forest, 
Like a siimuiei-dried fonntaiu, 

When our need \yas the sorest. 
Tlie lout, rcappearine, 

From tlie raiu-drops shall liorrow. 
But to us conies uo cheering, 

To Duncan no morrow ! 

The hand of the reaper 

Takes the ears that are hoarj', 
But the voice of the weeper 

Wails manhood in glory. 
The autumn winds rushing, 

Waft the leaves that are .searest, 
But our flower was iu flushing. 

When blighting was nearest. 

Fleet foot on the correi,' 

Sage counsel in cumber. 
Red baud iu the foray. 

How sonud is thy slumber ! 
Like the dew on the mount-ain, 

Like the foam ou the river. 
Like the bubble on the fountain, 

Thou art gone, and forever ! 



PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU. 

rilirocli of Donuil Dhu, pibroch of Donnil, 
Wake thy wild voice anew, summon Clau-Connil. 
Come away, come away, bark to the summons ! 
Come iu your war array, gentles and commons. 

Come from deep glen, aud from mountaiu so rocky. 
The war-pipe aud pennon are at Liverlocby. 
Come every bill-plaid, aud true heart that wears oue, 
Come eveiy steel blade, aud strong baud that bears 
oue. 

Leave untended the herd, the flock without shelter; 
Leave the corpse uninterred, the bride at the altar; 
Leave the deer, leave the steer, leave nets and barges: 
Come with your fighting gear, broadswords and 
targes. 

Come as the winds come, when forests are rended ; 
Come as the waves come, when navies are stranded : 

' The hollow side of the hill, where game nsually lies. 



Faster come, faster come, faster and faster. 
Chief, vassal, page, aud groom, tenant aud master. 

Fast they come, fast they come ; see how they 

gather ! 
Wide waves the eagle plume, blended with heather. 
Cast your plaids, draw your blades, forward each 

mail set ! ' 

Pibroch of Donnil Dhu, knell for the onset! 



BORDER BALLAD. 

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale ; 

Why the deil dinna ye march forward iu order ? 
March, march, Eskdalo aud Liddesdale, 

All the Bine Bouuets are bouud for the Border, 
Many a banner spread 
Flutters above your head, 
Many a crest that is famous in story. 
Mount aud make ready then. 
Sons of the mouutain glen ; 
Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory. 

Cune from the hills where your hirsels are grazing. 

Come from the gleu of the buck and the roc ; 
Come to tbo cr.ag where the beacon is blazing, 
Come with the buckler, the lance, aud the bow. 
Trumpets are sounding. 
War-steeds are bounding, 
Stand to your arms, and march in good order; 
England shall many a day 
Tell of the bloody fray, 
Wheu the Blue Bonnets came over the Border. 



REBECCA'S HYMN. 

Wlien Israel, of the Lord beloved. 

Out from the laud of bondage came, 
Her fathers' God before ber moved, 

An awful guide in smoke aud flame. 
By day, along the astonished lands 

The cloudy pillar glided slow ; 
By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands 

Returned the iiery column's glow. 

There rose the choral hymn of praise. 
And trump and timbrel answered keen ; 

And Ziou's daughters poured, their lays, 
With priest's and warrior's voice between. 

No portents now our foes amaze ; 
Forsaken Israel wanders lone : 



S02 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BHITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Our fatliers would not kuow Thy ■n-ays, 
Aud Thou hast left them to their own. 

But present still, though now uuseeu ! 

When brightly shines the jn-osperous day, 
Be thoughts of Thee a eloudy screeu, 

To temper the 'deceitful ray. 
And oh, when stoops on Judali's jiatli 

In shade and storm the frequent night. 
Be Tlion, loug-suiVering, slow to wratli, 

A burning and a shining light ! 

Our harps wo left by Babel's streams. 

The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; 
No censer round our altar beams. 

And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn. 
But Thou hast said, The blood of goat, 

The flesh of rams, I will not prize ; 
A contrite heart, a humble thought. 

Are mine accepted sacridcc. 



SONG. 

From " The Lady of the Lake." 

The heath this night must be my bed. 
The bracken,' curtain for my head, — 
My lullaby, the warder's tread. 

Far, far, from love aud thee, Jlary ; 
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, 
My couch may be my bloody plaid, 
My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid ! 

It will not waken me, Mary ! 

I may not, dare not, fancy now 

The grief that clouds thy lovely brow ; 

I dare not think upon thy vow. 

And all it promised me, Slary. 
No fond regret must Normau know ; 
When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe. 
His heart must bo like bended bow. 

His foot like arrow free, Mary 

A time will come with feeling fraught; 
F.,r, if I fall in battle fought. 
Thy hapless lover's dying thought 

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. 
And, if returned from conquered foes. 
How blithely will the evening close. 
How sweet the linnet sing repose. 

To my young bride aud me, Mary ! 



NORA'S VOW. 

Hear what Highland Nora said : 
"The Earllc's son I will not wed. 
Should all the race of nature die. 
And none bo left but he and I. 
For all the gold, for all the gear, 
Ami all the lands both far aud near. 
That ever valor lost or won, 
I would not wed the Earlie's son !'' 

"A maiden's vows,'' old Galium s^ioke, 
"Are lightly made and lightly broke; 
The heather on the mountain's height 
Begins to bloom in purple light : 
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away 
That lustre deep from glen and brae ; 
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone, 
May blithely wed the Earlie's son." 

" The swan," she said, "the lake's clear breast 
May barter for the eagle's nest ; 
The Awe's fierce stream may backw.ird turn, 
Ben-Cruaichau fall and crush Kikhuru ; 
Our kilted clans, when blood is high, 
Before their foes may turn aiul fly ; 
But 7, were all these marvels done, 
Wcnild never wed the Earlie's sou." 

Still in the water-lily's shade 

Her wonted nest the wild-swau made ; 

Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever, 

Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river; 

To shuu the clash of foeinan's steel. 

No Higldand brogue has turned the heel; 

But Nora's heart is lost and won — 

She's wedded to the Earlie's son ! 



James illoutgoincrj). 

Montgomery (1771-1854), son of a Moi:ivi;in mission- 
ary, was a native of Irvine, in Ayrshire, Scotland. Wliile 
at school in Yorksliire, he heaiil of the death of both his 
parents in the East Injies. He began life as assistant iu 
a village shop; went to London, tried to get a volume 
of poems published, but failed. He tlicn entcfcd tlie 
service of Mr. Joseph Gales, of SlieHieki, fatlicr of the 
much -esteemed gentleman of tlie same name who be- 
came one of tlie founders of the Naliotml Jnlclligoicei; 
long the leading newspaper in Wasliington, D. C. In 
1704 Montgomery started the S!iefflehl Iris, and was im- 
prisoned three montlis for printing some verses by an 
entire stranger, that proved offensive to government. 
Tlie following year he was imprisoued si.K mouths aud 



JAMES MONTGOilERT. 



303 



flned because of seditious reinarivS on a riot at SliclBold, 
M'lierc two men were shot by soldiers. 

Tlie cliief poetical works of Montgomery are, "The 
Wanderer in Switzerland" (ISOO) ; "The West Indies" 
(1809); "Greenland" (1810); "The World before the 
Flood" (1813) ; " The Pelican Island, and Other Poems" 
(1837). lu addition to these lie published " Songs of 
Zion"(I833); "Prose by a Poet" (1824). But his strength 
lies rather in his lyrics than in his long poems. Many 
of his short pieces are distinguished for their tenderness 
and grace, and in some of his hymns high literary art is 
united with deep religious feeling. Mrs. Sigourney, the 
American autlioress, who saw him in 18i0, describes him 
as " small of stature, witli an amiable countenance, and 
agreeable, gentlemanly manners." 



THE COMMON LOT. 

Once in the flight of ages past 

There lived a man ; and who was Le ? 

Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast, 
That man resembled thee. 

Unknown the region of his birth, 

The laud in which he died unknown : 

His name hath perished from the earth ; 
This truth survives alone :-— 

That joy and grief, and hope and fear, 
Alternate triumphed in his breast; 

His bliss and woe, — a smile, a tear! 
Oblivion hides the rest. 

The bounding pulse, the languid limb, 
The changing spirits' rise and fall. 

We know that these were felt by him, 
For these are felt by all. 

He snflered — but his jiangs are o'er ; 

Enjoyed — but his delights are fled; 
Had friends — his friends are now no more ; 

And foes — his foes are dead. 

He loved — bnt whom he loved the grave 
Hath lost in its unconscious womb; 

Oh! she was fair! but naught could save 
Her beauty from the tomb. 

He saw whatever thou hast seen ; 

Encountered all that troubles thee ; 
He was — whatever thou hast been ; 

He is — what thou shalt be ! 

The rolling sea.sous, day and night. 

Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, 



Erewhile his portion, life and light, 
To him exist in vain. 

The clouds and sunbeams o'er his eye 
That once their shade and glory threw, 

Havo left, in yonder silent sky. 
No vestige where they flew. 

The annals of the hmnau race. 

Their ruins since the world began. 

Of liim aftord no other trace 

Tliau this — There lived a man. 



FOREVER WITH THE LORD. 

Forever with the Lord ! 
Amen ! so let it be ! 
Life from the dead is in that word, 
And immortality. 

Here in the body' pent, 
Absent from him I roam. 
Yet nightly pitch my moving tent 
A day's march nearer home. 

My Father's house on high, 
Home of my soul ! how near 
At times to Faith's foreseeing eye 
Thy golden gates appear ! 

Ah ! then my spirit faints 
To reach the laud I love. 
The bright inheritance of saiuts, 
Jerusalem above ! 

Yet clouds will intervene, 
And all uiy in-ospcct flies; 
Like Noah's dove, I flit between 
Rough seas and stormy skies. 

Anon the clouds depart. 
The winds and waters cease ; 
Wliile sweetly o'er my gladdened heart 
Expands the bow- of peace ! 

Beneath its glowing arch. 
Along the hallowed grouud, 
I see cherubic armies march, 
A camp of firo around. 

I hear at morn and even, 
At noon and midnight hour, 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BniTlSH AXD AMERICAN I'OETRT. 



Tlie choral liarmonies of heaven 
Earth's Babel tongues o'erpower. 

Then, then I feel that be, 
Eemembered or forgot. 
The Lord is never far from ine. 
Though I perceive him not. 

Ill darkness as in light, 
Hidden alilce from view, 
I sleep, I wake, as in his sight 
Who looks all nature through. 

All that I am, have been, 
AU that I yet may be, 
He sees at once, as he bath seen, 
Aud shall forever see. 

" Forever -nith the Lord :" 
Fiither, if 'tis thy will, 
The promise of that faitlifiil word 
Unto thy child fiillil ! 

So, when my latest breath 
Sliall rend the veil in twain, 
By death I shall escape from death, 
Aud life eterual gain. 



YOUTH RENEWED. 

Spring flowers, spring birds, .spring breezes 

Are felt, and heard, and seen ; 

Light trembling transport seizes 

My heart, — with sighs between : 

Tlie.se old encluantincnts fill the mind 

With scenes and seasons far behind; 

Childhood, its smiles and tears, 

yiintli, with its flush of years. 

Its morning clouds and dewy prime, 

More exquisitely touched by Time. 

Fancies ag;iin are siirlnging, 
Like May-flowers in the vales ; 
While hopes, long lost, are singing. 
From thorns, like nightingales ; 
And kindly spirits stir my blood, 
Like vernal airs that curl the flood: 
There falls to manhood's lot 
A joy, which youth has not, 
A dream, more beautiful than truth, 
— Ketnrning Spring renewing Youth. 



Tlins sweetly to surrender 

The present for the past ; 

In sprightly mood, yet tender, 

Life's burden down to cast, 

— This is to taste, from stage to stage, 

Youth on the lees refined by age : 

Like wine well kept and long. 

Heady, nor harsh, nor strong. 

With every annual cup, is qnafted 

A richer, i)urer, mellower draught. 



LIFT UP THINE EYES, AFFLICTED SOUL. 

Lift up thine eyes, afflicted soul ! 

From earth lift np thine eyes. 
Though dark the evening shadows roll. 

And diiylight beauty dies ; 
One sun is set — a thousand more 

Their rounds of glory run, 
Wliei-e .science leads thee to explore 

In every star a sun. 

Thus, when some long-loved comfort cuds. 

And nature would despair. 
Faith to the heaven of heavens ascends, 

And meets ten thousand there ; 
First faint and small, then clear and bright. 

They gladden aU the gloom. 
And stars that seem but points of light 

The rank of suns assume. 



SONNET: THE CRUCIFIXION. 

niIT.\TED FRO.AI TUE ITALI.\N OF CRESCI5IBENI. 

I asked the Heavens, — "What foe to God hath done 
This unexampled deed ?" The Heaveus exclaim, 
" 'Twas Mau ; — and we in horror snatched the sun 
From such a spectacle of guilt aud shame." 
I asked the Sea ; — the Sea in fury boiled, 
And answered with his voice of storms, "'Twas 

Man : 
My waves in panic at his crime recoiled. 
Disclosed the abyss, aud from the centre ran." 
I asked the Earth ; — ^the Earth replied, aghast, 
" 'Twas Mau ; and such str.ange pangs my bosom 

rent. 
That still I groiin aud shudder at the past." 
— To Man, gay, smiling, thoughtless Man, I went. 
And asked him next: — He turned a scornful eye, 
Shook his proud head, and deigned nie no reply. 



JAMES MONTGOMERY.— SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



305 



HUMILITY. 

Tbe bird that soars on liigliest wing, 
Builds on the grouuil her lowly iiest ; 

Aud she that dotli most sweetly sing, 
Sings iu tbe shade when all things rest : 

— In lark and nightingale we see 

Wliat honor hath hnmility. 

\Vhcn JIary cliose "the better part," 

She meekly sat at Jesus' feet ; 
And Lydia's gently opened heart 

Was made fur God's own temple meet; 
— Fairest and best adorned is she, 
AVhose clothing is humility. 

Tlie saint that wears heaven's brightest crown, 

In deepest adoration bends ; 
The weight of glory bows him down, 

Then most when most his soul ascends : 
— Nearest the throne itself must be 
The footstool of humility. 



Samuel iJ:ai}lor ColcriiJgc. 

The son of a vicar, Coleridge (1773-1S34) was bora at 
Ottery, Devonshire, October Slst. Left an orphan at 
nhie years of age, he became a pupil at Christ's Hospi- 
tal, wliere lie had Charles Lamb for a school-fellow. In 
1T!)1 he entered at Jesus College, Cambridge, where he 
obtained the prize for a Greek ode on the subject of the 
slave-trade. Becoming a Unitarian in his religious opin- 
ions, he deserted the University in the second year of 
Ills residence, and, after wandering about the streets of 
London in a state of destitution, at last enlisted in the 
15tli Dragoons. From this position he was rescued by 
his friends, and returned to Cambridge. Eventually he 
left the University without taking a degree. At Bris- 
tol he formed the acquaintance of Southey and Robert 
LovcU. Tlicy planned the founding of a pantisocracy 
(an .all-equal government) on the banks of the Susque- 
lianua ; but lack of means compelled them to give up 
the wild scheme. The ideal republic evaporated in the 
more matter-of-fact event of love and matrimony; and 
the three pautisocrats married three sisters of the name 
of Fricker, daughters of a small Bristol tradesman. 

In 1794 Coleridge published a volume of poems, for 
which Cottle gave liim £.30. It was while occupying a 
cottage at Nether-Stowey that he became acquainted 
with Wordsworth; and here he composed his "Ancient 
Mariner" and his "Christabcl." In 1796 he published 
another volume of poems, interspersed with pieces by 
Charles Lamb. In 1798, by the kindness of Mr. Thomas 
Wedgwood, he was enabled to pursue his studies in Ger- 
mauj-. On his return to England, he went to live at the 
Cumberland Lakes, where Southey and Wordsworth 
were already settled. The three friends were called the 
20 



Lake poets ; and the Lake School of poetry became an 
object of attack to Byron and others. Here the Jaco- 
bin became a Royalist, and the Unitarian a devoted be- 
liever in the Trinity. 

In 1810 Coleridge removed, but not with his family, to 
London. Leaving his wife and children dependent on 
the kindness of Southey, he settled at the house of Mr. 
James Gillman, at Higligate, where lie lived the remain- 
der of his life. He had become addicted to opium-eat- 
ing, and a painful estrangement ensued between himself 
and his family. Mr. Gillman, who was a surgeon, under- 
took the cure of this unfortunate habit. At Higligate 
Coleridge wrote his "Lay Sermons," his "Aids to Re- 
lleetion," and the " Biographia Litoraria." There, like- 
wise, he studied the German metaphysicians, and became 
noted for his rare conversational powers. The winter 
preceding his death he wrote the following epitaph for 
himself: 
"Stop, Christian passer-by ! stop, child of God ! 

And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod 

A poet lies, or that which once seemed lie — 

Oh, lift a thought iu prayer for S. T. C. ! 

That he who many a year with toil of breath 

Found death in life, m.iy here tind life iu death I 

Mercy for praise — to be forgiven fur fiinie, 

He asked and hoped through Christ— do thou the same !" 

The poems of Coleridge are various in style and man- 
ner, embracing ode, tragedy, and love-poems, and strains 
of patriotism and superstition. His translation of Schil- 
ler's " Wallenstein " is, in many parts, less a translation 
than a paraphrase, and often shows a lavishness of orig- 
inal power. As a Shakspearian critic, he stands deser- 
vedly high ; and among philosophers. Ids fame as an ex- 
pounder of the thoughts of others is still considerable. 

The most original of Coleridge's poems, "The Ancient 
JIariner," has a weird charm which has given it much 
celebrity. The hymn on "Chamouni," fervid, stately, 
and brilliant, is, in parts, a paraphrase from the German 
of Friederike Brun's "Chamouni at Sunrise." The ed- 
itor of Coleridge's "Table Talk" admits the obligation, 
but excuses it on tlie ground that it is too obvious to 
be concealed. We append the original, and a transla- 
tion of it by John Sullivan Dwiglit, of Boston. 

".\ns tiefeni Sch.-itten des schweigenden Taunenhains 
Erblick ich hebend dich, Sclieitel der Ewigkeit, 
Bleiidender Gipfel, von dessen Iliihc 
Aliueud meiu Geist ins Uuendliche schwebet I 

" Wer seiikte den Pfciler tief in der Erde Schoos, 
Der seit Jahrtanseuden, fest deine Masse stutzt? 
Wer thurmte hoch iu des Aethers Wiilbniig 
Jliichtig uud kiihu deiu urastrahltes Aiitlit/. ? 

*' Wer goss Each hoch ans des ewigen Winters Reich, 
O Zackeustrume, mit Dounergetiis', hcrab ? 
Uiid wer gebietet lant mit der AUmacht Stimme: 
' Ilier sollen raheu die starrenden W^ogeu ?' 

"Wor zeichnet dort dem Morgeusterne die Bahn ? 
Wer kraiizt mit Bliithen des ewigen Frostes Saum ? 
Wcm tout in schrecklichcn Ilarmonieij, 
^V'ilder Arveirou, dcin WogentCimmel ? 

" Jeliovah ! Jehov.ah I kracht's im berstcndeii Eis: 
Lavineiidonner rollen's die Kluft hinab: 
Jehovah ! ranscht's in den hellen Wipfeln, 
Fliihstert's an rieseldeu Silberbiichen." 



:?06 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEEICAN POETRY. 



TRANSLATION. 

"From the deep shadow of the still fir-groves 
Trembling I look to thee, eternal height ! 
Thou dazzling summit, from whose top my soul 
Floats, with dimmed vision, to the influite ! 

" Who sank in earth's firm lap the pillars deep 
Wliich hold through ages thy vast pile in i)]ace ? 
Who reared on high, In the clear ether's vault, 
Lofty and strong, thy ever-radiant face ? 

"Who poured you forth, ye mountain torrents wild, 
Down thundering from eternal winter's breast? 
And who commanded, with almighty voice, 
*Here let the stifl'eniug billows find their rest?' 

*' Who points to yonder morning-star his path ? 

Borders witli wreaths of flowers the eternal frost ? 
To whom, in awful music, cries thy stream, 
O wild Arveiron ! in fierce tumult tossed ? 

"Jehovah! God! bursts from the crashing ice; 
The avalanche thunders down its steeps the call : 
Jehovah ! rustle soft the bright tree-tops. 
Whisper the silver brooks that murmuriug fall." 

The fume of Coleridge has sutfured no dimiuution since 
his death. Great .is a thinker .ind critic, he is yet more 
eminent for his natural gil'ts-as a poet. 



LOVE. 

All tbouglits, all passions, all delights, 
Whatever stir this mortal frame, 
All are hut ministers of Love, 
Anil feed his sacred flame. 

Oft iu my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again that happy honr. 
When midway on the monnt I lay 
Beside the mined tower. 

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scone, 
Had hlendod with the lights of eve ; 
And she was there, my hope, ray joy. 
My own dear Genevieve ! 

She leaned against the armM man, 
The statne of the armdd knight ; 
She stood and listened to my lay. 
Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own. 
My hope, my joy, ray Genevieve ! 
She loves me hest whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 

I played a soft and doleful air, 
I sang an old and moving story — 
An old rnde song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 



She listened with a flitting hlnsh, 
With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
For well she knew I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the knight that wore 
Upon his shield a hurning brand. 
And how for ten long years ho wooed 
The Lady of the Laud : 

I told her how he pined : and ah ! 
The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
With which I sang another's love. 
Interpreted my own. 

She listened with a flitting hlnsh. 
With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
And she forgave me that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face ! 

But when I told the crnol scorn 
That crazed that hold and lovely knight, 
And how he crossed the mountaiu-woods, 
Nor rested day nor night ; 

That sometimes from the savage den, 
And sometimes from the darksome shtide, 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and simny glade, — 

There came and looked him iu the face 
All augel beautiful and bright ; 
And how he knew it was a tiend. 
This miserable kuight ! 

And how, unknowing what ho did, 
He leaped amid a murderous baud, 
Aud saved from outrage worse than death 
The Lady of the Land ; — 

And how she wejit, and clasped his knees ; 
And how she tended him in vain — 
Aud ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain ; — 

And how she nursed him in a cave ; 
And how his madness went away 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay; — 

His dying words — but when I reached 
That tcndeiest strain of all the ditty, 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity! 



SJMriiL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



307 



All impulses of soul ami sense 
Had tbrilleil my guileless Geuevievc : 
The music ami the doleful tale, 
The rich aud balmy eve ; 

And hopes, aud fears that kindle hope. 
An undistinguishable throng ; 
And gentle vrishes long subdued, 
Snbdued and cherished long ! 

She wept -with pity aud delight, 
She blushed with love aud maiden shame ; 
Aud, like the murn\ur of a dream, 
I heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved — she stepped aside 
As conscious of my look she stepped ; 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye. 
She flew to me and wept. 

She half enclosed me with her arms. 
She jiressed me with a meek embrace ; 
And, bending hack her head, looked up. 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly love, aud partly fear. 
And partly 'twas a bashful art, 
That I might rather feel than see 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calmed her fears, and she was calm, 
And told her love with virgin pride ; 
Aud so I won my Genevieve, 
My bright and beauteous bride. 



HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE QF 
CHAMOUNI. 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 

lu his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 

On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc ! 

The Arv<5 aud Arveiron at thy base 

Ra%e ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form ! 

Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines 

How silently ! Arouud thee and above 

Deep is the air, and dark, substantial, black, 

Au ebon mass : methiuks thou piercest it 

As with a wedge ! But when I look ag.ain, 

It ia thine own calm home, thy crystal shriue. 

Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee 

Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 



Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer 
I worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet, beguiling melody, 

So sweet we know not we are listening to it. 

Thou, the mean while, wast blending with my 

thought. 
Yea, with my life, aud life's own secret, joy, 
Till the dilating soul, eurapt, trausfused, 
luto the mighty vision passing — there. 
As iu her natural form, swelled vast to heaven ! 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, 
Mute thauks, and secret ecstasy! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake I 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn ! 

Thou first aud chief, sole sovj-an of the vale! 
Oh, struggling with the darkness all the night, 
And visited all night by troops of stars. 
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink : 
Companion of the morning-star at dawn. 
Thyself earth's rosy star, aud of the dawn 
Co-herald : wake, oh wake, and utter praise ! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep iu earth ? 
Who tilled thy countenance with rosy light ' 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 

And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad! 

Who called you forth from uight and utter death. 

From dark aud icy caverns called you forth, 

Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 

Forever shattered, aud the same forever ? 

Who gave you your invulnerable life. 

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 

Unceasing thuuder aud eternal foam ? 

And who commanded (and the silence came). 

Here let the billows stiffen and have rest? 

Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — • 
Torrents, methiuks, that heard a mighty voice. 
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 
Beneath the keen full-moon ? Who bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living 

flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? 
God ! Let the torrents, like a shout of nations. 
Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! 



308 



CYVLUrj^DIA OF liUITlSU AXD AMEIUVAX POETRY. 



Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like soniuls! 
And ihcy too have a voice, you piles of suow, 
And iu their jierilous fall shall thnuder, God .' 

Ye liviug flowers that shirt the eterual frost ! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 
Utter forth God, and fill the hills witli praise! 

Thou too, hoar mount! with thy shy-pointing peaks, 
Oft fiom whose feet the avalanclie, unheard, 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pute 

serene. 
Into the dcptli of clouds that veil thy breast — 
Thou too again, stupendous mountain ! thou 
That, as I raise my head, awliile bowed low 
In adoratioTi, upward from thy base 
Slow travelling, with dim eyes sufl'used with tears. 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud. 
To rise before me, — rise, oh ever rise ! 
Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth ! 
Tlion kingly spirit tliroued among the hills, 
Tliou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, 
Great hierarch! tell then the silent sky, 
And tell the stars, and tell you rising snn, 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God I 



COMPLAINT. 

How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits 
Honor or wealth, with all his worth and pains! 
It sounds like stories from the land of spirits, 
If anj' man obtain that which ho merits, 
Or any merit tliat wliicli lie obtains. 

REPROOF. 

For shame, dear fiicud ! renounce this canting 

strain ! 
What wonldst thou have a good great niau olitain ? 
Place — titles — salary — a gilded chain — 
Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain ? — 
Greatness and goodness are not means, but cuds! 
Hath he not always treasures, always friends. 
The good great man ? — Three treasures, love, and 

light, 
And calm thoughts, rcgnlar as infant's breath ; — 
Aud three firm friends, more sure than day and 

uight — 
Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death. 



HUM.4.N LIFE. 

ON THE DENIAL OF IMMOUTALITY. 

If dead, we cease to be ; if total gloom 

Swallow up life's brief flash for «ye, we fare 
As snmmcr-gusts, of sudden birth and doom. 

Whose sound aud motion not alone declare, 
But are the kIwU of being ! If the breath 

Be life itself, and not its task and tent; 
If e'en a soul like Milton's can know death ; 

man ! tlioii vessel, purposeless, unmeant. 
Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purpo.ses ! 

Surplus of Nature's dread activity, 
Wliicli, as she gazed on some nigh-finished vase. 
Retreating slow, with meditative pause, 

She formed with restless hands unconsciously ! 
Blank accident ! nothing's anomaly ! 

If rootless thus, tlius substanecless thy state. 
Go, weigh ihy dreams, aud be tiiy hopes, thy fears, 
The counter-weights ! — Thy laughter and thy tears 

Mean but themselves, each fittest to create, 
And to repay the other! Why rejoices 

Tliy lieart with hollow joy for hollow good? 

Why cowl thy face beneatli the mourner's hood ? 
Why waste tlij' sighs, aud thy lamenting voices. 

Image of image, ghost of ghostly elf. 
That such a thing as thou feel'st warm or cold ? 
Yet what and whence thy gain if thou witlilioM 

These costly shadows of tliy shadowy self? 
Be sad! be glad! be neither! seek or sliun ! 
Thou hast no reason why ; thou canst have none ; 
Tliy being's being is a contradiction. 



FANCY IN NUBIBUS ; OR, THE POET IN 
THE CLOUDS. 

Oh, it is pleasant, with a heart at ease. 

Just after snuset or by moonlight skies, 

To make the shifting clouds bo what you please. 

Or let the easily pcrsnaded eyes 

Own each ipiaint likeness issuing from the mould 

Of a friend's fancy; or, with head bent low. 

And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold 

'Twixt crimson banks ; and then, a traveller, go 

From inoniit to mount through Cloudland, gorgeous 

land ! 
Or, listening to the tide with closi^d sight. 
Bo that blind bard who, on the Chiau strand, 
By those deep sounds possessed with inwaid light, 
Beheld the Iliad aud the Odyssec 
Rise to tlic swelling of the voiccfnl sea. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



LOVE, HOPE, AND PATIENCE IN EDUCATION. 

O'er wayward ebildhood woiildst thou hold firm 

rule, 
Aud sun thee iu the lij;ht of happy faces, 
Love, Hope, aud Patieuce, these must he thy graces, 
Aud iu thiue owu heart let them first keep school. 
For as old Atlas ou his broad neck places 
Ileaveu's starry globe, aud there sustaius it, — so 
Do these upbear the little world below 
Of Education, — Patieuce, Love, aud Hope. 
Methinks I see them grouped in seemly show. 
The straitened arms upraised, the palms aslope, 
Aud robes that, touchiug as adown they flow 
Distinctly bleud, like snow embossed iu snow. 
0, i)art them uevcr! If Hope prostrate lie, 
Love too will siuk aud die. 
But Love is subtle, aud doth proof derive 
From her owu life that Hope is yet alive ; 
And, bending o'er with soul-transfusing; eyes, 
Aud the soft murmurs of the mother-dove, 
Woos back the lleetiug spirit aud half-supplies ; — 
Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave 

to Love. 
Yet haply there will come a weary day. 

When, overtasked at length. 
Both Love aud Hojie beneath tlie load give way. 
Then, with a statue's smile, a statue's strength. 
Stands the mute sister, Patieuce, nothing loath, 
Aud both supporting, does the work of both. 



FROM "DEJECTION: AN ODE." 

O lady! we receive but what we give. 
And in our life alone does nature live : 
Ours is her weddiug garment, ours her shroud ! 

And would we aught behold of higher worth 
Thau that inanimate, cold world allowed 
To the poor, loveless, evcr-auxions crowd, 

Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth 
A light, a glory, a fair, luminous cloud 

Enveloping the earth ; 
Aud from the soul itself must there be sent 

A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, 
Of all sweet sounds the life and element ! 
O pure of heart ! thou ueed'st not ask of me 
Wh.at this strong music iu the soul may be ; 
What, aud wherein it doth exist, 
Tliis light, this glory, this fair, luminous mist. 
This beautiful and beauty-making power! 

.Joy, virtuous lady ! joy that ne'er was given 
Save to the pure, aud iu their purest hour ; 



Life aud life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, 

Joy, lady, is the spirit and the power 

Which wedding Nature to us gives iu dower ; 

A new earth aud new he.aven. 
Undreamed of by the sensual aud the proud — 
Joy is the sweet voice, joy the liimiuous cloud — 

We in ourselves rejoice ! 
Aud thence flows all that charms or ear or sight. 

All melodies the echoes of that voice, 
All colors a suffusion from that light. 



DEATH OF MAX PICCOLOMINI. 

From Schiller's " Death of Wallessteis." 

Ill his tr.inslatiou of " Wallensteiu," Coleridge has occasion- 
ally takeu great liberties with the original. The following 
beautiful passage has iu it more of Coleridge thau of Schiller. 

He is gone — is dust. 



He the more fortunate ! yea, ho hath finished ! 

For him there is no longer any future. . 

His life is bright — bright without spot it was, 

And cannot cease to be. No ouiiuous hour 

Knocks at his door with tidings of mishap. 

Far off is he, above desire and fear ; 

No more submitted to the change and chance 

Of the unsteady jilanets. Oh, 'tis well 

With him! but who knows what the coming hour. 

Veiled iu thick darkness, brings for us ? 

* # T* * J* *f 

I shall grieve down this blow ; of that I'm con- 
scious : 
What does not man grieve down ? From the 

highest. 
As from the vilest, thing of every day 
Ho learns to wean himself; for the strong hours 
Conquer him. Yet I feel what I have lost 
In him. The bloom is vanished from my life. 
For oh, he stood beside me, like my youth. 
Transformed for me the real to a dream, 
Clothing the palpable and familiar 
With golden exhalations of the dawn. 
Whatever fortunes wait my future toils. 
The beautiful is vanished — and returus not. 



EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. 

Ere sin could blight, or sorrow fade. 
Death came with friendly care, 

The opening bud to heaven conveyed, 
Aud bade it blossom there. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD JMERICAX POETRY. 



.HE EIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 

IX SEVEN PARTS. 

*' Facile rredo, plnres esse Niitnias invisibiles quftm visibiles 
iu rerum uuiversitnte. Sed honim oinuium familmm qnis no- 
bis enarriibit, et t^Didus et c<>2:uationes et discrimiua et eiugu- 
lorum mnnera? Quid agiiut ? qnai loca habitaut ? Harum re- 
rum notitiam eeniper ambivit iuj^euium linmanum, uuuquam 
a:tigit. Jiivat, iuterea, uou diffileor, quaudoqne in auimo, tan- 
quam in tabula, majoris et melioris muudl imaginem contein- 
plari : ne meus assuefacta hodievnte vits mimuiis se coutrahat 
nimis, et tota snbsidat iu pusilhis cogitationes. Sed veritali 
interea invigilandum est, modusque gervandus, ut certa ab in- 
oertis, dieur a uocte, disliugiianius." — T. Bdenet: Archc^ol. 
Phil, p. as. 

P.\RT I. 

It is an ancient iiiai'iner, 

And he stoppeth one of tbree : 
" By thy long gray beard and glittering eye, 

Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ? 

'■ The bridegroom's doors are ojieued wide, 

And I am next of kin ; 
The gnests are met, the feast is set : 

Mayst hear the merry din." 

He holds hira with his .skinny hand: 

" There was a ship," quoth he. 
" Hokl off! unhand me, gray-beard loou !" 

Eftsoous his baud dropped be. 

He holds him with his glittering eye — 

The wedding-guest stood still. 
And listens like a thrce-ycar.s' ehild ; 

The mariner hath his will. 



Tlie wedding-guest sat on a stone, 

Ho cannot choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that anicieut man. 

The bright-eyed mariner: — 

The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared, 

Merrily did we drop 
Below the kirk, below the hill, 

Below the liglit-hou.se top. 

The sun came np upon the left. 

Out of the sea came he. 
And he shone bright, and on the right 

Went down into the sea. 

Higher and higher every day, 
Till over the mast at noon — 

The wedding-gnest hero beat his breast. 
For he heard tlie loud bassoon. 



The bride hath paced into tlie hall, 

Red as a rose is she ; 
Nodding their heads before her goes 

The merry minstrelsy. 

The wedding-guest he beat his breast. 

Yet ho eaunot choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on th.at ancient man, 

The bright-eyed mariner : — 

And now the storm-blast came, and he 

Was tyrannous and strong ; 
He struck with bis o'ertaking wing.s, 

And chased us south along. 

With sloping masts and dipping prow, 
As who pursued with yell and blow 
Still treads the sh.adow of his foe. 

And forward bends bis head, 
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast. 

And southward aye we Ued. 

And now there came both mist aiul snow, 

And it grew wondrous cold ; 
And ice, mast-high, came floating by. 

As green as emerald. 

Aud through the drifts the snowy clifts 

Did send a dismal sheen : 
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 

The ice was all between. 

The ice was here, the ice was there, 

The ice was all around : 
It cracked and growled, aud roared aud howled, 

Like noises iu a swound ! 

At length did cross an albatross : 

Thorough the fog it came ; 
As if it had been a Christian soul, 

We hailed it in God's name. 

It ate the food it ne'er had cat, 

.\nd round and round it Hew. 
The ice did .split with a thunder-fit ; 

The helmsniau steered us through ! 

And a good south wind sprung np behind ; 

The albatross did follow. 
And every day, for food.' or play, 

Came to the mariner's hollo! 

In mist or cloiul, on mast or shroud. 
It perched for \espers nine : 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



ill 



Whiles all the uiglit, through fog-smoke \Yhite, 
Glimmered the white moonshine. 

" Goil save thee, ancient mariner ! 

From the fiends tliat plague thee thns ! 
Why look'st tliou so ?" — With my cross-bow 

I shot the albatross. 



The sun now rose ujion the right : 

Out of the sea came he, 
Still hid iu mist, and ou the left 

Went down into the sea. 

And the good south wind still blew behind, 

Bnt no sweet bird did follow. 
Nor any day for food or play 

C'amo to the mariners' hollo ! 

And I had done a hellish thing. 

And it would work 'em woe ; 
For all averred I had killed the bird 

That made the breeze to blow. 
Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay. 

That made the breeze to blow ! 

Nor dim uor red, like God's own head. 

The glorious sun uprist : 
Then all averred I had killed the bird 

That brought the fog and mist. 
'Twas light, said they, such birds to slay 

That bring the fog and mist. 

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 

The furrow followed free ; 
We were the first that ever burst 

luto that silent sea. 

Down dropped the breeze, the sails dropped down, 

'Twas sad as sad conld be ; 
And we did speak only to break 

The silence of the sea ! 

All iu a hot and copper sky, 

The bloody sun, at noon, 
Eight up above the mast did stand, 



Day after day, day after day, 

We stuck, uor breath nor motion ; 

As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 



W'ater, water, ever'ywhere, 

And all the boards did shrink: 
Water, water, everywhere. 

Nor auy drop to drink. 

The very deep did rot : O Christ ! 

That ever this should be ! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs ' 

Upon the slimy sea. 

About, about, in reel and rent 
The death-tires dauced at night ; 

The water, like a witch's oils. 
Burnt green, and blue, and white. 

And some in dreams assured were 
Of the spirit that plagued us so; 

Nine fathoms deep he had followed us 
From the laud of mist aud snow. 

And every tongue, through utter drought. 

Was withered at the root; 
We could not speak, uo more than if 

We had been choked with soot. 

Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks 

Had I from old aud young ! 
Instead of the cross, the albatross 

About my neck was hung. 

PART 111. 

There passed a weary time. Each throat 
Was parched, and glazed each eye. 

A weary time ! a weary time ! 
How glazed each weary eye. 

When looking westward, I beheld 
A something in the sky. 

At first it seemed a little speck. 

And then it seemed a mist ; 
It moved aud moved, aud took at last 

A certain shape, I wist. 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! 

Aud it still neared and neared : 
As if it dodged a water-sprite, 

It pluuged and tacked and veered. 

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked. 

We could not laugh nor wail ; 
Through utter drought all dumb we stood; 
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 

Aud cried, A sail ! a sail ! 



312 



CYCLOP^DLA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



With throats unslaked, with bhicli lips baked, 

Agape they heaid me call : 
Gramercy ! they for joy did grin, 
Aud all at once their breath drew in, 

As they were drinking all. 

See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no more ! 

Hither to work us weal ; 
Without a breeze, without a tide, 

She steadies with upright keel ! 

Tlie western wave was all a-tiame. 

The day was well-nigh done. 
Almost upon the western wave 

Rested the broad bright sun ; 
AVLpu that strange shape drove siuldenly 

Betwixt us and the snn. 

And straight the sun was flecked with bars, 
(Heaven's mother send ns grace !) 

As if through a dnngeon-grate ho peered 
With broad and burning face. 

Alas! (thought I, and uiy heart beat load,) 

How fast she nears and iiears ! 
Are those her sails that glauoe in the sun. 

Like restless gossameres ? 

Are those her ribs through which the siui 

Did peer, as through a grate ? 
Aud is tliat woman all her crew ? 
Is that a Death, aud are there two ? 

Is Death tliat woman's mate 1 

Her lips were rod, her looks were free. 

Her locks were yellow as gold : 
Her skin was as white as leprosy, 
The nightmare Life-iu-Death was she, 

Who thicks man's blood with cold. 

Tlie naked bulk along-side came, 

And tUe twain were casting dice : 
"Tlio game is done! I've won — I've won!" 

Qtioth she, aud whistles thrice. 

The sun'.s rim dips ; the stars rnsh ont : 

At one stride comes the dark ; 
With fiir-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 

Oil' shot the spectre-bark. 

We listened and lookt'd sideways u]i I 
Fear at my heart, as at a cup, 



My life-blood seemed to si))! 
Tlie stars were dim, and thick the niglit, 
The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white 

From the sails the dew did drip — 
Till clomb above the eastern bar 
The hornf'd moon, -with one bright star 

Within the nether tip. 

One after one, by the star-dogged moon, 

Too (inick for groan or sigh. 
Each tnrned his face with a ghastly pang, 

Aud cursed me with his eye. 

Fonr times fifty living men 

(And I heard nor sigh nor groan), 

With heavy thnmp, a lifeless lump, 
They dropped down one by oue. 

The sonls did from their bodies lly, — 

Tliey fled to bliss or woe ! 
Aud every soul, it passed me by 

Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! 



'■ I fear thee, ancient mariner ! 

I fear thy skinny hand! 
Aud thou art long, and lank, and brown. 

As is the ribbed sea-sand.' 

" I fear thee aud thy glittering eye. 
And thy skinny hand so brown." — 

Fear not, fear not, tbon wedding-guest ! 
This body dropped not down. 

Alone, alone, all, all .alone, 

Alone on a wide, wide sea! 
Aud never a saiut took pity on 

My soul in agony. 

Tlic many nieu, so beautiful! 

And they all dead did lie : 
And a thousand thousand slimy things 

Lived on ; aud so did I, 



I looked upon the rotting sea. 
And drew my eyes away; 

I looked upon the rotting deck, 
Aud there the dead men lay. 



' For the Inst two lines of this stanza I am indebted to Mr. 
Wonlsworlh. It was on a delij^htful walli fi-om Nether Siowey 
to Diilvei-ton, witli him aiul his sister, in the aiitiinin of 171)7, 
that this poetn was planned, and in part composed. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



313 



I looked to Leaven, and tried to pray ; 

But or ever a prayer had guslied, 
A wicked whisper came, and made 

My heart as dry as dust. 

I closed my lids, and kept them close. 

And the halls like pulses beat ; 
For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky 
Lay like a load on my weary eye, 

And the dead wevo at my feet. 

The cold sweat nieUiMl from their limbs. 

Nor rot nor reek did they: 
The look with which they looked ou mo 

Had never passed away. 

An orphan's curse would drag to hell 

A spirit from on high ; 
But oh ! more horrible than that 

Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! 
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse. 

And yet I could not die. 

The moving moon went up the sky. 

And nowhere did abide : 
Softly she was going up. 

And a star or two beside — 

Her beams bemocked the sultry main. 

Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
But where the ship's huge shadow lay 
The charmed water burnt alway, 

A still aud awful red. 

Beyond the shadow of the ship 

I watched the water-suakes : 
They moved in tracks of shiuiug white. 
And when they reared, the elfish light 

Fell off in hoary flakes. 

Within the shadow of the ship 

I watched their rich attire : 
Blue, glossy green, and yeU'et black, 
They coiled and swam ; and every track 

Was a flash of golden fire. 

happy living things! no tongue 

Their beauty might declare ; 
A spring of love gushed from my heart, 

Aud I blessed them unaware : 
Sure my kind saint took pity <ui me, 

Aud I blessed them unaware. 



The self-same moment I could pray 
Aud from my neck so free 

The albatross fell otf, and sank 
Like lead into the sea. 



sleep ! it is a gentle thing, 
Beloved from i)ole to pole ! 

To Mary queen the praise bo given ! 
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven 
That slid into my sonl. 

The silly buckets ou the deck. 
That had so loug remained, 

1 dreamed that they were filled with dew ; 
Aud when I awoke, It rained. 

My lii)S were wet, my throat was cold. 

My g.arments all were dank ; 
Sure I had dinukeu in my dreams. 

And still my body drank. 

I moved, and could not feel my limbs : 

I was so light — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep. 

And was a blessed ghost. 

And soon I he.ard a roaring wind : 

It did not come anear; 
But with its sound it shook the sails, 

That were so thin and sere. 

The upper air burst iuto life ! 

Aud a hundred fire-flags sheen. 
To aud fro they were hurried about ! 
And to and fro, and in aud out, 

The wan stars danced between. 

And the coming wind did roar more loud, 
And the sails did sigh like sedge; 

And the rain poured down from one black cloud; 
The moon was at its edge. 

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 

The moon was at its side : 
Like waters shot from some high crag, 
The lightning fell with never a jag, 

A river steep aud wide. 

The loud wind never reached the ship. 

Yet now the ship moved ou ! 
Beneath the lightning and the moon 

Tlio dead men gave a groan. 



J14 



CYCLOPEDIA OF IiniTLSH AXD AMEIUCAX rOETUy. 



They groaued, tliey stirred, they all uprose, 

Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 
It had been strange, even iu a dreaiu, 

To have seen those dead men rise. 

Tlie helmsman steered, the ship nioved on ; 

Yet never a breeze up blew ; 
The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, 

Where they were wont to do ; 
They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — 

We were ii ghastly crew. 

The body of my brother's sou 

Stood by me, knee to knee ; 
Tlie body and I pulled at one rope, 

But he said uaught to me. 

" I fear thee, ancient mariner !" 

Be calm, thou wedding-gnest : 
'Twas not those souls that fled in jiain, 
Which to their corses came again, 

But a troop of spirits blessed : 

For when it dawned — they dropped their arms, 

And clustered round the mast ; 
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their months, 

And from their bodies passed. 

Aronnd, around, flew each sweet sound, 

Then darted to the sun ; 
Slowly the sounds came back again, 

Xow mixed, now one by one. 

Sometimes, a-dropping from the sky, 

I heard the skylark sing ; 
Sometimes all little birds that are. 
How the}' seemed to till the sea and air 

With their sweet jargoning! 

And now 'twas like all instruments, 

Now lilvo a lonely flute ; 
And now it is an angel's song 

That makes the heavens be mute. 

It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 

A pleasant noise till noon, 
A noise like of a bidden brook 

In the leafy month of June, 
That to the slcei>ing woods all night 

Siugeth a quiet tune. 

Till noon we quietly sailed on, 
Vet never a breeze did breathe: 



Slowly and smoothly went the ship. 
Moved onward from beneath. 

Under the keel nine fathom deep. 
From the laud of mist and snow, 

The spirit slid ; and it was he 
That made the sliip to go. 

The sails at noon left oft' their tnne, 
And the ship stood still also. 

The snu, right up above the mast, 

Had fixed her to the ocean : 
But in a minute she 'gau to stir, 

With a short uneasy motion — 
Backward and forward half her length 

With a short uneasy motion. 

Then, like a pawing horse let go, 

Slie made a sudden bound : 
It flung the blood into my head, 

And I fell down in a swound. 

How long in that same fit I lay, 

I have not to declare ; 
But ere my living life returned, 
I heard, and in my soul discerned 

Two voices iu the air. 

" Is it he ?" quoth one ; " is this the man 'i 

By Him who died on cross. 
With his cruel bow he laid full low 

The harmless albatross. 

" The spirit who bideth by himself 
In the land of mist and snow, 

He loved the bird that loved the man 
Who shot him with his bow." 

The other was a softer voice, 

As soft as hoiiey-dew : 
Quoth he, " The man hath penance done, 

And peuance more will do." 

PAKT VI. 

FIRST VOICE. 

But tell me, tell me ! speak again, 
Thy soft response renewing — 

What makes th.at ship drive on so fast ? 
What is the Oceau doing? 

SECOND VOICE. 

Still as a slave before his lord, 
The Ocean hath no blast; 



■SJJ/rAL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



315 



His great Ijright eyo most sileutly 
Up to tUo luooii is cast — 

If he may kuow wliich way to go ; 

For she guides him smooth or grim. 
See, brother, see ! how graciously 

She looUeth down on him. 

FIRST VOICE. 

But why drives on that ship so fast, 
Without or wave or wind ? 

SECOND VOICE. 

The air is cut away before, 
And closes from behiud. 

Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high! 

Or we shall be belated ; 
For slow and slow that ship will go, 

When the mariner's trance is abated. 

I woke, and we were sailing on 

As iu a gentle weather : 
'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high ; 

The dead men stood together. 

All stood together on the deck 

For a charuel-dnngeou fitter : 
AU fixed on me their stony eyes. 

That in the moon did glitter. 

The pang, the curse, with which they died, 

Had never passed away : 
I could not draw my eyes from tlieirs, 

Nor turn them up to pray. 

And now the spell was snapped : once more 

I viewed the oceau green. 
And looked far forth, yet little saw 

Of what had else been seen — 

Like one that on a lonesome road 

Doth walk in fear and dread, 
And having once turned round walks on. 

And turns no more his head ; 
Because he knows a frightful fiend 

Doth close behind him tread. 

But soon there breathed a wind on me. 

Nor sound nor motion made : 
Its path was not upon the sea. 

In ripjjle or in shade. 



It raised my hair, it fauned my cheek 
Like a meadow-g.ale of spring — 

It mingled strangely with my fears, 
Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship. 

Yet she sailed softly, too : 
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 

On me alone it blew. 

Oh, dream of joy ! is this, indeed, 

The light-house top I see ? 
Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ? 

Is this my own conntrde ? 

We drifted o'er the harbor bar. 

And I with sobs did pray — 
Oh let ine be awake, my God ! 

Or let me sleep ahvay. 

The harbor-bay was cle.ar as glass. 

So smoothly it was strewn ! 
And on the bay the moonlight lay. 

And the shadow of the moon. 

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less 

That stands above the rock,: 
The moonlight steeped in silentness, 

The steady weather-cock. 

And the bay was white with silent light, 

Till, rising from the same, 
Full many shapes that shadows were, 

Iu crimson colors came. 

A little distance from the prow 
Those crimson shadows were : 

I turned my eyes upon the deck — 
O Christ! what saw I there? 

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat ; 

And, by the holy rood ! 
A man all light, a seraph-man, 

On every corse there stood. 

This seraph b.and, each waved his hand: 

It was a heavenly sight ! 
Tlley stood as signals to the land. 

Each one a lovely light ; 

This serapli band, each waved his hand. 

No voice did tliey impart — 
No voice ; but oh ! the. silence sank 

Like music on my he.irt. 



;5iG 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEllICAN POETRY. 



But soon I buard the dasli of oars, 

I lu'anl the pilot's cheer ; 
My head was ttinietl perforce away, 

Ami I saw a boat apjjear. 

The pilot ami the pilot's boy, 

I heard, them comiug fast : 
Dear Lord iu heaven ! it was a joy 

The dead men could not blast. 

I saw a third — I heard his voice : 

It is the hermit good ! 
He singeth loud his godly hymns 

That he makes in the wood. 
He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away 

The albatross's blood. 

P.\RT VII. 

This hermit good lives in that wood 

Which slopes down to the sea. 
How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
Ho loves to talk with mariners 

That come from a far couutrec. 

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — 

He hath a cusbion plump : 
It is tlie moss that wholly hides 

The rotted old oak stump. 

The skitT-boat neared : I heard them talk, 

'• Wliy, this is strange, I trow ! 
Where are those lights, so many and fair. 

That signal made but now ?" 

" Strange, by my faith!" the hermit said— 
"And they answered not our cheer! 

The planks looked warped! and see those sails, 
How thiu they are, and sere ! 

I never saw aught like to them, 
Unless perchance it were 

" Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 

Sly forest-brook along ; 
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below. 

That eats the she-wolf's young." 

"Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look — 

(The pilot made reidy,) 
I am a-feared." — " Push ou — push on !" 

Said the liermit, cheerilj-. 

The boat canui closer to the ship, 
But I nor spake nor stirred ; 



The boat came close beneath the ship. 
And straight a sound was heard. 

Under the water it rumbled on. 

Still louder and more dread : 
It reached tlio ship, it split the bay — 

The ship weut down like lead. 

Stunued by that loud and dreadful sound, 

Which sky and ocean smote, 
Like one that h.atli been seven days drowned. 

My body lay afloat ; 
But swift as dreams, myself I found 

Within the pilot's boat. 

Upon the whirl, wlierc sank the ship, 
The boat spun round and roiind ; 

And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 

I moved my lips — the pilot shrieked. 

And fell down in a fit ; 
The holy hermit raised his eyes. 

And prayed where he did sit. 

I took the oars : the pilot's boy. 

Who now doth crazy go, 
Laughed loud .and long, .and all the while 

His eyes went to and fro : 
"Ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain I see 

The devil knows how to row." 

And now, all in my own conutrdc, 

I stood on the firm land I 
The hermit stepped forth from the boat. 

And scarcely he could stand. 

" Oh shrieve mc, shrieve me, holy man !" 

The hermit crossed his brow. 
" Say quick," quoth he, " I bid thee say — 

What manner of man art thou?" 

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 

With a woful agony, 
Which forced me to begin my talc; 

And then it left me free. 

Since then, at an uncertain hour. 

That agony returns : 
And till my ghastly tale is told 

This heart witliin me burns. 

I pass, like night, from land to land: 
I have strange power of speech ; 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.— MRS. MARY (BLACKFORD) TIORE. 



317 



Tliat moment that bis face I see, 
I kuow the man that must liear me : 
To him mj' tale I teach. 

What lond uproar bursts from that door ! 

The wediliug-gucsts are there: • 
But iu the gardeu-bower the bride 

And brideinaids singing are : 
And hark ! the little vesper-bell, 

Which biddetU me to prayer. 

O wedding guest! this soul hath beeu 

Alone on a ■wide, wido sea : 
So lonelj' 'twas, that God himself 

Scarce seemed there to be. 

Oh sweeter than the marriage-feast, 

'Tis sweeter far to me, 
To walk together to the kirk. 

With a goodly company ! — 

To wallc together to the kirk. 

And all together pray. 
While each to his great Father beuds, 
Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 

And youths and maidens gay ! 

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 

To thee, thou wedding-guest ! 
He prayeth well who loveth well 

Both man, and bird, and be.ast. 

He prayeth best who loveth best 
All things both great and small ; 

l''or the dear God who loveth us. 
He made and loveth all. 

Tlie mariner, whose eye is briglit, 
Whose beard with age is hoar. 

Is gone : and now the wedding-guest 
Turned from the bridegroom's door. 

He went like one that hatli been stunned, 

And is of sense forlorn : 
A sadder and a wiser man 

He rose the morrow morn. 



TO THE AUTHOR OF "THE ANCIENT 
MARINER." 

Your poem must eternal be, 
Dear sir; it cannot fail! 

For 'tis incomprehensiljle. 
And without head or tail. 



lllrs. illarji (Blackforbj «l:ic|l)c. 

The ciaughter of the Rev. Mr. Blackford, Wicklow 
County, Ireland, Mary was born in 1773, and died in 
1810. Her principal poem, "Psyche," iu sis cantos, 
shows a very skilful command of the Spenserian meas- 
ure, and coutains many graceful and elegant stanzas. 
Sir James Mackintosh says of the last tln'ije cantos : 
"They arc beyond all doubt the most faultless series 
of verses ever produced by a woman." The value of 
the praise' depends on the meaning we give to the word 
fau!lh.^s. Moore's song, "I saw thy form in yontliful 
prime," was written in recollection of Mrs. Tiglie. The 
longer piece we publish, written within the year preced- 
ing her death, was the last she ever produced, and per- 
haps the best. Her husband, Hem-y Tiglie, M.P., edited 
an edition of her poems after her ueath. 



ON RECEIVING A BRANCH OF MEZEREON, 

WHICH FLOWEliED AT WOODSTOCK, DECE.MBE1!, 1803. 

Odors of spring, my sense ye charm 

With fragauce premature. 
And, 'mid these days of dark alarm. 

Almost to hope allure. 
Methinks with jinrpose soft ye come. 

To tell of brighter hours, 
Of May's blue skies, abnudaut bloom. 

Her sunny gales and showers. 

Alas ! for me shall May iu vain 

The powers of life restore ; 
These ejes that weep and watch iti paiu 

Shall see her charms no more. 
No, no, this anguish cannot last ! 

Beloved friends, adieu ! 
The bitterness of death were past, 

Could I resign but you. 

But oh, in every mortal paug 

That rends my soul from life, 
Tliat soul, which seems on you to hang 

Througli each convulsive strife, 
Even now, with agonizing grasp 

Of terror and regret, 
To all iu lifo its love would clasj) 

Clings close and closer yet. 

Yet why, immortal, vital spark! 

Thus mortally oppressed ? 
Look up, my soul, through prosjiects dark, 

And bid thy terrors rest ; 
Forget, forego thy earthly part, 

Thiue heavenly being trust: — 



318 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN .FOETET. 



Al), vain attempt! iiiy coward laMit, 
Still sbinlderiiig, clings to ilust. 

Ob ye who sootlie the pangs of tlcatli 

With love's owu patient care, 
Still, still retaiu this fleeting breath. 

Still pour the fervent prayer: — • 
And ye whose smile must greet my eye 

No more, nor voice my car, — 
AVho breathe for uie the tender sigh, 

And shed the pitying tear, — • 

Whose kindness (though far, far removed) 

My grateful thoughts perceive, 
Pride of my life, esteemed, beloved, 

My last sad claim receive ! 
Oh, do not quite your friend forget, 

Forget alone her faults ; 
And speak of her with fond regret 

Who asks your lingering thoughts. 



WRITTEN AT KILLARNEY, JULY. 29, 1800. 

How soft the pause! the notes melodious cease 
Which from each feeling could an echo call. 
Rest on your oars, that not a sound may fall 
To intcrrnpt the stillness of our peace : 
The fanning west wind breathes upon our cheeks, 
Yet glowing with the sun's departed beams. 
Thro' the blue heavens the cloudless moon pours 

streams 
Of pure, resplendent light, in silver streaks 
Reflected on the still, unrulfled lake; 
The Alpine hills in solemn silence frown. 
While the dark woods night's deepest shades em- 
brown. 
And now once more that soothing strain awake! 
Oh, ever to my heart with magic power 
Shall those sweet sounds recall this rapturous hour! 



Robert iircat Paine, iJr. 

AMERICAN. 

Paine (1773-1811) was a native of Taunton, Massachu- 
setts, and a son of Robert Treat Paine, one of the signers 
of tlie Declaration of Independence. His ori^in.al name 
was Thomas; but, not wisliing to be confounded witli 
that other Tlioraas Paine, the theist, who criticised tlie 
Bible, he hart his name changed by the Legislature to 
tluit of his father. He graduated at Harvard in the class 
of 175)2, and began writing verse at an early age. He en- 
tered a counting-liousc. but neglected liis mercantile du- 
ties for the tlicatrc and the gayctics of life. His father 



repudiated liim for marrying an actress, but was final- 
ly reconciled. In 179.5 Paine delivered at Cambridge a 
poem, entitled "The Invention of Letters," from the 
sale of which he got S1500. For his poem of "The Rul- 
ing Passion" he got $1200; while for bis famous song 
of "Adams and Liberty" he got more tlian .?750. Tliis 
was rare success for a poet in his day. There is little 
of true lyrical wortli in any of Paine's writings ; and liis 
one song, while it has some faint flashes of poetic fire, is 
memorable chiefly for the sensation it produced in its 
day. 



ODE: ADAMS AND LIBERTY. 

Wi'ittcD for mid snng at the Anniversary of the Mass.iclin- 
setts Chaiitiible Fire Society, 1799. 

Ye sons of Columbia, who bravelj- have fought 
For those rights which unstained from your sires 
had descended, 
May you long taste the blessings your valor has 
bought, 
And your sons reap the soil which your fathers 
defended. 

'Jlid the reign of mild Peace, 
May your nation increase. 
With the glory of Rome, and the wisdom of 

Greece ; 
And ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves. 
While the e.arth bears a plaut or the sea rolls its 
waves. 

In a climo whose rich vales feed the marts of the 
world. 
Whose shores are unshaken by Europe's commo- 
tion, 
The trident of Commerce should never be hurled, 
To increase the legitimate powers of the ocean. 
But should pirates invade. 
Though in thunder arrayed, 
Let your cannon declare the free charter of trade; 
For ne'er will the .sons of Columbia he slaves. 
While the earth bears a plaut or the sea rolls its 
waves. 

The fame of our arms, of our laws the mild sway. 

Had justly ennobled our nation in story. 
Till the dark clouds of faction obscured our young 
day. 
And enveloped the sun of American glory. 
But let traitors be told. 
Who their country have sold. 
And bartered their God for his image in gold, 
That ue'er will the sons of Ccdumbia be slaves. 
While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its 
waves. 



ROBERT TREAT PAIXE, JR.— ROBERT SOVTHEY. 



3iy 



While France her liugo limbs bathes recumbeut in 
blood, 
And society's base threats with wide dissolntion, 
May Peace, like tbo dove who returned from the 
flood, 
Find au ark of abode in oiir mild Constitution. 
But though peace is our aim. 
Yet the boon we disclaim, 
If bought by our sovereignty, justice, or fame ; 
For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves. 
While the earth bears a iilaut or the sea rolls its 
waves. 

'Tis the fire of the flint each American warms : 

Let Rome's haughty victors beware of collision ; 
Let them bring all the vassals of Europe in arms — 
We're a world by ourselves, and disdain a pro- 
vision. 

While with patriot pride, 
To our laws we're allied, 
No foe can subdue us, no faction divide ; 
For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, 
While the earth bears a plaut or the sea rolls its 
waves. 

Our mountains are crowned with imperial oak, 
Whose roots, like our liberties, ages have nour- 
ished ; 
But long e'er our nation submits to the yoke, 
Not a tree shall be left on the field where it 
flourished. 

Should invasion impend. 
Every grove would descend 
From the hill -tops they shaded, our shores to 

defend ; 
For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, 
While the earth bears a plaut or the sea rolls its 
waves. 

Let our patriots destroy Anarch's pestilent worm, 
Lest our liberty's growth should be checked by 
corrosion ; 
Then let clouds thicken round us : we heed not the 
storm ; 
Our realm feels no shock but the earth's own 
explosion. 

Foes assail us in vain, 
Though their fleets bridge the main ; 
For our altars and laws with our lives we'll 

maintain ; 
For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, 
While the earth bears a plaiit or lac sea rolls its 
waves. 



Should the tempest of war overshadow our laud. 
Its bolts could ne'er rend Freedom's temple 
asunder ; 
For, unmoved, at its portal would Washington stand, 
And repulse, with his breast, the assaults of the 
thunder! 

His sword from the sleep 
Of its scabbard would leap, < 
And conduct, with its point, every flash to the 

deep ! 
For ne'er shall the sous of Columbia be slaves, 
While the earth bears a i)lant or the sea rolls its 
waves. 

Let fame to the world souud America's voice ; 
No intrigues can her sons from their government 
. sever : 
Her pride are her statesmen — their laws are her 
choice. 
And shall flourish till Liberty slumbers forever. 
Then unite heart and hand. 
Like Leonidas' band. 
And swear to the God of the ocean and land 
That ne'er shall the sous of Columbia be slaves. 
While the earth bears a plaut or the sea rolls its 
waves. 



Robert Soutljcij. 



Associated with the names of Wordsworth and Cole- 
ridge is that of the poet-laureate, Southey (1774-1843). 
His fame has not, like that of his associates of the Lake 
School, gone on increasing;. The son of a linen-draper in 
Bristol, he was intended for the ministry, but disqualitied 
himself for Oxford by adopting, like Coleridge, Unitarian 
views in religion and republican in politics. These be 
soon outgrew. Having published his poems of "Wat 
Tyler" and "Joan of Arc," he married, iu 179.5, Miss 
Fricker, sister of the wife of Coleridge. After a residence 
in Lisbon, and a brief course of legal study in London, 
he settled near Keswick, and his life became a round of 
incessant study and voluminous authorship. A list of 
the works in prose and verse which he produced would 
fill a long page. Above one hundred volumes in all tes- 
tify to his diligence. In 1837 his first wife died; and in 
1839 he married Aliss Caroline Bowles, who was his peer 
as a writer of poetry. Soon afterward his overtasked 
mind began to show symptoms of decay. His end was 
second eliildishness and mere oblivion. He left, as the 
result of his literary labors, about £1:2,000, to be divided 
among his children, and one of the most valuable private 
libraries in the kingdom. Southey was a genuine poet 
iu feeling and aspiration, though he did not "wreak 
himself on expression" with the felicity of Byron and 
Shelley. Wordsworth once mentioned Southey's verses 
on the holly-tree as his most perfect poem; "but," he 
said, " the first line is bad." 



320 



CYCLOPJEDU OF BRITISH AND AMERICAX POETRY. 



THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 

It was a Slimmer eveuiiig, 

Old Kaspar's work was done, 
And be before Lis cottage door 

Was sittiug in the suu, 
And by liim sported on the green 
His little grandchild Wilbelmiue. 

She saw her brother Peterliin 
Roll something large and ronnd, 

Which he beside the rivnlet, 
In playing there, had found ; 

He came to ask what ho had found, 

That was so large, and smooth, and round. 

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, > 

Who stood expectant by ; 
And then the old man shook his head, 

And with a natural sigh, 
"'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, 
"Who fell in the great victory. 

" I find them iu the garden, 
For there's many here about ; 

And often, when I go to plough. 
The ploughshare turns them out 1 

For many thousand men," said he, 

" Were slain iu that great victory." 

" Now tell us what 'twas all about," 

Young Peterkin he cries ; 
While little Wilheluiiuo looks up, 

With wonder-waiting eyes; 
" Now tell us all about the war. 
And what they fought each other for." 

" It was the English," Kaspar cried, 
" Who put the French to rout ; 

Bnt what they fought each other for, 
I could not well make out. 

But everybody said," quoth he, 

" That 'twas a famous victory. 

"My father lived at Blenheim then. 

You little stream hard by ; 
They burnt his dwelling to the ground. 

And he was forced to fly ; 
So with his wife and child he fled. 
Nor had he where to rest his head. 

"With fire and sword the country round 
Was wasted far and wide : 



And many a childing mother, then. 

And new-born baby died ; 
Bnt things like that, you know, must be 
At every famous victory. 

" They say it was a shocking sight 

After the field was w on ; 
For many thousand bodies here 

Lay rotting in the sun ; 
But tilings like that, you know, must be 
After a famous victory. 

"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won. 
And onr good prince Eugene." 

" Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" 
Said little Wilhelmine. 

" Nay — nay — my little girl," quoth he, 

" It was a famous victory. 

"And everybody prai-sed the Duke 
Who this great figiit did win." 

"And what good came of it at last?" 
Quoth little Peterkin. 

" Why, that I cannot tell," said he; 

"But 'twas a famous victory." 



IMMORTALITY OF LOVE. 

Frosi " The Curse of Keuama," Boos X. 

They sin who tell us love can die. 

With life all other jiassions fly, 

All others are but vanity ; 

In heaven ambition cannot dwell, 

Nor avarice in the vaults of hell ; 

Earthly these passions of the earth, 

They perish where they have their birth ; 

But love is indestructilde : 

Its holy flame forever burnetii : 

From heaven it came, to heaven retiuiicth. 

Too oft on earth a troubled guest, 

At times deceived, at times oppressed, 

It here is tried and purified, 
Theu hath in heaven its perfect rest: 

It soweth here with toil and care. 

But the harvest-time of love is there. 

Oh ! when a mother meets on higli 

The babe she lost in Infancy, 

Hath she not then, for pains and fears. 

The day of woe, the watchful night, 

For all her sorrow, all her tears. 

An over-payment of delight f 



EOBEnT SOVTHET. 



321 



A BEAUTIFUL DAY IN AUTUMN. 

From " Madoc in Wales." 

There was not ou that (lay a speck to stain 

The azure heaven ; the blessdJ suu alone, 

lu uuaiiproachable divinity, 

Careered, rejoicing in his fields of light. 

How beautiful, beneath the bright blue sky, 

Tlie billows heave ! one glowing green expanse. 

Save where, along the bending line of shore, 

Such hue is thrown as when the peacock's neck 

Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst, 

Enibathed lu emerald glory. AH the flocks 

Of Ocean are abroad : like floating foam 

The sea-gulls rise and fall upon the waves ; 

With long, protruded neck, the cormorants 

Wing their far flight aloft ; and round and round 

The plovers wheel, and give their note of joy. 

It was a day that sent into the heart 

A summer feeling : even the insect swarms 

From their dark nooks and coverts issued forth, 

Til sport through one day of existence more; 

The solitary primrose on the bauk 

Seemed now as though it had no cause to mourn 

Its bleak autumnal birth ; the rocks and shores. 

The forest and the everlasting hills, 

Smiled in that joyful sunshine, — tliey partook 

The universal blessing. 



THE HOLLY-TREE. 

reader ! hast thou ever stood to see 

The holly-tree ? 
The eye that contemplates it well perceives 

Its glossy leaves 
Ordered by an intelligence so wise 
As might confound the Atheist's sophistries. 

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen 

Wrinkled and keen ; 
No grazing cattle throngh their prickly round 

Can reach to wound ; 
But as they grow where nothing is to fear, 
Smooth and unaruied the pointless leaves appear. 

1 love to view these things with curious eyes. 

And moralize ; 
And in this wi.sdora of the holly-tree 

Can emblem see 
Wherewith perchance to make .a pleasant rhyme — 
One which may profit in the after-time. 
21 



Thus, though abroad perchance I might api)ear 

Harsh and austere. 
To those who on my leisure would intrude 

Reserved and rude. 
Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, 
Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree. 

And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know. 

Some harshness show. 
All vaiu asperities I day by day 

Would wear away. 
Till the smooth temper of my age should be 
Like the high leaves n\>on the holly-tree. 

And as, when all the summer trees are seen 

So bright and green. 
The holly-leaves a sober hue display 

Less bright than they ; 
But when the bare and wintry woods we see. 
What then so cheerful as the holly-tree ? 

So serious should ray youth appear among 
The thoughtless throng ; 

So would I seem amid tlie young and gay 
Slore grave than they, 

That in my age as cheerful I might be 

As the green winter of the holly-tree. 



MY LIBRARY. 

n.iving no library withiu reach, I live upon my own store?, 
wliich are, however, more ample, perha])s, than were ever be- 
fore possessed by one whose whole eistate was in his inkstand. 

My days among the dead are past ; 

Around me I behold. 
Where'er these casual eyes are cast, 

The mighty minds of old : 
My never-failing friends are they, 
With whom I converse day by day. 

With them I take delight in weal, 

And seek relief in woe ; 
And while I understand and feel 

How much to them I owe. 
My cheeks have often been bedewed 
Willi tears of thoughtful gratitude. 

My thoughts are with the dead: with them 

I live in long-past years ; 
Their virtues love, their faults condemn, 

Partake their hopes aud fears, 
And from their lessons seek and fiud 
Instrnction with a humble mind. 



322 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETET. 



ilj- hopes are with the dead : anon 
With them ruy jdaco will Tie ; 

Aud I with them shall travel ou 
Through all futurity ; 

Yet leaving here a name, I trust, 

That will not perish in the dust. 



NIGHT IN THE DESERT. 

From " Thalaba." 

How hcautiful is night ! 
A dewy freshness fills the silent air ; 
No mist ohsciires, nor cloud, nor speck, uor stain 
Breaks the serene of heaven : 
In full-orbed heauty yonder moon divine 
Rolls through the dark-blue depths : 
Beneath her steady ray 
The desert-circle spreads. 
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. 
How beautiful is night ! 



THE DEAD FRIEND. 

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, 

Descend to contemplate 

The form that once was dear ! 

The spirit is not there 

Which kindled that dead eye, 

Which throbbed in that cold heart, 

Wliich in that motionless baud 

Hath met thy friendly grasp. 

Tlie spirit is not there 1 

It is but lifeless, perishable flesh 

That moulders in the grave ; 

Earth, air, and water's ministering particles 

Now to the elements 

Resolved, their uses doue. 

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my sonl, 

Follow thy friend beloved ; 

The spirit is not there! 

Often together have wo talked of death ; 

How sweet it were to see 

All doubtful things made clear ; 

How sweet it were with powers 

Such as the Clienibim, 

To view the depth of heaven ! 

O Edmund ! thou hast first 

Begun the travel of eternity I 

I look upon the stars, 

Ami think that tliou art there, 

Unfettered as the thought that follows thee. 



And wo have often said bow sweet it were, 

Witli unseen miuistrj' of angel power, 

To watch the friends wo loved. 

Edmund ! we did not err ! 

Sure I have felt thy presence! Thou bast given 

A birth to holy tbouglit, 

Hast kept rae from the world unstained and pure. 

Edmund! we did not err! 

Our best aifectious here, 

They are not like the toys of infancy ; 

The soul outgrows theiu not ; 

We do not cast them otf; 

Oh, if it could bo so. 

It were, indeed, a dreadful thiug to die I 

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul. 

Follow thy friend beloved ! 

But in the lonely hour, 

But in the evening walk. 

Think that he companies thy solitude ; 

Think that he holds with thee 

Mysterious intercourse ; 

And though remembrance wake a tear, 

There will be joy in grief. 



IMITATED FROM THE PERSIAN. 

Lord! who art merciful as well as just, 
Incline thine ear to me, a child of dust ! 
Not what I would, O Lord, I ofi'er thee, 
Alas ! but what I can. 
Father Almighty, who ha.st made me man, 
And bade me look to heaven, for thou art there, 
Accept my sacrifice and humble prayer : 
Four things which are not in thy treasury 
I say before thee, Lord, with this petition — 

My nothingness, my wants. 
My sins, and my contrition. 



THE MORNING MIST. 

Look, William, bow the morning mists 
Have covered all the scene ; 

Nor house nor bill canst thou behold. 
Gray wood or meadow green. 

The distant spire across the vale 
Tliese floating vapors shroud; 

Scarce are the neighboring poplars seen, 
Pale shadowed iu the cloud. 



nOBERI SOUTHEY. 



323 



But seest thoii, AVilliaiii, where the mists 

Sweep o'er tlio southern sky, 
The dim effulgence of the snu 

That li'^hts them as they fly f 

Soon shall that glorions orb of day 
In all his streiigtli arise, x 

And roll along his azure "ay, 

TLrough clear and cloudless sliies. 

Then shall we see across the vale 

Tlio village spire so white, 
And the gray wood and meadow green 

Shall live again in light. 

So, William, from the moral vrorld 

The clouds shall pass away; 
Tlic light tliat struggles through them now 

Shall beam eternal dav. 



KEFLECTIOXS. 



FnoM " AuTrMX," 



To you the beanties of the autumnal year 
Make nmurnful emblems ; and you think of man 
Doomed to the grave's long winter, spirit-broken, 
Bendiug beneath the burden of liis years, 
Seuse- dulled and fretful, "full of aches and 

jiaius," 
Yet clinging still to life. To mo they show 
Tlie calm decay of nature, when the mind 
Retains its strength, and iu the languid eye 
Religion's holy hopes kindle a joy 
That makes old ago look lovely. All to you 
Is dark and cheerless; you, in this fair -norld. 
See some destroying principle abroad — 
Air, earth, and water, full of living things. 
Each on the other preying ; and tlie ways 
Of man a strange, perplexing labyrinth, 
Where crimes and miseries, each producing each, 
Render life loathsome, and destroy the hope 
That should in death bring comfort. Oli, my 

friend, 
That thy faith were as mine ! that thou couldst see 
Death still producing life, and evil still 
Working its own destruction ! couldst behold 
The strifes and troubles of this troubled world 
With the strong eye that sees the promised day 
Dawn through this night of tempest ! All things 

then 
WouM minister to joy; then should tliiuc heart 



Be healed and harmonized, and thou wouUlst feel 
God always, everywhere, and all iu all. 



TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

INQUIRING IF I WOULD LIVE OVER JIY YOUTH AGAIN. 

Do I regret the past ? ' 

Would I again live o'er 

Tlie morning hours of life ? 

Nay, William, nay, not so ! 
In the warm joyaunce of the summer snu 

I do not wish again 

Tlio changeful April day. 

Nay, William, uay, not so! 

Safe haveued from the sea 

I would not tempt again 

The uncertain ocean's wratli. 
Praise bo to Him who made me what I am. 

Other I would not be. 

Why is it pleasant, then, to sit and talk 

Of days that are no more ? 

When in his own dear home 

Tlie traveller rests at last, 
Aud tells how ofteii in his wanderings 

The thought of those far off 

Has made his eyes o'erflow 

With no unmanly tears; 

Delighted ho recalls 
Tlirough what fair scenes his lingering feet have trod. 
But ever when he tells of perils past, 

Aud troubles now no more, 
Ilis eyes are brightest, and a readier joy 

Flows thankful from his he.-irt. 

No, William, no, I would not live again 

The morning hours of life ; 

I would not be again 

Tlie slave of hope and fear ; 

I would not learn again 
The wisdom by experience hardlj' taught. 

To me the jiast presents 

No object for regret ; 

To me the i^resent gives 

All cause for full content. 
Tlie future — it is now the cheerful noon, 
And on the sunny-smiling fields I gaze 

With eyes alive to joy ; 

When the dark night descends, 
I willingly shall close ray weary lids 
In sure and certain hope to wake again. 



324 



CTCLOrJEDlA OF BRITISH AXD AMEIUCAX POETRY. 



iUvs. iUavgavct lUavvucll iliujlis. 

Mrs. Inglis, daugiitci- of Dr. Alexanclci- Maxwell, was 
■born at Lanquliar, Scotland, in 1774. In 18U3 slie mar- 
ried Mr. Jolin Inglis, who died in 1826. She was emi- 
nently gifted as a musician, and was complimented by 
Burns for the effect she gave to his songs. In 1838 she 
jiublished a " Miscellaneous Collection of Poems." She 
died in Edinburgh, 1813. 



I-KOII "LINES OX THE DEATH OF HOGG." 

Sweet bard of Ettrick's glen ! 

Where art thou -n-antleriug ? 
Missed is thy foot on the mouutaiu and lea! 

Why round you craggy rocks 

Wauder thy heedless flocks, 
Wliilo himhies are listening and bleating for thee ? 

Cold as the mouutaiu-streani, 

Pale as the niooulight beam, 
Still is thy bosom, and clo.sed is thine e'e. 

Wild may the tempest's wave 

Sweep o'er thy lonely grave : 
Tliou'rt deaf to the storm — it is harmless to thee. 

Cold on Benloraond's brovr 

Flickcrs the drifted snow. 
While down its sides the wild cataraets foam ; 

Winter's mad winds may swecii 

Fierce o'er each gleu and steep, 
Thy rest is unbroken, and peaceful thy home. 

And -when on dewy wing 

Comes the sweet bird of spring, 
Chanting its notes on the bush or the tree, 

The Bird of the Wilderness, 

Low iu the -waving grass, 
Shall, cowering, sing sadly its farewell to thee. 



Uobcvt ilanualjiU. 

A favorite lyrical poet, Tannahill (1744-1810) was born 
iu Paisley, Scotland. His education was limited, and he 
followed the trade of a weaver till his twenty-sixth year, 
when he removed to Lancashire. In 1807 he published 
a volume of poems, and on edition of nine hundred was 
sold in a few weeks. Falling into a state of morbid 
despondency and mental derangement, he committed 
suicide, by drowning, in his thirty-sixth year. Iu 1874 
a centenary edition of his poems was published, which 
was exhausted within a few days of its appearance. 
James Hogg visited Tannahill in the spring of 1810. 
" Farewell," said the latter at parting, as he grasped the 
sheplicrd's hand; "we shall never meet again. I shall 
never see you more." 



THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE. 

The sun has ganc down o'er the lofty Benlomoud, 

And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, 
While lanely I stray iu the calm summer gloamin', 

To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dnmblane. 
How sweet is the brier, wi' its sauft fauldiu' blos- 
som ! 

And sweet is the birk wi' its mantle o' green, 
Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, 

Is lovely yonug Jessie, the flower o' Dnmblane. 

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonny ; 

For guileless simplicity marks her its ain ; 
And far be the villain, divested of feeling, 

Wha'd blight iu its bloom the sweet flower o' 
Dnmblane. 
Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hynni to the e'ening; 

Thon'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood gleu : 
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning. 

Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dnmblane. 

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie! 

The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain ; 
I ne'er sav? a nymph I would ea' my dear lassie 

Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dnm- 
blane. 
Tliough mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, 

Amid its profusion I'd languish iu pain. 
And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor, 

If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dnmblane. 



THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER. 

Let us go, lassie, go. 

To the braes o' Balquhither, 
Where the blae-berries blow 

'Mang the bonnio Highland heather 
Where the deer and the rac' 

Liglitly bounding together. 
Sport the lang summer day 

Ou the braes o' Balquhither. 

I will twine thee a bower 

By the clear siller fountain. 
And I'll cover it o'er 

Wi' the flowers o' the mountain ; 
1 will range through the wilds. 

And the deep glens sae drearie. 
And return wi' their spoils 

To the bower o' my dearie. 

I Roe. 



JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE. 



When the rude wintry win' 

Idly raves round our dwelling, 
And the roar of the liun 

On the night-breeze is swelling, 
So merrily we'll sing 

As the storm rattles o'er us. 
Till tlie dear sheiliiig ring 

\Vi' the light lilting chorus. 

Now the summer's in prime, 

Wi' the flowers richly blooming, 
And the wild mountain thyme 

A' the moorlands perfuming ; 
To our dear native scenes 

Let us journey together, 
Where glad innocence reigns 

'Mang the braes o' BaUiuhitlier. 



Joscpl) jBlaiuo llMjitc. 

A native of Seville, sou of an Irish Roman Catholic 
merchiint settled in Spain, White (177.5-lSll) was the 
author of what ColeriOge calls " the finest and most 
grandly conceived sonnet iu our language" — words 
which he slightly modifies by adding, "at least it is 
only in Milton's and in Wordsworth's sonnets that I 
recollect any rival ;" and he adds that this is the judg- 
ment of J. H. Frere also. Leigh Hunt says : " It stands 
supreme, perhaps above all in any language : nor can we 
ponder it too deeply, or with too hopeful a reverence." 
White's biography, edited by John Hamilton Thorn (Lon- 
don, 1845), iu which his sceptical and religious strug- 
gles are unfolded, is of the deepest interest. He was the 
friend or correspondent of Coleridge, Arnold, and the 
great American preacher, Channing. Ordained a Cath- 
olic priest in 1799, he abjured the faith iu which he had 
been bred, and published in 1835 a work entitled "Inter- 
nal Evidence against Catholicism." He seems to have 
wavered to the last in his religious belief, but to have 
been, nevertheless, an earnest, sincere seeker after the 
truth, as well as a vigorous writer. 

It may he iuteresliug to compare this fomous sonnet 
in its present state with its original form, as it appears 
in the London Gentleman's Magazine (May, 1835), and as 
it was supplied by the Rev. R. P. Graves, of Dublin, who 
knew While, to David M. Main for his "Treasury of Eng- 
lish Sonnets" (1880): 

"My-sturious Night! when the first M.iii but knew 
Thee by report, uuseen, and heard thy name. 
Did he not tremble for this lovely Frame, 
This glorious canopy of Lit^ht and Blue ? 
Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, 
B.ithcd in the rays of the great setting Flame, 
Hesperus with the Host of Heaven came, 
And lo I Creation widened on his view ! 
Who could have thought what Darkness lay coucealed 
Within thy beams, O Sun? or who could find. 
Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood revealed, 
That to such endless Orbs thou mad'st us blind? 



Weak maul why to shun Death this anxious strife? 
If Light cau thus deceive, wherefore not Life?" 

Some critics prefer the original form of White's son- 
net to the amended. Coleridge's daughter, Sara, wrote 
the following on the death of White. In it she refers 
to the scepticism of his latter days in regard to revealed 
religion. 

BL.\NCO WHITE. 

"Couldst thou in calmness yield thy mortal ^r^ath. 
Without the Christian's sure and certain hope? 
Didst thou to earth confine our being's scope, 
Yet, fixed on One Supreme with fervent faith, 
Prompt to obey what conscience witnesseth. 
As one intent to fly the eternal wrath. 
Decline the ways of siu that downward slope? 
O thou light-searching spirit ! that didst grope 
In such bleak shadows here, 'twixt life and death,— 
To thee dare I bear witness, though in ruth 
(Itrave witness like thine own!), — dare hope aud pray 
That thou, set free from this imprisoning clay. 
Now clad in raiment of perpetual youth, 
JIny find that bliss untold, 'mid endless day, 
Awaits each earnest soul that lives for Truth !" 

We give from the autobiography of White another 
sonnet from his pen, not before included, wc believe, in 
any collection. He wrote but two. Mr. Thom says of 
him: "He never stepped off any old ground of Faith 
until he could no longer stand on it without moral cul- 
pability." 



NIGHT AND DEATH. 

Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew 
Theo from report divine, and heard thy name, 
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, 
This glorious canopy of light and blue ? 
Yet 'neath a curtaiu of translucent dew, 
Bathed iu the rays of the great setting flame, 
Hesperus with the host of heaven came, 
Aud lo ! creation widened iu man's view. 
Who could have thought such darkness lay con- 
cealed 
Within thy beams, O sun! or who could find. 
Whilst fly aud leaf and iusect stood revealed, 
Tliat to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind I 
Why do we, then, shun death with anxious strife ? 
If light can thns deceive, wherefore not life ? 



SONNET, 

ON IIE.^RIXG MY'SELF FOU THE KIP.ST TIME CALLED .\N 
OLD .MAN. jET. 50. 

Ages have rolled within my breast, though yet 
Not nigh the bourn to fleeting man a.s.signed : 
Yes : old — alas ! how spent the struggling mind 
Which at the noou of life is fain to set! 
My dawn aud eveuing have so closely met 



326 



CYCLOPjEDIA of BRITISH AND AilElilCAX POETRY. 



That meu the shades of iiiglit Tjegiu to liud 
Darkeuijig my brow ; aud heedless, uot unkind, 
Let the sad warning drop, without regret. 
Gone Youth ! had I thus missed thee, nor a hope 
Were left of thy return beyond the tomb, 
I conld curse life: — But glorious is the scope 
Of au immortal soul ! — O Death ! thy gloom. 
Short, aud already tinged with comiug light, 
Is to the Christian but a Summer's night! 



ioljn Ccjibcn. 



A distinguished Oricnliil scholar, as well as poet, Ley- 
den (1775-1811) was a native of Denliolm, in Scotland. 
The son of liumble parents, lie fought his way bravely to 
knowledge. An excellent Latin and Greek scholar, he 
acquired also the French, Spanish, Italian, and German, 
besides studying the Persian, Arabic, and Hebrew. In 
1800 he was ordained for the Church, but wishing to 
visit India, qualified himself as assistant-surgeon on the 
Madras establishment, aud in 1803 left Scotland forever. 
He fiuall}' received the appointment of judge in Cal- 
cutta. In 1811 he accompanied the expedition to Java, 
took cold in a damp library in Batavia, and died in three 
days. Sir Walter Scott, in his " Lord of the Isles," throws 
a wreath on his grave. The "Poetical Remains of Ley- 
den" were published in 1819, with a memoir by the Rev. 
James Morton. His longest poem is his "Scenes of In- 
fancy," descriptive of his native vale of Teviot. His ver- 
sification is smooth and melodious, and his style i-alher 
elegant than forcible. His ballad of "The Mermaid" 
is praised by Sir Walter Scott as "for mere melody of 
sound seldom excelled in English poetry." Leyden had 
a presentiment of his early death in a foreign land. 



ODE TO Mi INDIAN GOLD COIN. 

WlilTTEN IN M.\LAB.\l:. 

Slave of the dark and dirty mine I 

What vanity has brought thee here ? 
How can I love to see thee shino 

So bright, whom I have bought so dear? 

The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear 
For twilight converse, arm in arm ; 

The jackal's shi'iek bursts on mine ear 
When mirth aud music wont to charm. 

By Cherieal's dark, wandering streams. 

Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, 
Sweet visions haunt my waking dre.ams 

Of Teviot loved while still a child ; 

Of castled rocks stupendous piled 
By Esk or Eden's classic wave. 

Where loves of youth and frieudships smiled 
Uucursed by thee, vile yellow slave ! 



Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade ! 

The perished bliss of youth's first prime, 
That once so bright on fancy played, 

Revives no more iu after-time. 

Far from nij' sacred natal clime, 
I haste to au untimely grave; 

The daring thoughts that soared sublime 
Are sunk iu ocean's southern wave. 

Slave of the miue ! thy yellow light 
Glooms baleful as the tomb-fire drear : 

A gentle vision comes by night 

My lonely, widowed heart to cheer: 
Her eyes are dim with many a te.ar 

That once were guiding stars to mine ; 
Her fond heart throbs with mauy a fear! 

I cannot bear to see thee shine. 

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, 

I left a heart that loved me true ! 
I crossed the tedious ocean-wave. 

To roam in climes unkind and new. 

The cold wind of the stranger blew 
Chill on my withered heart; the grave, 

Dark and untimely, met my view — 
And all for thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Ha ; coni'st thou now, so late to mock 
A wanderer's banished heart forlorn. 

Now that his frame the lightning sliock 
Of sun-rays tipped with death has borue J 
From love, from friendship, country, torn, 

To memory's fond regrets the prey, — 
Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn ! 

Go mix thee with thy kindred clay! 



SONNET ON THE SABBATH SIORNING. 

Witli sileut awe I hail the sacred morn. 

That slowly wakes while all the lields are still ; 

A soothing calm on every breeze is borne, 

A graver inurmnr gurgles from the rill. 

And echo answers softer from the hill. 

And softer sings the linnet from the thorn ; 

Tlie skylark warbles iu a tone less .shrill. 

Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath morn! 

The rooks lloat sileut by in airy drove ; 

The sun a placid yellow lustre throws : 

The gales, that lately sighed along the grove, 

H.ave hushed their downy wings in dead repose; 

The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move : — 

So smiled the dav when the first uioru arose. 



CHARLES LAMB. 



327 



(El)arlcs £amb. 



Lamb (1775-1834) was born in London, February lOUi, 
of humble parentage. From his seventh to liis fifteenth 
year he was an inmate of the school of Christ's Hospital. 
He had an impediment in his speech, which prevented 
his aspiring to University honors. In 1793 be became an 
accountant in the office of the East India Company; and 
after the death of his parents devoted himself to the care 
of bis sister Mary. A sad tragedy was connected with 
the early history of this devoted pair. There was a taint 
of hereditary madness in the family ; Charles had him- 
self, in 1795, been eonflned six weeks in an asylum at 
Ho.xton; and in Seiitember of the following year, Mary 
Lamb, in a paroxysm of insanity, stabbed her mother to 
death with a knife snatched from the dinner-table. She 
was soon restored to her senses. Charles abandoned all 
thoughts of love and marriage, and at twenty-two years 
of age, with an income of little more than £100 a year, 
set out cheerfully on the journey of life. lie bore his 
trials meekly, manfully, and with prudence as well as 
fortitude. The school companion of Coleridge, Lamb 
enjoyed flie friendship of Wordsworth, Southey, Hazlitt, 
and other literary celebrities of his day. In 1S35 he re- 
tired from tlie drudgery of his clerkship with a hand- 
some pension, which gave him literary leisure and the 
comforts of life. His series of essays signed "Ella" es- 
tablished his literary reputation. His kindliness of nat- 
ure, his wliims, puns, and prejudices give a marked indi- 
viduality to his writings. He died of erysipelas, caused 
by a fall which slightly cut his face. His " Life and Let- 
ters," by Mr. Justice Talfourd, appeared in 1837. Lamb's 
poetical writings are not numerous, but what he has 
written shows genuine taste and culture. His sister 
Mary was joint author with him of "Poetry for Chil- 
dren" (1S09); republished in New York (187S). 



THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 

I have had playmates, I have had comjianions, 
In my days of childhood, in iny joyful school-days. 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, 
Driuliing late, sitting late, with my bosom crouies ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I loved a love once, fairest among women ; 
C'hised are her doors on me, I must not see her — 
.'Vll, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; 
Like an ingrate I left my friend abruptly; 
Left him, to muse ou the old familiar faces. 

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood ; 
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 



Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, 
Why wert not thou born in mj- father's dwelling? 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces; — • 

How some they have died, and some they have left 

me, 
And some are taken from me ; all are departed ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces^ 



LINES WRITTEN IN MY OWN ALBUM. 

Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white, 

A young probationer of light, 

Thou wert, my sonl, an album bright, 

A spotless leaf; but thought, and care, 
And friend and foe, in foul and fair, 
Have written ''strange defeatures" there; 

And Time, with heaviest hand of all. 
Like that fierce writing ou the wall, 
Hath stamped sad dates — ho can't recall. 

And error, gilding worst designs — 
Like speckled snake that strays and shines- 
Betrays his jiath by crooked lines. 

And vice hath left his ugly blot; 
And good resolves, a moment hot, 
Fairly begun — but finished not ; 

And fruitless late remorse doth trace — 
Like Hebrew lore a backward pace — 
Her irrecoverable race. 

Disjointed numbers; sense unknit; 
Hugo reams of folly ; shreds of wit ; 
Compose the mingled mass of it. 

My scalded eyes no longer brook 
Upon this ink-blurred thing to look — 
Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book. 



TO JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES, 

ON HIS TR.\GEDV OF "VIRGINIUS." 

Twelve years ago I knew thee, Knowles, and thee 
Esteemed you a perfect specimen 
Of those fine spirits wariu-souled Ireland sends, 
To teach us colder English how a friend's 



328 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH ASD AMERICAN POETRT. 



Quick pulse should beat. I knew j-ou brave and 

plain, 
Stroug-senseil, rougli-witted, above fear or gaiu ; 
But nothing further had the gift to espy. 
Sudden you reappear. With wonder I 
Hear luy old friend (turned Shakspeare) read a sceue 
Only to Ills inferior in the clean 
Passes of pathos : with such fence-like art — 
Ere we can see the steel, 'tis in our heart. 
Almost without the aid language affords. 
Your piece seems wrought. That huffing medium, 

north, 
(Which in the modern Taniburlaiues quite sway 
Our shamed souls from tlieir bias) in your play 
Wo scarce attend to. Hastier passion draws 
Our tears on credit : and we find the cause 
Some two hours after, spelling o'er again 
Those strange few words at ease, that wrought the 

pain. 
Proceed, old friend ; and, as the year returns. 
Still snatch some new old story from the urns 
Of long-dead virtue. We, that knew before 
Your worth, may admire, we cannot love you more. 



lUattljcu) (^vcgovi) £cu)is. 

Novelist, poet, and diMmatist, Lewis (1775-1818), some- 
times called "Monk Lewis" from his novel of "The 
Monk" (published 1795), was a native of London, but 
resided the last five years of his life in Jamaica. His 
poetical productions are: "Tlic Feudal Tyrants," " Ro- 
mantic Tales," "Tales of Terror" (1799), and "Tales of 
Wonder" (1801). After his death appeared his "Jour- 
nal of a West Indian Proprietor," also his "Life and 
Correspondence" (1S39) ; easy and entertaining in style, 
and replete with infoimation. His "Jamaica Journal," 
says Coleridiie, "is delightful. * * » You have the man 
himself, and not an inconsiderable man — certainly a much 
finer mind tlian I supposed before from the perusal of 
his romances." Lewis died, after great suffering, on his 
liomeward voyage from Jamaica. 



LINES TO A FRIEND. 

WRITTEN IN BOUHOURS' " A.KV DE BIEN PENSER.' 

When to my Charles this book I send, 

A nseless present I bestow ; 
Why should you learn by art, my friend, 

What yon so well by nature know ? 
Yet read the book ; — haply some spell 

Maj' in its pages treasured he ; 
Perchance the art of thinking well 

May teach you to think well of me! 



THE HELMSMAN. 

Hark the bell ! it sounds midnight ! all hail, thou 

new heaven ! 

How soft sleep the stars on the bosom of night! 

While o'er the full-moon, as they geutly are driven, 

Slowly floating, the clouds bathe their fleeces in 

light. 

The warm feeble breeze scarcely ripples the ocean ; 

And all seems so hushed, all so happy to feel : 
So smooth glides the bark, I perceive not her 
motion. 

While low sings the sailor who watches the wheel. 

'Tis so sad, 'tis so sweet, and some tones come so 

swelling, 

So right from the heart, and so pure to the ear. 

That sure at this moment his thoughts must be 

dwelling 

On one who is absent, most kind and most dear. 

Oil, may she who now dictates that ballad so tender, 
Dift'use o'er your days the heart's solace and ease. 

As you lovely moon with a gleam of mild splendor. 
Pure, tranquil, and bright, over-silvers the seas! 



A MATRIMONIAL DUET. 

LADY TERM.VGAXT. 

Step in, pray, Sir Toby, my picture is here, — 
Do you think that 'tis like? does it strike you? 

sill TOBY. 

Why, it does not as yet ; but I fancy, my dear. 
In a moment it will — 'tis so like yon! 



lllallcr Stioagc Cauiior. 

Landor (177.5-1861), the son of a Warwickshire gentle- 
man, was born to wealth, and educated at Rugby and 
0.\ford. He published liis poem of "Gcbir" in 1797. 
It was praised by Southey, but never hit the popular 
taste. There is one fine passage in it, descriptive of the 
sound which sea-shells seem to make when placed close 
to the car : 

"But I hnve sinnous shells of pearly Ime 
Wilhiu : and Ihey that lustre have imbibed 
In the sun's palace-porch, where, when unyoked, 
His chariot-wheels stand midway in the wave : 
Shake one, and it awakens ; then apply 
Its poli.'itied lips to your attentive ear, 
.\nd it remembers its august abodes, 
And murmurs as the ocean mnrmnrs there." 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOIi.—JAMES SMITH. 



329 



Between 1820 aud ISoO Landor was engaged upon his 
most successrul work, " Imaginary Conversations of Lit- 
erary Men and Statesmen." A man of uncontrollable 
passions, a rampant republican, reckless and unscrupu- 
lous in his anger, fierce and overbearing iu his preju- 
dices, Landor acted at times like one almost irrespon- 
sible. As a poet, he often shows genuine power and 
high literary culture; but there is not much in his verse 
that promises to be of permanent value. His bitter re- 
sentments plunged him into disgraceful difficulties. He 
was dependent on the bounty of others for a support in 
his latter years, and reached the age of ninety. To the 
last he continued to find solace iu his pen. 



TO THE SISTER OF ELIA. 

Comfort thee, O tUou monnier, yet awhile! 

Again shall Ella's smile 
Refresh tliy heart, where heart can ache uo more. 

What is it wo deplore ? 

He leaves behind him, freed from griefs and years, 
Far worthier things than tears;— 

The lore of friends, without a single foe — 
Unequalled lot below ! 

His gentle soul, Ills genius — these are thine ; 

For these dost thou repine ? 
He may have left the lowly walks of men ; 

Left them he Las — what then ? 

Are not his footsteps followed by the eyes 

Of all the good and wise ? 
Though the warm day is over, yet they seek, 

Upon the lofty peak 

Of his pure mind, the roseate light that glows 

O'er death's perennial snows. 
Behold him ! from the region of the blessed 

He speaks : he bids thee rest ! 



JULIUS HARE. 

Julius ! how many hours have we 
Together spent with sages old ! 

In wisdom none surpassing thee, 

In Truth's bright armure none more bold. 

By friends around thy conch in death 

My name from those pure lips was heard : 
O Fame ! how feebler all thy breath 
Than Virtue's one expiring word! 
January 30tli, ISoS. 



ROSE AYLMER. 

Ah, what avails the sceptred race ? 

Ah, what the form divine f 
What every virtue, every grace ? 

Rose Aylmer, all were thiue. 
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 

May weep, but never see ! ^ 
A night of memories aud of sighs 

I consecrate to thee. 



DEATH. 

Death stands above me, whispering low 
I know not what into my ear : 

Of his strange language all I know 
Is, there is not a word of fear. 



Raines SinitI). 



James Smith (1775-1839), known best in connection 
with his brother Horace, wrote clever parodies and crit- 
icisms in the popular magazines. In the JloiUhly Jlir- 
ror appeared those imitations from his own aud his 
brother's hand which were published in 1813 as "The 
Rejected Addresses" — one of the most successful of 
humorous productions, for it had reached its twenty- 
second edition in 1870, and is still in demand. James 
wrote the imitations of Crabbe, Wordsworth, Southey, 
Coleridge, and Cobbett; Horace, those of Scott, Moore, 
Monk Lewis, Fitzgerald, and Dr. Johnson. Having met 
at a dinner-party Mr. Strahan, the king's printer, then 
suffering from gout and old age, though his mental fac- 
ulties remained bright, James sent him next morning 
the foUowiugjVu d'esprit: 

"Your lower limbs seemed far from stout 

When last I saw you wnik : 
The canse I presently found oat, 
' When you began to talk. 
The power that props the body's lens^th, 

In due proportion spread, 
In you momils upward, and the streuixth 

All settles in the head." 

Never was poet so munificently paid for eight lines of 
verse. Mr. Strahan was so much gratified by the com- 
pliment that he at once made a codicil to his will, by 
which he bequeathed to the writer the sum of £3000. 
Horace Smith mentions, however, that Strahan had oth- 
er motives for his generosity ; for he respected and loved 
the man as much as he admired tlie poet. James Smith 
died at the age of sixty-live. Lady Blessington said of 
him: "If James Smith had not been a tvitty man, he 
must have been a great man." His extensive informa- 
tion and refined manners, joined to his inexhaustible 
fund of liveliness and humor, and a happy, uniform tem- 
per, made him a delightful companion. 



3:?0 



CXCLOPJLDIA OF URITISH AND AMERICAN I'OETET. 



THE THEATRE.' 

Fkom " The Rejected Addresses." 

'Tis sweet to view, fiom half-past five to sis, 
Oiir loug \vax-candles witli short cottou wicks, 
Touched by the lamplighter's Proinetheau art, 
Start into light, and make the lighter start ; 
To see red Phoebus, through the gallery-paue, 
Tiuge with his beam the beams of Drury Laue, 
While gradual parties fill our widened pit, 
And gape and gaze and wonder ere they sit. 
# * * ^ * * 

What various swains our motley walls contain ! 
Fashion from Moorfields, honor from Chick Laue ; 
Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort, 
Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court ; 
From the HayniarUet canting rogues iu grain. 
Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane ; 
The lottery eornioraut, the auction shark. 
The full-price master, and the half-price clerk : 
Boys who long linger at the gallery-door, 
With pence twice five, they want but twopence 

more, 
Till some Samaritan the twopence spares. 
And sends them jurapiug up the gallery-stairs. 
Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk, 
But talk their minds — we wish they'd mind their 

talk ; 
Big-worded Imllles, who by quarrels live, 
Who give the lie, aud tell the lie they give: 
Jews from St. Mary Axe, for jobs so wary 
That for old clothes they'd even axe St. Mary ; 
And bucks with pockets empty as their pates. 
Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait. 
Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse 
With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house. 

Yet here, as elsewhere, chance can joy bestow. 
Where scowling fortune seemed to threaten woe. 
John Richard Willi.am Alexander Dwyer 
Was footman to Justinian Stnbbs, Esqnire ; 
But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues, 
Emanuel Jenuings polished Stubbs's shoes : 
Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy 
Up as a corn-cutter — a safe employ ; 
In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred 
(At lunnljer twenty-seven, it is said). 
Facing flic jiump, and near the Granby's head. 
He would have bound bim to some shop in town. 
But with a premium he could not come down. 
Pat was the urchin's name, a red-haired youfh. 
Fonder of purl aud skittle-grounds than truth. 

' 111 imitntinu of the style of the Eev. George Ciabbe. 



Silence, ye gods ! to keep your tongues iu awe 
The Muse shall tell an accident she saw : 

Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat ; 
But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat ; 
Down from the gallery the beaver flew. 
And spurned the oue to settle in the two. 
How shall he act ? pay at the gallery door 
Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four ? 
Or till half-price, to save his shilliug, wait, 
Aud gain his hat again at half-past eight! 
Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, 
John Mnllins whispers, "Take my handkerchief." 
"Thank yon," cries Pat, "but one wou't make aline." 
"Take mine," cried Wilson; "Aud," cried Stokes, 

"take mine." 
A motley cable soon Pat Jeiniings ties. 
Where Spitaltields with real India vies. 
Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted hue. 
Starred, striped, and sjiotted, yellow, red, aud blue, 
Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new. 
George Green below, with palpitating hand. 
Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band : 
Upsoars the prize; the youth, with joy unfeigned. 
Regained the felt, and felt what he regained ; 
While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat 
Made a low bow, and touched the ransomed hat. 



TO MISS EDGEWORTH. 

We every-day bards may "Anonymous" sign: 
That refuge. Miss Edgeworth, can never bo thine. 
Thy writings, where satire and moral unite. 
Must bring forth the name of their author to light. 
Good and b.^d join in tolling the source of their birth : 
The bad own their cUge, and the good own their 
n^orth. 



Uicljart a?all. 



Gall (177C-1S00) ^7as a printer in Edinburgh, and wrote 
some favorite songs. "My Only Jo .intl Dearie O" 
gained great applause. "I remember," says Allan Cun- 
ningliam, " when this song was exceedingly popular ; its 
sweetness and ease, rather than its originality and vigor, 
might be tbe cause of its success." Gall died before he 
was twenty-live. 



MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE O. 

Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue. 
My only jo and dearie O ; 

Thy neck is like the siller-dew 
Upon the hanks sae briery O; 



raCRAUD GALL. — WILLIAM GILLESPIE.— THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



331 



Thy teeth are o' the ivory, 
OU, sweet's the twiutle o' thine e'e ! 
Nae joy, nae pleasure, bliulcs ou me, 
My only jo ami dearie O. 

The hinlie sings upon the thorn 
Its sang o' joy, fu' cheerie O, 
Rejoicing in the snnmier moru, 
Nae care to make it eerie O ; 
Bnt little kens the saugster sweet 
Anght o' the cares I hae to meet, 
That gar my restless bosom beat, 
Mj' only jo and dearie O. 

When wo were bainiics on yon brae, 
And youth was blinking bonny O, 
Aft we wad daif tlio lee-Iaug day 

Onr joys fu' sweet and mony O ; 
Aft I wad chase ihee o'er the lea, 
And round about the thorny tree. 
Or pu' the wihl flowers a' for thee, 
My only jo and dearie O. 

I hao a wish I canna tine, 

'Mang a' the cares that grieve me O ; 
I wish thou wert forever mine, 

And never mair to leave me O : 
That I wad daut thee night and daj'. 
Nor ither worldly care wad hae. 
Till life's warm stream forgot to play, 

My only jo and dearie O. 



lllilliam (Sillcspic. 

Gillespie (177G-1835) was a native of Kiikcndbright, 
Scotland. Educated at the University of Edinburgh, he 
studied for the Clmrcli, and became minister of Kells. 
His poem of "Tlie Highlander" is interesting, not only 
for its own merits, but because Scott seems to have bor- 
rowed fi'om it much of the music and some of the senti- 
ment in his poem of "Helvellyn." 



THE HIGHLANDER. 

From the climes of the sun, all war-worn and weary, 
The Highlander sped to his youthful abode ; 

Fair visions of home cheered the desert so dreary. 
Though fierce was the iioou-beam, and steep was 
the road. 

Till spent with the march that still lengthened be- 
fore bim. 
He stopped by the way in a sylvan retreat : 



The light shady boughs of the birch -tree waved 
o'er him. 
The stream of the mountain fell soft at his feet. 

He sank to repose where the red heaths are blended, 
On dreams of his childhood his fancy passed o'er; 

But his battles are fought, and his march it is ended, 
The sound of the bagpipe shall wake hiul no more. 

No arm in the day of the conflict could wound him, 

Though war launched her thunder in fury to kill ; 

Now the Angel of Death in the desert has found 

him. 

And stretched him in peace by the stream of the 

hill. 

Pale Autumn spreads o'er him the leaves of the 
forest, 
The fays of the wild chant the dirge of his rest ; 
And thou, little brook, still the sleeper deploresr. 
And moisten'st the heath-bell that weeps on his 
breast. 



iLljomas (Uampbcll. 



The son of a Glasgow merchant, Campbell (1777-1814) 
was the youngest of ten children. At the age of thirteen 
he was placed in the university of his native city, where 
be was noted for his Latin and Greek translations, and 
his compositions in prose and verse. In April, I'Di), when 
twenty-one, he published bis "Pleasures of Hope," a 
remarkable specimen of literary precocity, tliough mar- 
red by passages where sound takes the place of sense. 
Wordsworth regarded it as "strangely overrated." The 
150cm passed through four editions in a year; and on the 
first seven editions the youthful poet received no less a 
sum than £900. After travelling on the Continent (wljere 
be was not a spectator of the Battle of Hohenlindeu, as 
has been often asserted), he published, in 1801, " Te Mari- 
ners of England," with several other lyrical pieces; and, 
in 1803, "Lochiel," "Hohenlindeu," "The Soldier's 
Dream," "The Battle of the Baltic:" so that the noble 
lyrics to which Campbell owes his fame were composed 
within a brief x'eriod, and when he was quite young. 
What he wrote after thirty has tlie marks of inferiority. 
"Gertrude of Wyoming" appeared in 1S09. He appears 
to have been amiable, generous, and sympathetic, though 
irritable, irresolute, and lazy. His faults were largely 
caused, no doubt, by physical iufirmit}-. He married his 
cousin. Miss Sinclair, and settled near London; but the 
death of one son and the madness of another cast a dark 
shadow on his existence. Though he struggled with 
narrow circumstances, he was generous to liis mother, 
sisters, and other relations. From 1820 to 1831 he edited 
the New Muntfihj 3Iiga.zinc. During his later years, in the 
receipt of a merited pension, he resided chiefly in Lon- 
don. He died at Boulogne, whither he had gone for his 
health, in his sixty-seventh year. His dust lies in West- 



332 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF lilHTISH AXD AilEBICAX POETRY. 



minster Abbey. Campbell's lyrics are among the finest 
in all literature, and are likely to last as long as tlie Eng- 
lish language, in its present form, endures. In 1S49 a Life 
of the poet, ■nitli selections from bis extensive corre- 
spondence, was published in Loudon by his affectionate 
friend and literary executor. Dr. Beattie. 



YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 

A NAVAL ODE. 

Ye mariners of England, 

That guard our native seas, 

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, 

The battle and the breeze ! 

Your glorious Btand.ird lanneh again 

To match another foe ! 

And sweep through the deep, 

While the stoi'my ^^'inds do blow; 

While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave : 

For the deck it was their field of fame, 

And ocean was their grave : 

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell. 

Your manly hearts shall glow. 

As ye sweep through the deep. 

While the stormy winds do blow ; 

While the battle rages loud and long, 

Aud the stormy wiuds do blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwark. 

No towers along the steep ; 

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves. 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak. 

She quells the floods below, — 

As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy winds do blow ; 

Wlieif the battle rages lond and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn. 

Till danger's troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! 

Our soug and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow ; 

When the fiery fight is heard no more, 

Aud the storm has ceased to blow. 



LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 

(1S02.) 
WIZARD. 

Lochiel ! Lochiel ! beware of the day 
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! 
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight. 
They rally, they bleed for their couutry aud crowu ; 
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! 
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the .slain. 
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. 
But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightuing of war. 
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? 
'Tis thine, O Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, 
Like a love-lighted ■watch-fire, all night at the gate. 
A steed comes at morning : no rider is there. 
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 
Weep, Albiu ! to death and captivity led ! 
Oh, weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead : 
For a merciless sword o'er Culloden shall wave, 
Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave. 



Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer ! 
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear. 
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight. 
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. 



Ha ! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ? 
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! 
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth 
From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the 

North ? 
Lo ! the death-shot of focmen outspeediug, he rode 
Oompauionless, bearing destruction abroad ; 
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ; 
Ah ! home let him speed, for the spoiler i.s nigh. 
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast 
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 
'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven 
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. 
Oh, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might. 
Whose banners arise on the battlemeuts' height, 
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; 
Return to thy dwelling! all lonely, return! 
For the bl.ackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, 
Aud a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. 



False wizard, avanut ! I have marshalled my clan, 
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



3tJ3 



rhey are true to the last of tlieir blood and their 

breath, 
And, like reapers, descend to the harvest of death. 
Tlien Tvelconie be Cumberland's steed to the shock! 
Let hira dash his jiroud foam like a -svave on the 

rock ! 
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause. 
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ; 
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, 
Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, 
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array — 

WIZARD. 

Lochiel ! Lochiol ! beware of the day ! 
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal. 
But man cannot cover what God would reveal ; 
'Tis the sunset of life gives nie mystical lore, 
And coming events cast their shadows before. 
I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring 
With tlie, blood-hounds that bark for thy fugitive 

king. 
Lo! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, 
Beholil where he flies on liis desolate path! 
Now iu darkness and billows ho sweeps from my 

sight : 
Rise, rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! 
"lis finished! Their thunders are hushed ou the 

moors ; 
Cnlloden is lost, and my country deplores. 
But where Is the iron-bound prisoner ? — Where ? 
For the red eye of battle is shut iu despair. 
Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn. 
Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn? 
Ah, no! for a darker departure is near; 
The war-drum is muffled, and black is the hier; 
His death-bell is tolling : oh ! Mercy, dispel 
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! 
Life flutters convulsed iu his quivering limbs, 
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims : 
Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet, 
Where his heart sliall bo thrown, ere it ceases to 

heat, 
With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale — 



Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale: 
For never shall Albiu a destiny meet 
So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. 
Though my perishing rauks should be strewed iu 

their gore, 
Like ocean-weeds heaped ou the surf-beateu shore, 
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, 
While the kindling of life iu his bosom remaius. 



Sliall victor exult, or iu death be laid low. 
With his back to the field, and bis feet to the foe ; 
And, leaving in battle no blot on his name. 
Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of Fame. 



HALLOWED GEOUND. 

Wliat's hallowed ground ? Has earth a clod 
Its Maker meant uot should be trod 
By man, the image of his God, 

Erect and free, 
tJuscourged by Superstition's rod 

To bow the knee ? 

That's hallowed ground — where, mourned and 

missed. 
The lips repose our love has kissed ; — 
But Where's their memory's mansion ? Is't 

Yon church-yard's bowers ? 
No I in ourselves their souls exist, 
A part of ours. 

A kiss can consecrate the ground 

W^here mated hearts are mutual bound : 

The spot where love's first links were wound, 

That ne'er are riven, 
Is hallowed down to earth's profound, 

And up to heaven ! 

For time makes all but true love old ; 
The burning thoughts tliat then were told 
Run molten still in memory's mould, 

And will not cool. 
Until the heart itself be cold 

In Lethe's pool. 

Wliat hallows ground where heroes sleep ? 
'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap ! 
Iu dews that heavens far distant weep 

Their turf may bloom. 
Or Genii twine beneath the deep 

Their coral tomb. 

But strew his ashes to the wind 

Wlio.se sword or voice has served mankind — 

And is he dead, whose glorious mind 

Lifts thine on high? — 
To live iu hearts we leave behind 

Is uot to die. 

Is't death to fall for Freedom's right ? 
He's dead alone that lacks her light ! 



334 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



And Murder sullies in Heaven's sight 

The sword he draws : — - 
What can ahine ennoble light f 

A noblo cause ! 

Give that ! and welcome War to brace 

Her drums ! and rend Heaven's reeking space ! 

The colors planted face to face, 

The charging cheer, 
Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase. 

Shall still bo dear. 

And place our trophies where men kneel 
To Heaven! — but Heaven rebukes my zeal! 
The cause of Truth and human weal, 

O God above ! 
Transfer it from the sword's appeal 

To Peace and Love. 

Peace, Love ! the cherubim, that join 
Their sjiread wings o'er Devotion's shrine — 
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine. 

Where they are not — 
The heart alone can make divine 

Religion's spot. 

To iucautatious dost thou trust, 
And pompous rites in domes august ? 
See mouldering stones and metal's rust 

]?elic the vaunt. 
That man can bless one pile of dust 

With chime or chant. 

The ticking wood-worui mocks tliee, man ! 
Thy temples, — creeds themselves grow wan ! 
But there's a dome of nobler span, 

A temple given 
Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban — 

Its space is heaven ! 

Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling. 
Where trancing the rapt spirit's feeling, 
And God himself to man revealing, 

Tho harmonious spheres 
Make music, though unheard their pealiug 

By mortal cars. 

Fair stars! arc not your beings pure? 
Can siu, can death your worlds obscure f 
Else why so swell the thoughts at your 

Aspect above ? 
Ye must ho heavens that make us sure 

Of heavcidy love ! 



And in your harmony sublime 
I read the doom of distant time ; 
That man's regenerate soul from crime 

Shall yet be drawn, 
And reason on his mortal clime 

Immortal dawn. 

What's hallowed ground? 'Tis what gives birth 
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! — 
Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth 

Earth's compass round ; 
And your liigh-priesthood shall make earth 

All hallowed ground. 



SOXG OF THE GREEKS. 

(1S32.) 

Again to the battle, Achaians ! 

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance ! 

Our laud, the first garden of Liberty's tree, 

It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free ! 
For the cross of our faith is replanted, 
The pale, dying crescent is daunted; 

And wo march that the footprints of Jlahomet's 
slaves 

May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' 
graves. 
Their spirits are hovering o'er us. 
And tho sword shall to glory restore ns. 

Ah, what though no succor advances, 
Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances 

Arc stretched in our aid? bo the condjat our own ! 

And we'll perish, or conquer more proudly alone ; 
For we've sworn by our country's assaulters, 
By the virgins they've dragged from our altars. 

By our massacred patriots, our children in chains. 

By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins. 
That, living, we shall be victorious. 
Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious. 

A breath of submission we breathe not : 
Tho sword that we've drawn wo will sliealho 
not ; 
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, 
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. 
Earth may hide, waves ingulf, fire consume us. 
But they shall not to slavery doom ns ; 
If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves : 
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves. 
And new triumphs on laud are before ns. 
To tho charge ! — Heaven's banner is o'er us. 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



335 



This day — sliall ye Idush for its story ? 
Or brigUteu your lives with its glory? 
Our ■women — oh say, shall they shriek iu despair, 
Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths iu their 
hair ? 
Accursed may his memory blacken. 
If a coward there be that would slacken, 
Till we've trampled the turban, and shown our- 
selves worth 
Being sprung from, and named for, the godlike of 
earth. 
Strike home ! and the world shall revere us. 
As heroes descended from heroes. 

Old Greece lightens up with emotion : 
Her inlamls, her isles of the ocean, 

Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall witli jubilee ring, 

And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon spring : 
Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness 
That were cold, and extinguislied in sadness ; 

While our maidens shall dance with their white- 
waving arms. 

Singing joy to tlie brave that delivered their charms, 
When the blood of yon Mussulman craveus 
Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens. 



LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTEll. 

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, 
Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! 

Ajid I'll give thee a silver iiound. 
To row us o'er the ferry." — 

" Now, wlio be ye would cross Lochgyle, 
This dark and stormy water?" 

" Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle. 
And this Lord UUin's daugliter. 

"And fast before her father's men 
Tliree days we've fled together, 

For should he find us iu the glen, 
My blood would stain the heather. 

" His horsemen hard behind us ride ; 

Should they our steps discover, 
Then who would cheer my bonny brido 

When they have slain her lover ?" 

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
" I'll go, my chief — I'm ready : 

It is not for your silver bright, 
But for your winsome lady : 



"And by my word! the bonny bird 

In danger shall not tarry ; 
So, though the waves are raging white, 

I'll row you o'er the ferry." 

By this the storm grew loud apace. 
The water-wraith was shrieking ; 

And iu the scowl of Heaven each face' 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still, as wilder blew the wind. 

And as the night grew drearer. 
Adown the glen rode armSd men, 

Their trampling sounded nearer. 

" O haste thee, haste !'' the lady cries, 
" Though tempests round us gather ; 

I'll meet the raging of the skies, 
But not an angry father." 

The boat has left a stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her, — 
When, oh ! too strong for human hand. 

The tempest gathered o'er her. 

And still they rowed amidst the roar 

Of waters fast jjrevailing; 
Lord UUin reached that fatal shore : 

His wrath was changed to wailing. 

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade. 

His child he did discover: 
One lovely hand she stretched for aid. 

And one was round her lover. 

"Come back! come back I" he cried, in grief, 

"Across this stormy water; 
And I'll forgive your Highland chief. 

My daughter! — O my daughter!" 

'Twas vain : the loud waves lashed the shore, 

Keturu or aid preventing: 
The waters wild went o'er his child. 

And he was left lamenting. 



HOHENLINDEN. 

(1S02.) 

On Linden, when the sun was lo«. 
All bloodless lay the untroddeu snow, 
And dark as winter was t!u- tlow 
Of Iser, rolling rapully. 



336 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEIIICAN POETRY. 



But Liuilen saw auotbcr sight, 
When the drum beat at dead of night, 
Coiiimanding fires of death to light 
The darkuess of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 
Eacli horseniau drew his battle-blade. 
And furious every charger neighed. 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Theu shook the hills with thunder riven. 
Then rushed the steed to battle driven, 
And louder than the bolts of heaven. 
Far flashed the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Liudeu's hills of stained snow, 
And bloodier yet the torrent How 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn, but scarce you level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

Tlie combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave ! 
And charge with all thy chivalry! 

Few, few shall part when many meet ! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 
And every tnrf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 



FREEDOil AND LOVE. 

How delicious is the winning 
Of a kiss at love's begiuuing, 
AVlien two mutual hearts are sighing 
For the knot there's uo untying ! 

Yet remember, 'mid your wooing. 
Love has bliss, but Love has ruing; 
■ Other smiles may make you fickle. 
Tears for other charms maj- trickle. 

bo comes, and Love ho tarries, 
^ fate or fancy carries ; 

' s when sorest chidden ; 
fliiH wb.en pressed and bidden. 



Bind the sea to slumber stilly, - 
Bind its odor to the lily. 
Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, 
Theu biud Love to last forever. 

Love's a file that needs renewal 

Of fresh beauty for its fuel ; 

Love's wing moults when caged and captured ; 

Only free, he soars enraptured. 

Can yon keep the bee from ranging, 
Or the ring-dove's neck from changing ? 
No! nor fettered Love from dying 
In the knot there's no uutviug. 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 

Our bugles sang truce — for the uight-clond had 
lowered, 

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 
And thous.ands had sunk on the ground overpowered. 

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamed it agaiu. 

Mctliought from the battle-field's dreadful array, 
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate traclc : 

'Twas autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way 
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me 
back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 
In life's moruing march, when my bosom was 
young ; 

I lioard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers 



Then pledged wo the wine-cup, and fondly I swore 
From my home and my weeping friends never 
to part : 

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, 
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. 

"Stay, stay with ns, — rest, thou art weary auil 
worn ;" 

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay : 
But sorrow returned with the dawning of nioru, 

And the voice iu my dreaming ear melted away. 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



VALEDICTOEY STANZAS TO JOHN PHILIP 
KEMBLE, ESQ. 

Pride of the British stage, 

A loug aud last adieu ! 
Whose Image brought the Heroic Age 

Revived to faucy's view. 
Like fields refreshed Tvith dewy light 

When the sun smiles his last, 
Thy parting presence makes more bright 

Our memory of the past ; 
And memory conjures feelings up 

That wine or ninsic need not swell, 
As high we lift the festal cnp 

To Kemble ! — fare thee well ! 

His was the spell o'er hearts 

Which only acting lends, — 
The youngest of the sister arts, 

Where all their beauty blends : 
For ill can poetry express 

Full many a tone of thought sublime ; 
And painting, mute aud motionless. 

Steals but a glance of time. 
But by the mighty actor brought, 

Illusion's perfect triumphs come — 
Verse ceases to bo airy thought, 

Aud sculpture to be dumb. 

Time may again revive. 

But ne'er eclipse, the charm. 
When Cato spoke in him alive. 

Or Hotspur kindled -warm. 
Wliat soul was not resigned entire 

To the deep sorrows of the Moor ? 
^^'hat English heart was not on fire 

With him at Agincourt? 
And yet a majesty possessed 

His transport's most impetuous tone, 
And to each passion of the breast 

The Graces gave their zone. 

High were the task — too high, 

Ye conscious bosoms here — 
In words to paint your memory 

Of Kemble and of Lear ; 
But who forgets that white discrowned head, 

Those bursts of reason's half-extinguished glare — 
Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed. 

In doubt, more touching than despair. 
If 'twas reality he felt ? 

Had Shakspeare's self amid you been, 
32 



Friends, he had seen you melt, 
Aud triumphed to have seen ! 

Aud there was many an hour 

Of blended kindred fame, 
When Siddons's auxiliar jiower 

And sister magic came. 
Together at the Muse's side 

The tragic paragons had grown — 
They were the children of her pride. 

The columns of her throne ; 
And uudlvlded favor ran 

From heart to heart in their applause, 
Save for the gallantry of man 

111 lovelier woman's cause. 

Fair as some classic dome. 

Robust and richly graced. 
Your Kemble's spirit was the home 

Of genius and of taste — 
Taste like the silent dial's power, 

That, when supernal light is given, 
Can measure inspiration's hour, 

And tell its height in heaven. 
At once ennobled aud correct, 

His mind surveyed the tragic page ; 
And what the actor could efl'ect 

The scholar could presage. 

These were his traits of worth : — • 

And must we lose them now ? 
And shall the scene no more show forth 

His sternly pleasing brow ? 
Al.is! the moral brings a tear! — 

'Tis all a transient hour below ; 
And we that would detain thee here 

Ourselves as fleetly go ! 
Yet shall our latest age 

This parting scene review : 
Pride of the British stage, 

A long and last adieu ! 



EXILE OF ERIX. 

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, 

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ; 
For his country he sighed when at twilight repairing 

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. 
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion. 
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, 
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, 
He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh ! 



338 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH: AXD AMERICAN POi: IKY. 



"Sad is luy fate!" said the lieart-biokeu stranger; 

"The wild deer aud wolf to a, covert can flee; 
But I have no refnge from famine aud danger, 

A homo and a country remain not to me. 
Xever again in the green snuny bowers 
Where my forefathers lived shall I speud the sweet 

hours, 
Or cover my harp witli the wild woven flowers, 

Aud strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh ! 

"Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken. 
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; 

But alas! in a fair foreign land I awaken. 

And sigh for the friends who can meet nie no more. 

O cruel Fate ! wilt thou never replace nio 

In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me ? 

Never again shall my brothers embrace me ? 
They died to defend me, or live to deplore ! 

"Where ia my cabin-door, fast by the wild-wood ? 

Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall ? 
Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? 

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ;' 
Oh, my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure. 
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure ? 
Tears like the raiu-drop may fall without measure, 

But rapture aud beauty they cannot recall. 

" Yet, all its sad recollection suppressing. 
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw : 

Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! 
Land of my forefathers — Erin go bragh ! 

Buried and cold, when uiy heart stills her motion. 

Green be thj- fields, sweetest isle of the ocean ! 

And thy harp-striking bards slug aloud with de- 
votion, 
Erin nuivourneen — Erin go bragh !" 



ADELGITHA. 

The Ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded, 

And sad, pale Adelgitha came, 
When forth a valiant champion bounded, 

Aud slew the slanderer of her fame. 

She wept, delivered from her danger ; 

But when he knelt to claim her glove — 
" Seek not," she cried, " oh ! gallant stranger, 

For hapless Adelgitha's love. 

"For he is in a foreign far-land 

Whoso arm should imw have set mo free ; 



And I must wear tir v.illow gail;.ud 
For him that's dead, or false to me." 

"Nay! say not that his faith is tainted I"- 
He raised his vizijj', — at the sight 

She fell into his arras and fainted: 
It was, indeed, her own true knight. 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 

Of Nelson and the North 

Sing the glorious day's renown. 
When to battle fierce came forth 
All the might of Denmark's crown. 
And her arms along the d('ep proudly shone ; 
By each gnu the lighted brand 
In a bold, determined hand, 
And the prince of all the land 
Led them on. 

Like leviathans afloat, 

Laj- their bulwarks on the brine, 
While the sign of battle flew 
On the lofty British line : 
It was ten of April morn by the ehime: 
As they drifted on their path, 
There was silence deep as death. 
And the boldest held his breath 
For a time. 

Cut the might of England fluslu'd 

To anticipate the scene. 
And her van the fleeter rushed 
O'er the deadly space between. 
"Hearts of oak !" our captains cried : when eaeli fruu 
From its adamantine lips 
Spread a death-shade round the i~uips, 
Like the hurrieanc eclipse 
Of the sun. 

Again ! again ! again ! 

Aud the havoc did not slack, 
Till a feeble cheer the Dane 
To our cheering sent us back. 
Their shots along the deep slowly booui :— 
Then ceased — and all is wail 
As they strike the shattered sail. 
Or, in conflagration pale, 
Light the gloom. 

Outspoke the victor then. 

As ho hailed them o'er tho wave : 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



" Yo are brotlicis ' .^' ro iiieu ! 
And we conr|nin- ) nt to save: 
So peace in^toad ol" I'jail) lot iis bring. 
13iit yield, prond foe, thy fleet, 
With the ci'cws, at Euglaud's feet. 
And make submission meet 
To our kiug.' 

Tlien Denmark blessed onr cliief, 

Tliat he gave her vronnds repose ; 
And the sounds of joy and grief 
From her people wildly rose 
As Dcatli withdrew his shades from the day ; 
AVIiilo the sun looked smiling briglit 
O'er a wide and wofnl sight. 
Where the fires of funeral light 
Died away. 

Now joy, old England, raise 

For the tidings of thy might, 
By the festal cities' blaze, 

While the wiue-cnp shines in light ! 
And yet, amid that joy and uproar. 
Let us think of them that sleep 
Full many a fatliom deep. 
By thy wild and stormy steep, 
Elsinore ! 

Biiive hearts! to Britain's prido 

I Uiee so faithful and so true, 
■ ' J the deck of Fame that died, 
"vVith the gallant, good Rion 1' 
S't't ■^igll the winds of heaven o'er tlieir grave! 
While the billow mournful rolls. 
And the mermaid's song condoles, 
(Singing glory to the sonis 
Of the brave ! 



THE PAKEOT. 

A DOMESTIC ANECDOTE. 

T'-.e !". ^win? incident, so strongly illnstvating the power of 
•n<;j-y (!id association in the lower animals, is not a fiction, 
i tieard it many years .igo in the Island of Mall, from the fami- 
ly to whom the bird belonged. 

The deep affections of the breast, 

That Heaven to living things imparts. 

Are not exclusively possessed 
By human hearts. 



^ Captain Riou, entitled "the gallant and the good' 
Nelson, when he wrote home his despatches. 



by Lord 



A p.arrot, from the Spanish Main, 

Full young, and early caged, came o'er. 

With briglit wings, to the bleak domain 
Of Mulla's shore 

To spicy groves, where he had won 
His plumage of resplendent hue. 

His native fruits, ami skies, and snji,' 
Ho bade adieu. 

For these he changed the smoke of turf, 
A heathery land and misty sky, 

And turned on rocks and raging surf 
His golden eye. 

But petted in our climate cold 

He lived and chattered many a day; 

Until with age, from green and gold 
His wings grew gray. 

At last, when blind and seeming dumb. 
He scolded, laughed, and spoke no more, 

A Spanish stranger clianced to come 
To Mulla's shore : 

He hailed the bird in Spanish speech, 
The bird in Spanish siieecli replied, 

IHapped round liis cage with joyous screech, 
Dropped down, and died ! 



TO THE RAINBOW. 

Triumphal arch, that ftU'st tlie sky, 
Wlien storms prepare to part, 

I ask not proud Philosophy 
To teach me what thou art ; 

Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, 

A midway station given 
For happy spirits to alight. 

Betwixt the eartli and heaven. 

Can all that Optics teach unfold 
Tliy form to please me so. 

As when I dreamed of gems and gold 
Hid in tliy radiant bow ? 

When Science from Creation's face 
Enchantment's veil withdraws. 

What lovely visions yield their place 
To cold material laws! 



:{4i) 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BUITISH AND AMEBIC AX I'OETJiT. 



Ami yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams. 
But Tvonls of tbo Most Higb, 

Have told •nby first ihy robe of beams 
AVas woven iu tUe sky. 

Wben o'er the greeu nndeluged earth 
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, 

How came the world's gray fathers forth 
To watch thy sacred sign ! 

And when its yellow lustre smiled 

O'er mountains yet untrod, 
Each mother held aloft her child 

To bless the bow of God. 

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep. 

The first-made autbem rang. 
On earth delivered from the deep, 

And the first poet sang. 

Xor ever shall the Muse's eye 
Unrapturod greet thy beam : 

Theme of primeval prophecy. 
Be still the poet's theme ! 

The earth to thee her incense yields. 

The lark thy welcome sings, 
WIr'u glittering iu the freshened fields 

The suowy mushroom si>rings. 

How glorious is thy girdle cast 
O'er mountain, tower, and town, 

Or mirrored in the oceau vast, 
A thousand fathoms down ! 

As fresh in yon horizon dark, 
As young thy beauties seem. 

As when the eagle from the ark 
Firet sported in thy beam. 

For, faithful to its sacred l^age. 
Heaven still rebuilds thy span. 

Nor lets the type grow pale with age 
That first spoke peace to man. 



HOPE'S KINGDOM. 

FiioM " The Pleasuhes of IIorE." 

I'l, fading Hope! when life's last embers burn, 
Wlien soul to soul, and dust to dust return, — 
Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour : 
Oil ! then thy kingdom comes, Immortal Power ! 



What though each si>ark of earth-born rapture lly 
The quivering lip, pale check, and closing eye ! 
Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey 
The morning dream of life's eteruiii day — 
Then, then the triumph and the trance begin. 
And all the Phoiuix spirit burns within! 



UNBELIEF IN IMMORTALITY. 

From "The Pleasures of IIofe." 

Oh! lives there. Heaven! beneath thy dread expanse, 

Oue hopeless, dark Idolater of Chance, 

Content to feed, with pleasures unrefined. 

The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind ; 

Who, mouldering earthward, 'reft of every trust, 

Iu joyless union wedded to the dust. 

Could all his parting energy dismiss, 

And call this barren world sutficieut bliss ? — 

There live, alas! of Heaven-directed mien. 

Of cultured soul, and sapient eye serene, 

WIio hail thee, Man ! the pilgrim of a day, 

Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay. 

Frail as the leaf iu Autumn's yellow bower, 

Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower; 

A friendless slave, a child without a sire. 

Whose mortal life, and moraeutar^v fire, 

Light to the grave his chance-created form. 

As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm ; 

And, when the guu's tremendous flash is o'er. 

To Night and Silence siuk for evermore! — 

Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim. 
Lights of the world, and demi-gods of Fame ? 
Is this your triumph — this your proud applause — 
Children of Truth, and ehamiiions of her cau-so ? 
For this hath Science searched, on weary wing. 
By shore and sea — each mute and living thing! 
Launched with Il)eria's pilot from the steep. 
To worlds unknown, and isles beyond llie deep. 
Or round the cope her living chariot driven. 
And wheeled iu triumph through the signs of heaver 
Oh ! star-eyed Science, hast thou wandered there. 
To waft us home the message of despair ? 
Then bind the p.alm, thy sage's brow to suit. 
Of blasted leaf and death-distilling fruit! 
Ah me ! the laurelled wreath that Slurdcr rear.s. 
Blood-nursed, and watered by the widow's tears, 
Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread, 
As waves the nightshade round the sceptic head. 

What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's ch.ain ? 
I smile on death, if heavenward Hoiio remain ! 
But, if the warring winds of Nature's strife 
Be all the faithless charter of my life. 



XOEL THOMAS CAEIilXGTOX.—SIR HUMPHUY DAVY. 



341 



If C'lianco awnkeil, inexorable power ! 
This frail aiul feverish being of an hour, 
Doomed o'er the ■world's precarious scene to sweep, 
Swift as the tempest travels on the deep, 
To know Delight but by her parting smile. 
And toil, and wish, and weep, a little while ; — 
Then melt, ye elements, that formed in vain 
This troubled pulse, and visionary brain ! 
Fade, yc wild flowers, memorials of my doom. 
And sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb ! 



Nod Cljomasf Cavvington. 

A native of Plymouth, England, Carrinijton (1777-1830) 
was the author of several poems cxliibiling a mastery 
of blank verse. He published "The Banks of Tamar" 
(ViiO), -'Dartraoor" (1826), and "My Native Village." 
His collected poems were published in two volumes, 
liino. Of these " Dartmoor " met with greater success 
than the author had anticipated. His account of the 
pi.xies, or fairies, of Devonshire is a favorable specimen 
of the graceful ease to which he had attained in the met- 
rical flow of his language. 



THE PIXIES OF DEVOX. 

They are flown, 
Beautiful fictions of our fathers, wove 
In Superstition's web when Time was young. 
And fondly loved and cherished : they are flown 
Before the wand of Science ! Hills and vales, 
Mountains and moors of Devon, ye have lost 
The enchantments, the delights, the visions all, 
The elfin visions that so blessed the sight 
In the old days romantic! Naught is heard 
Now in the leafy world but earthly strains — 
Voices, yet sweet, of breeze and bird and brook 
And water-full; the day is silent else, 
-A.ud night is strangely mute ! The hymniugs high. 
The immortal mnsic, men of ancient times 
Heard ravished oft, are flown ! Oh, yo have lost, 
Mountaius and moors and meads, the radiant throngs 
That dwelt in your green solitudes, and filled 
The air, the fields, with beauty and with joy 
Intense, — with a rich mystery that awed 
The mind, and flung around a thousand hearths 
Divinest tales, that through the enchauted year 
Found passionate listeners ! 

The very streams 
Brightened with visitings of these so sweet 
Ethereal creatures ! They were seen to rise 
From the charmed waters, which still brighter grew 
As the pomp passed to land, uutil the eye 
Scarce bore the unearthly glory. Where they trod, 



Young flowers, but not of this world's growth, aro.se, 
And fragrance, as of amaranthine bowers. 
Floated upon the breeze. 

lint ye have flown. 
Beautiful fictions of our fathers ! — flowu 
Before the wand of Science ! 



Sir (ouinpljrj) Diioii. 

Eminent as a man of science, Davy (177S-1S29) was 
also a poet. He was born at Penzance, iu Cornwall, and 
educated at the school of Truro. He was an enthusi- 
astic reader and student, fond of metaphysics, fond of 
experiment, an ardent student of nature, fond of poetry. 
All these tastes endured throughout life; business could 
not stifle them, nor even the approach of death extin- 
guish them. But the physical sciences absorbed his 
most earnest attention. Of his splendid discoveries, bis 
invention of the safety-lamp is probably the most use- 
ful to mankind. He was rewarded for it with a baronet- 
cy by the Prince-regent in ISIS. Coleridge is reported 
as saying that, "if Davy had not been the first chemist, 
he probably would have been the first poet of his age." 
There is exaggeration in the remark; but it is certain 
that Davj' has given proofs of a fine poetic sensibility, 
and that he ought to be classed among the potential 
poets. 

WRITTEN AFTER RECOVERY FROM A DAN 

GEROUS ILLNESS. 
Lo ! o'er the earth the kindling spirits jiour 

The flames of life that bounteous Nature gives ; 
The limpid dew becomes the rosy flower. 

The insensate dust awakes, and moves, and lives. 

All spe.aks of change : the renovated forms 
Of long-forgotten things arise again ; 

The light of suns, the breath of angry storms. 
The everlasting motions of the main, — 

These are but engines of the Eternal will, 
The one Intelligence, whose potent sway 

Has ever acted, and is acting still, 

While stars and worlds and systems all obey ; 

Without whose power the whole of mortal things 
Were dull, inert, an uuharmouious band. 

Silent as are the harp's nntuuiSd strings 
Without the touches of the poet's hand. 

A sacred spark created by his breath. 

The innnortal mind of man his image bears ; 

A spirit living 'mid the forms of death. 

Oppressed, but not subdued, by mortal cares ; 



34-2 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BBITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



A germ, preparing in the winter's frost 

To rise and bud and blossom iu tbe spring ; 

An unfledged eagle, by the tempest tossed, 
Unconscious of his future sti'ength of wing ; 

The child of trial, to mortality 

And all its changeful intiueuces given ; 

On the green earth decreed to move and die, 
And yet by such a fate prepared for heaven. 

To live ill forests, mingled with the whole 
Of natural forms, whose generations rise 

In lovely cbange, iu happy order roll, 

On laud, iu ocean, iu the glittering skies, — 

Their harmony to trace ; the Eternal Cause 
To know in love, iu reverence to adore ; 

To bend beneath the luevitable laws. 

Sinking Iu death, its human strength no more ; — 

Then, as awakening from a dream of pain, 
With joy its mortal feelings to resign ; 

Yet all its liviug essence to retain, 

The undying euergy of strength diviue; — 

To quit the bni'dens of its earthly days. 

To give to Natni-e all her borrowed iiowers, — 

Ethereal fire to feed the solar rays. 

Ethereal dew to glad the earth with showers! 



LIFE. 



Our life is like a cloudy sky 'mid mountains. 
When iu the blast the watery vapors tioat. 
Xow gleams of light pass o'er the lovely hills. 
And make the purple heath aud russet bracken 
Seem lovelier, aud the grass of brighter green ; 
And now a giant shadow hides them all. 
Aud thus it is that, iu all curlhhj distance 
On which the sight can fix, still fear and hope, 
Gloom aud alternate sunshine, each succeeds. 
So of another aud an unknown land 
We sec the radiance of the clouds reflected, 
Which is the future life beyond the grave ! 



THOUGHT. 

Be this our trust, that ages (filled with light 
More glorious far than those faint beams which shine 
In this our feeble twilight) yet to come 
Shall see distinctly what wo now but hope : 



TIic world immutable iu which alone 
Wisdom is found, the light and life of things,- 
The breath divine, creatiug power diviue, — 
The One of which the human iutellect 
Is but a type, as feeble as tliat imago 
Of the bright sun seen on the bursting wave- 
Bright, but without distinctness, yet in passing 
Showing its glorious and eternal source ! 



Jraiuts Scott Kcji. 

AMERICAN. 

Key (1779-1843) owes his fimc to a single patriotic 
song. The excellent music to which its somewhat harsh 
and intractable verses are set has undoubtedly done 
much to perpetuate its populai-ity. Key was boi-n in 
Frederick County, Maryland, and educated at St. John's 
College, Annapolis. He practised law first in Frederick- 
town, and afterward in Washington, wlicre ho became 
District Attorney. A volume of his poems was pub- 
lished in Baltimore after his death. There is little in 
the collection that is memorable except "The Star- 
spangled Banner." This was composed in 1814, on the 
occasion of the bombardment of Fort MeHenry, when 
Key, a young midshipman, was a prisoner in the hands 
of the attacking British. 



THE STAE-SPANGLED BAKNER. 

Oh say ! can you see, by the dawn's early light. 
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last 

gleaming — 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the 

perilous fight. 
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly 

streaming ? 
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in 

air. 
Gave proof, through the night, that our flag was 

still there. 
Oh ! say, does that star-spangled banuer yet wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of iIjc brave ? 

On that shore dimly seen through the nii^is ul tiie 

deep, 
Where the foe's haughty host iu divad sileuce 

rei>oses. 
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering 

steep. 
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam. 
In full glory reflected, uow shines on the stream : 
'Tis the star-spangled banner — oh, long may it wave 
O'er the laud of the free aud the home of the brave ! 



FEjyCIS scon EEY.—JOnX EERilAX MERIVALE. 



343 



And where is that band -nho so vamitingly swore 

That the havoc of war ami the battle's coufusiou 

A homo and a couutiy should leave us uo more 1 

Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' 

liollutiou I 

No refuge could save tlie hireling and slave 

From the terror of tiiglit or the gloom of the grave ; 

And the star-spangled bauuer in triumph doth wave 

O'er the laud of the free and the homo of the brave. 

Oh ! thus bo it ever when frecuieu shall staud 
Between their loved home aud the war's deso- 
lation : 
Blessed with victory aud peace, may the ITeaveii- 
rescued land 
Praise the Power that hath made aud preserved 
it a nation ! 
Thus coiiqncr we must, when our cause it is jnst; 
Aud this be onr motto — '• lu God is our trust!" 
And the star-spangled bainier in triumph shall wave 
O'er the laud of the free and the home of the brave. 



THE WORM'S DEATH-SONG. 

Oh ! let me alone, — I've a work to be done 
That can brook uot a moment's delay ; 

While yet I breathe I must spin aud weave, 
Aud may rest uot night or day. 

Food and sleep I never may know, 

Till my bless(5d work bo done ; 
Theu my rest shall be sweet in the winding-sheet 

That around me I have spun. 

I have been a base aud grovelling thing, 
Aud the dust of the earth my lionie ; 
I But now I know th.at the end of my woe 
I Aud thi', day of my bliss is come. 

lu luL oi.roiid I make, this creepiug frame 

Shall peacefully die away ; 
Lint its death shall be new life to me. 

In the midst of its perished clay. 

I shall wake, I shall wake — a glorious form 
Of brightness aud beauty to wear ; 

I shall burst from the gloom of hiy opening tomb. 
And breathe in the balmy air. 

I shall spread my new wings to the moruiug sun ; 
On the summer's breath I shall live ; 



I shall bathe me where, iu the dewy air, 
The flowers their sweetness give. 

I will not touch the dusty earth, — 
I will spring to the brightening sky; 

Aud free as the breeze, wherever I please. 
On joyous wings I'll tly. 

Aud wherever I go, timid mortals m.iy know. 
That like me from the tomb they shall rise: 

To the dead shall be given, by signal from heaveu, 
A new life aud uew home in the skies. 

Then let them like me make ready their shrouds, 

Nor shrink from the mortal strife; 
Aud like me they shall sing, as to heaveu they spring, 

" Death is not the eud of life !" 



5ol)n C)crmau iUcriualc. 

Merivalc (1779-1844) was a native of E.vcter, England. 
Educated at Cambridge, he studied law, was a success- 
ful barrister, aud in 1826 was appointed a Commissioner 
in Bankruptcy. Tlie first edition of Ins "Orlando in 
Roncesvalles," a poem in five cantos, appeared in 1814. 
His "Poems, Original and Translated," were published 
by Pickering iu tbree volumes, 1838. Some of his ver- 
sions from the Greek, Latin, ItaUan, and Gci-mau are 
faithful and spirited ; and his short origin.il poems, 
though quite unequal in merit, sliow no ordinary degree 
of literary attainment. For some of these, he frankly 
tells us, ho is little entitled to assume tlie merit of entire 
originality ; he is " fully sensible of this deticicncy, or of 
what may be called a propensity to follow in the track 
of such preceding authors as were from time to time 
objects of his admiration." He was the fatlier of the 
Rev. Charles Merivale (born 1808), author of a "History 
of the Romans under the Empire" (1SG3). 



"EVIL, BE THOU MY GOOD." 

"Evil, be thou my good" — in rage 

Of disappointed jiride. 
And hurling vengeance at his God, 

The apostate angel cried. 

" Evil, be thou my good " — repeats, 

But in a different sense. 
The Christian, tanght by faith to trace 

The scheme of Providence. 

So deems the hermit, who abjures 
The world for Jesus' sake ; 



:!44 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BniTISU AXD AMERICAX POETRY. 



The patriot 'mid his dniigeou bars, 
Tlie martyr at his stalie. 

For He who happiness orilaiued 

Our being's only end — • 
The God wlio made us, and who knows 

Whither our wishes tend, — • 

Tlie glorious prize liath stationed high 
On Virtue's hallowed mound. 

Guarded by toil, beset by care, 
With danger circled round. 

Virtue were but a name, if Vice 

Had no dominion here, 
And pleasure none could taste, if pain 

And sorrow were not near. 

The fatal cui^ we all must drain 

Of mingled bliss and woe ; 
Unmixed the cup would tasteless be, 

Or quite forget to flow. 

Then cease to question Heaven's decree, 

Since Evil, understood, 
Is but the tribute Nature pays 

For Universal Good.' 



REASON AND UNDERSTANDING. 

From "Retrospection," — an Unpublished Poem. 

In n note to this pari of his poem the author snys: "The Eng- 
lish public is not yet ripe to comprehend the esscnli.il differ- 
ence between the reason and the understanding — between a 
principle and a maxim— au eternal truth and a mere conclusion 
generalized from a great number of facts. A man, having seen 
a million moss-roses, all red, concludes, from his own experi- 
ence and that of others, that all moss-roses are red. That is a 
maxim with him— the prmUnt amount of his knowledge on the 
subject. But it is only true until some gardeiier has produced 
a white moss-rose- after which the maxim is good for noth- 
ing. • • * Now compare this with the assurance which you have 
that the two sides of any triangle are together greater than the 
third," etc. See Coleridge's "Table-Talk." 

The reasoning facttlty, and that we name 
The understaiuliug, are no moro the same 
Than are a ni.axira and a principle — 
A truth eternal, indestructible, 

1 The author, in a note, refers to the following stanza by Mrs. 
Elizabeth Carter (1T17-I80C), which he quotes, "although serv- 
ing to convict him of unconscious plagiarism :" 

"Through nature's ever varying scene 
By different ways pursued. 
The one eternal end of Heaven 
Is Universal Good." 



And a bare Inference from facts, how great 
Soe'er their number, magnitude, and weight. 
— At best, how fallible! — who sees a rose. 
Sees that 'tis red ; and what he sees he knows. 
Day after day, at each successive hour, 
Where'er he treads, the same love-vermeiled flower 
Blooms in his path. What wonder if he draw. 
From facts so proved, a universal law. 
And deem all roses of the self-same hue ? 
And this is knowledge! 'J^et 'tis only true 
Until a white rose gleams upon his view. 
Where is his reason then ? — his science, bought 
With long experience? All must come to naught! 

So, when creation's earliest day had run, 
And Adam first beheld the new-born sun 
Sink in the shrouded west, the deepening gloom 
He watched, all hopeless of a morn to come. 
Another evening's shades advancing near 
He marked with livelier hopes, yet dashed by fear. 
Another — and another — hopes prevail ; 
Thousands of years repeat tlie wondrous tale : 
Yet where is man's assurance that the light 
Of day will break upon the coming night ? 

Without all sense of God, eternity, 
Absolute truth, volition, liberty, 
Good, fair, just, infinite — think, if yon can, 
Of such a being in the form of man ! 
Wliat but the animal remains ? — endowed 
(May be) with memory's instinctive crowd 
Of images — but man is wanting there, 
His very essence, unimpressive air; 
And, in his stead, a creature subtler far 
Than all the beasts that iu the forest are. 
Or the green field, — but also cursed above 
Tliem all — condemned that bitterest curse to prove : 
" Upon thy belly creep, and, for thy fee. 
Eat dust, so long as thou hast leave to be." 



FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 

In wanton sport my Doris from her fair 
And glossy tresses tore a straggling hair. 
And bouiul my hands, as if of conquest vain. 
And I some royal captive in her chain. 
At first i laughed : " This fetter, charming maid. 
Is lightly worn, and soon dissolved," I said : 
I said— but ah ! I had not learned to prove 
How strong the fetters that are forged by Love. 
That little thread of gold I strove to sever. 
Was bound, lilie steel, aroutid ray heart forever; 
And, from that h.apless hour, my tyrant fair 
Has led and turned me by a single hair. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



345 



Cljomas illoorc. 



Moore (1779-18.V3) was the son of the keeper of a small 
wine-stoie in Dublin. He was a quick child, and rhymed 
and recited early. A careful mother secured him the 
best education she could get. By 1800 he had graduated 
at Trinity College, Dublin, and acquired much social re- 
pute as a singer to his own accompaniment at the piano. 
He translated "Anacreon," and wrote amorous poems, 
which he would have liked to annihilate in after-years. 
In 1803 he went to Bermuda, where he had got an offi- 
cial situation, the duties of which raitdit be performed 
by proxy ; but his deputy proved unfaithful, and Moore 
incurred annoyance and pecuniary loss therefrom. Hav- 
ing made a short tour in the United States, and visited 
Washington, Phil.idelphia, New York, and Boston, he re- 
turned to England, became a diner-out much in request 
at Holland House, wrote lively Whig satires, and, after 
marrying a Miss Dyke, with whom he lived happily, be- 
gan writing his "Irish Melodies," for which he was to 
receive £.500 a year for seven years. He wrote "Lalla 
Rookh," an Oriental tale in verse, for which he got 
£3000. Among his prose works are a "Life of Sheri- 
dan," "Life of Byron," and " The Epicurean." In 1831 
a pension of £300 a year was settled upon Moore. 

The latter years of the poet's life were embittered by 
domestic bereavements. Two of his children died. He 
sank into mental imbecility, and died at Sloperton Cot- 
tage, near Devizes, in his seventy-third year. Moore was 
kind-hearted aud emotional; he loved his mother, his 
wife, and Ireland, and had many attached friends ; but 
"dining-out did not deepen his character." Byron said 
of him, "he dearly loved a lord." Moore was at his best 
in his "Irish Melodies." They seem to be inseparable 
from the music to which he skilfully wedded them, and 
many have the elements of an enduring reputation. But 
it would be better for Moore's chance of future fame if 
two-thirds of what he wrote could be expunged. 

While in Philadelphia, Moore made the acquaintance 
of Joseph Dennie (1768-1812), an elegant scholar and 
genial companion, and editor of the first good American 
magazine, Tlie Portfolio. Dennie was a native of Boston, 
Mass., and a graduate of Harvard, hut passed the latter 
years of his life in Philadelphia. Here Moore was one 
of his guests, wrote songs for The TbrtfuUo, and joined in 
the nightly gayeties. In one of his poems are these 
lines, referring to the friends he met at Dennie's : 

" Yet, yet forgive me, O ye sacred few I 
Wliora late by Delaw.^re's green banks I knew ; 
Whom, known and loved throngh many a social eve, 
'Twas bliss to live with, and 'twas pain to leave. 
Not with more joy the lonely exile scanned 
The writing traced upon the desert's s.inrl. 
Where his lone heart but little hoped to find 
One trace of life, one stamp of humankind, 
Than did I hail the pnre, the enlightened zeal, 
The strength to reason and the warmth to feel. 
The manly polish and the illnrained taste. 
Which — 'mid the melancholy, heartless waste 
My foot has traversed — O you sacred few ! 
I found by Delaware's green banks with yon." 
Joseph Dennie died in 1813, at the early age of forty- 
four years. The Ihrifolio did not long survive him. 



THE MEETING OF THE ^VATERS.' 

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet 
As that vale iu -whose bosom the bright waters 

meet f 
Oh ! the last ray of feeling aud life must depart, 
Ere the bloom of that valley sball fade from my 

heart. 

Yet it jca.s not tliat nature had shed o'er the scene 
Her purest of crystal and brightest of greeu ; 
'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill— 
Oh no! — it was something more exquisite still. 

'Twas that friends the beloved of my bosom were 

near, 
Wlio made every dear scene of enchantment morc 

dear, 
And who felt how the best cliarms of nature improve, 
Wlien we see them reflected from looks that we love. 

Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest 

In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best. 

Where the storms tliat we feel in this cold world 

should cease, 
Aud our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. 



BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEAEIXG 
YOUNG CHARMS. 

Believe me, if all those endearing youug charms 

^Vhich I gaze on so foudly to-day 
Were to chaugo by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms. 

Like fairy-gifts fading away, 
Thou wonldst still be adored, as this momeut thou 
art, 

Let tliy loveliness fade as it will ; 
And around the dear ruiu each wish of my heart 

Would entwine itself verdantly still. 

It is not while beauty aud youth are thine own. 

And thy cheelis unprofaued by a tear, 
That the fervor aud faith of a soul can be known 

To which time will but make thee more dear ; 
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgers, 

But as truly loves on to the close, 
As the sunflower turns ou his god when he sets 

The same look which she turued when he rose. 

> "The Meeting of the W.tters" forms a part of that beauti- 
ful scenery which lies between Rathdrnm and Arklow, in the 
connty of Wicklow, and these lines were suggested by a visit 
to this romantic spot, in the summer of 1S07. 

2 The rivers of Avon aud Avoca. 



346 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISn AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE. 

TIio turf sball bo my fragrant sliriue ; 
My teuiiile, Lord! that arch of thine; 
My censer's breath the mountain airs, 
Ami silent thoughts my only prayers. 

My choir shall bo the moonlight waves, 
When murmuring homeward to their caves, 
Or when the stillness of the sea, 
Even more than music, breathes of Thee ! 

I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown. 
All light and silence, like thy throne ! 
Aud the palo stars shall be, at night, 
The only eyes that watch my rite. 

Thy heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look, 
Shall be my pure and shining book. 
Where I shall read, in words of flame. 
The glories of thy wondrous name. 

I'll read thy auger in the rack 

That clouds awhile the day-beam's track ; 

Thy mercy in the azure hue 

Of sunny brightness breaking through ! 

There's nothing bright above, below, 
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow. 
But in its light my soul can see 
Some feature of thy Deity! 

There's nothing dark below, above, 
But in its gloom I trace thy love, 
And meekly wait that moment when 
Thy touch .shall turn all bright again I 



Oil! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME.' 

Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the .shade. 
Where cold and unhonored Lis relics aro laid : 
Sad, silent, and dark bo the tears that we shed, 
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head! 

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it 

\veei)S, 
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he 

slei'[)3 ; 
And the tear that we .shed, though in secret it rolls. 
Shall long keep his memory green in our souks. 

' 111 i-creroncn to the eloquent yomig Robert Kmniet, executed 
iu Dublin, in 1S03, for high-trenson. 



THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S 
HALLS. 

The harp that once through T.ara'8 halls 

Tho soul of music shed. 
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls 

As if that soul were fled. 
So sleeps the pride of former days. 

So glory's thrill is o'er. 
And hearts that once beat high for praise 

Now feel that imlse no more. 

No more to chiefs and ladies bright 

Tho harp of Tara swells : 
The chord alone, that breaks at night, 

Its tale of ruin tells. 
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes. 

The only throb she gives 
Is when some heart indignant breaks. 

To show that still she lives. 



OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT. 

Oft, iu the stilly night. 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me : 
The smiles, the tears. 
Of boyhood's years. 
The words of love then spoken ; 
The eyes that sbone, 
Now dimmed aud gone, 
The cheerful hearts now broken ! 
Tims iu the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Slemory brings the light 
Of other days arouud me. 

When I remember all 

Tlio friends, so linked together, 
I've seen arouud me fall. 

Like leaves iu wintry weather, 
I feel like ouo 
Who treads alouo 
Some banquet-hall deserted, 
Whose lights are fled. 
Whose garlands dead, 
And all but ho departed ! 
Thus in tho stilly night, 

Ero Slumber's chain bas bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days aiouud me. 



THOMAS MOORK. 



347 



THOSE EVENING BELLS. 

Those eveuiug Ijells ! those cvcuiiig bells! 
How mauy a tale their music tells, 
Of jouth, ancl home, and that sweet time 
Wheu last I heard their soothiug chime. 

Those joyous hours are passed away ; 
And many a heart that theu was gay 
Withiu the tomb now darkly dwells. 
And hears uo moi'o those evening bells. 

And so 'twill be when I am gone ; 
That tuneful peal will still ring on, 
While other bards shall walk these dells. 
And slug your prai.se, sweet evening bells! 



FAREWELL !— BUT, WHENEVER YOU WEL- 
COME THE HOUR. 

Farewell ! — but, whenever you welcome the hour 
That awakens the night -song of mirth in your 

Ijowcr, 
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too. 
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. 
His griefs may return — not a hope may remain 
Of the few that have brightened his pathway of 

pain — 
But ho ne'er will forget the short vision that threw 
Its enchantment arouud him, while lingering with 

you! 

And still on that eveuiug, when pleasure fills up 
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, 
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, 
My soul, happy friends! shall be with you that night. 
Shall joiu in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, 
And return to me beaming all o'er with your 

smiles ! — 
Too blessed if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer, 
Some kind voice had muru\ured, "I wish he were 

here !" 

Let Fate do her worst, there arc relics of joy. 
Bright dreams of the past, which she caunot destroy ; 
Which come, iu the night-time of sorrow and care, 
An<l bring back the features that joy used to wi r. 
Long, long be my heart with such mcuiories filled! 
Like the vase iu which roses have oiice bceu dis- 
tilled— 
You may break, you may ruin the vase, if yon will. 
But the scent of the roses will hangroand it still. 



OH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD 
OF OURS. 

Oh, could we do with this world of ours 
As thou dost with thy garden bowers. 
Reject the weeds, aud keep the flowers. 

What a heaven on earth we'd make it! 
So bright a dwelling should be our p-rt'u, 
So warranted free from sigh or frown. 
That angels soon would bo coming dowu. 

By the week or month to take it. 

Like those gay flies that wing through air, 
Aud iu themselves a lustre bear, 
A stock of light still ready there 

Whenever they Avisli to nse it — 
So, in this world I'd make for thee. 
Our hearts should all like fire-flies be. 
And the flash of wit or poesy 

Break forth wheucver we choose it. 

While every joy that glads our sphere 
Hath still some shadow hovering near. 
In this new world of ours, my dear, 

Such shadows will- all be omitted: — 
Unless they're like that graceful one 
Which, when thou'rt dancing in the sun, 
Still near thee, leaves a charm upon 

Each spot where it hath flitted! 



REMEMBER THEE. 

Remember thee ? Yes ; while there's life in this 

heart 
It shall never forget thee, all loru as thou art ; 
More dear iu thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy 

showers, 
Than the rest of the world iu their sunniest hours. 

Wert thou all that I wish thee — great, glorious, 

and free, 
First flower of the earth, aud first gem of the sea — 
I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow ; 
But oh, could I love thee more deeidy than now? 

No; thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it 

runs, 
But make thee more painfully dear to thy sous. 
Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's 

nest. 
Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy 

breast. 



.Ai 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THOU ART, O GOD. 

Thou art, O God, tbe life and light 
Of all this woudrous world wc see ; 

Its glow by day, its siuile by uiglit 
Are but reflections caught from thee. 

Where'er we turu thy glories shine. 

And all things fair and bright are thine. 

When Day, with farewell beam, delays 
Among the opening clouds of Even, 

And we can almost think we gaze 
Through golden vistas into licaveu — 

Those hues that make the sun's decline 

So soft, so radiant. Lord, are thine. 

When Night, with wings of starry gloom, 
O'ershadows all the earth and skies. 

Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume 
la sparkling with unnumbered eyes — 

That sacred gloom, those fires divine, 

.So grand, so countless, Lord, are thine. 

When youthful Spring around us brcathe.s, 
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh ; 

And every flower the Summer wreathes 
Is born beneath that kindling eye. 

Where'er we turn thj- glories shine. 

And all things fair and bright are thine. 



And from Love's shining circle 
The gems drop away. 

Wlieu true hearts lie withered, 
And fond ones are flown. 

Oh ! who would inhabit 
This bleak world alone ? 



THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 

'Tis the last rose of summer 

Left blooming alone ; 
All her lovely companions 

Are faded and gone ; 
No flower of her kindred 

No rose-bud is nigh, 
To reflect back her blushes 

Or give sigh for sigh. 

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one. 

To pine on the stem ; 
Since the lovely are sleeping, 

Go, sleep thou with them. 
Thus kindly I scatter 

Thy leaves o'er the bed 
Where thj- mates of the garden 

Lie scentless and dead. 

So soou may / follow, 
When friendships decay. 



THE MODERN PUFFING SYSTEM. 
From an Epistle to Sasicel Rogers, Esq. 

Unlike those feeble gales of praise 

Which critics blew iu former days. 

Our modern puifs are of a kind 

That truly, really " raise the wind ;" 

And since they've fairly set iu blowing, 

Wo find them the best "trade-winds" goinrj. 

What steam is on the deep — and more — 
Is the vast power of Puff on shore. 
Which jumps to glory's future tenses 
Before the present even commences. 
And makes "immortal" and "divine" of us 
Before the world has read one line of us. 

In old times, when the god of song 
Drove his own two-horse team along, 
Carrying inside a bard or two 
Booked for posterity "all through," 
Their luggage a few close-packed rhymes 
(Like yours, my friend, for after-times), 
So slow the ijull to Fame's abode 
That folks oft slumbered on the road ; 
And Homer's self sometimes, they say. 
Took to his nightcap on the way. 

But now how difterent is the story 
With our now galloping sous of glory. 
Who, scorning all such slack and slow time, 
Dash to posterity iu no time ! 
Raise but one general blast of puft" 
To start your author — that's enough I 

In vain the critics set to watch him 
Try at the starting-post to catch him : 
He's off — the puffers carry it hollow — 
The critics, if they please, may follow ; 
Ere they've laid down their first positions, 
He's fairly blown through six editions! 

In -"aiu doth Edinburgh dispense 
Her bliic-aud-yoUow pestilence 
(That plague so awful iu my time 
To youug and touchy sons of rhyme) ; 
The Qiuiiierly, at three months' date. 
To catch the Unread One comes too late; 
And 'louscuse, littered in a hurry, 
Becjuips •■ irniu.i r il," spite of Murray. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



341- 



I SAW FROM THE BEACH. 

I saw from tlie beacb, when the morning ■was sliiuhig, 
A bark o'er tbe waters move gloriously ou ; 

I came whou tbe sun o'er tbat beacb was declining — • 
Tbe bark was still there, but the waters were gone. 

Aucl such is the fate of onr life's early promise, 
So pa.ssiug tbe spring-tide of joj' we have known ; 

Each wave that we ilauced on at morning ebbs 
from n.s, 
Anil leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone. 

Xe'er tell mo of glories serenely adorning 

The close of our day, tbe calm eve of our night; 
Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of 
Morning ! 
Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's 
best light. 

Oil, who would not welcome that moment's returning, 

When passion first waked a new life through his 

frame, 

And bis sonl, like the wood that grows precious in 

burning, 

Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame ? 



LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 

Ob! the days are gone when Beauty bright 

My heart's chain wove ! 
Wbeu my dream of life, from morn till night. 

Was love, still love ! 

Kew hope may bloom, 

And d.ays may come 
Of milder, calmer beam, 
But there's nothing lialf so sweet in life 

As Love's young dream ! 
Oh ! there's nothing half so sweet in life 

As Love's young dream ! 

Though the bard to purer fame may soar. 

When wild youth's past ; 
Though be win tbe wise, who frowned before. 

To smile at last ; 

He'll never meet 

A joy so sweet. 
In all his noon of fame. 
As when first be sang to woman's ear 

His soul-felt flame, 
And, at every close, she blushed to hear 

The one loved name ! 



Oh ! that hallowed form is ne'er forgot 

Which first love traced ; 
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 

On memory's waste ! 

'Twas odor fled 

As soon as shed ; 
'Twas morning's wiugdd dream ; 
'Twas a light that ne'er can shine ag^ih 

On life's dull stream ! 
Oh ! 'twas light tbat ne'er can shine again 

On life's dull stream. 



OH, THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S 
TEAR. 

Oh, Thou who dry'st tbe mourner's tear, 

How dark this world would be. 
If, when deceived and wounded here. 

We could not fly to Thee! 
The friends who in our sunshine live, 

Wlieu Winter comes, are flown ; 
And be who has but tears to give, 

Must weep those tears alone. 
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart, 

Which, like tbe plants that throw 
Their fragrance from tlie wounded part, 

Breathes sweetness out of woe. 

When joy no longer .soothes or cheers. 

And e'en the hope that threw 
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears 

Is dimmed, and vanished, too, 
Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom. 

Did not Thy wing of love 
Come, brightly wafting through tbe gloom 

Our peace-branch from above ? 
Then sorrow touched by Thee grows bright 

With more than rapture's ray ; 
As darkness shows us worlds of light 

We never saw by day. 



COME, YE DISCONSOLATE. 

Come, ye disconsolate, where'er yon Languish ; 

Come, at God's altar fervently kneel ; 
Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your 
anguish — 

Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal. 

Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying, 
Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure, 



■JoO 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAX POETRY. 



Here speaks tlie Comforter, in God's name saying, 
"Eartli has uo sorrow tliat Heaven cannot cure." 

Go, ask tlie infiilel wliat boon lie brings ns, 
What ebarm for acLing hearts he can reveal 

Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings ns, 
"Earth has no sorrow that God cannot heal." 



TO GREECE WE GIVE OUR SHINING BLADES. 

The skj' is bright — the breeze is fair. 

And the main-sail flowing, full and free — 

Our farewell word is woman's prayer. 
And the hope before ns — Liberty '- 

Farewell, farewell. 
To Greece we give our shining blades, 
And onr hearts to you, j'oung Zean Maids ! 

The moon is in the heavens above, 

And the wind is on the foaming sea — 

Thus shines the star of woman's love 
On the glorious strife of Liberty ! 

Farewell, farewell. 
To Greece we give our shining blades. 
And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids ! 



lHasljington vlllstou. 

AMERICAN. 

AUston (17Tt>-lS43) was bom in Charleston, S. C, w.-is 
educated at a private school in Newport, R. I., and grad- 
uated at Harvard in ISOO. His first wife was a sister 
of Glianning. In 1830 lie was married to a sister of the 
poet Dana, and resided in Cambridgcport, Mass., the 
rest of his life. While in Europe be formed the intimate 
fi'iendship of Coleridge. Studying art in London and 
Rome, lie attained to the highest eminence as a paint- 
er. He published " The Sylph of the Seasons, and other 
Poems," also " Moualdi," a prose romance. Honored 
and beloved, he passed a blameless and noble life. 



Itself the while so bright ! For oft we seemed 

As on some starless sea — all dark above, 

All dark below — yet, onward as wo drove. 

To plough up light that ever round us streamed. 

But he who mourns is not as one bereft 

Of all he loved: thy living Truths are left. 



SONNET ON COLERIDGE. 

And thou art gone, most loved, mo.st honored friend ! 
No, nevermore thy gentle voice shall blend 
AVith air of earth its pure ideal tones. 
Binding in one, as with harmonious zones, 
The heart and intellect. And 1 no more 
Shall witli thee gaze on that nnfathomed deep. 
The Human Soul ; as wlien, pushed off the shore. 
Thy mystic bark would tlirougli the darkness sweep. 



AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. 

All hail! thou noble land, 
Our fathers' native soil! 
Oh, stretch thy mighty hand. 
Gigantic grown by toil. 
O'er the vast Atlantic waves to onr shore ; 
For thon, with magic might, 
Canst reach to where the light 
Of Phtebus travels bright 
The world o'er. 

The Genius of our clime. 

From his pine-embattled steep. 
Shall hail the great sublime ; 
While the Tritons of the deep 
With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim. 
Then lot the world combine — 
O'er the main our naval line, 
Like the Milky Way, shall shine 
Bright in fame ! 

Tliough ages long have passed 

Since our fathers left their home. 
Their pilot in the blast 

O'er uutravelled seas to roam, — 
Yet lives the blood of England in our veins I 
And shall we not iiroclaim 
That blood of honest fame. 
Which no tyranny can tame 
By its chains? 

While the language, free and bold, 

Which the bard of Avon sang, 
In which our Milton told 

How the vault of heaven rang 
When Satan, blasted, fell with his host ; 
While this, with reverence meet. 
Ten thousand echoes greet. 
From rock to rock repeat 
Round our coast ; 

While the manners, while the arts 
That mould a nation's soul 



CLEMENT C. MOORE.— CALEB C. COLTOX. 



Still cling arounil our hearts, — 
lietweeu let Ocean roll, 
Our joint commuuiou breakiug with the Suit : 
Yet still, from either beach. 
The voice of blood shall reach, 
More audible thau speech, 
" Wo are Oue !'' 



(Ulcmcnt (H. illoore. 

AMERICAN. 

The son of a bishop, Moore (1TT9-18C3) was a native 
of the city of New York, and a graduate of Columbia 
College in 1795. He publislied a vohuue of poems, dedi- 
cated to his cliildren, in lSi4. "I h:iTe composed them 
all," he writes, "as carefully and correctly as I could." 
or these productions one at least, founded on an old 
Dutch tradition, seems to have in it the elements of 
vitality. Moore bore the title of LL.D. 



A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 

'Twas the night before Christmas, -niicn all through 

the house 
Xnt a creature was stirring, not even a nu)usc ; 
Tiie stockings were Lung by the chimney with care, 
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. 
Tlic chihlrcn were nestled all snug in their beds, 
AVIiile visions of sugar-plums danced through their 

heads ; 
And niainnia in hor kerchief, and I in my cap. 
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, 
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, 
I sprang from the bed to seo what was the matter. 

Away to the window I flew like a fla.sb. 
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. 
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow 
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below ; 
W^hcu, what to my wondering eyes should appear. 
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, 
With a little old driver, so lively and quick, 
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, 
And ho whistled, and shouted, and called them by 

name : 
"Now, Dasher! now. Dancer! now, Prancer ! and 

Vixen ! 
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen ! 
To the top of the porch ! to the top of the wall ! 
Now dash away! da.sh away! dash away all!" 

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly. 
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky. 



So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, 
With the sleighful of toys, and St. Nicholas too. 
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the ri)(if 
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof 

As I drew in my head, and was turning around, 
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. 
He was dressed all iu fur, from his head to his foot. 
And his clothes were all tarnished with ushes and 

soot ; 
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back. 
And he looked like a peddler just opening bis liack. 
His eyes, how they twinkled ! his dimples, how- 
merry ! 
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! 
His droll little mouth was drawn np like a bow. 
And the beard of bis chin was as white as the 

snow ; 
The stump of a pipe be held tight in his teeth. 
And the smoke it encircled his head like a, wreath. 
Ho bad a broad face, and a little round belly 
That shook, when be laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. 
He was chubby and plump — a right jolly old elf — 
And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of myself; 
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head. 
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread ; 
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, 
And filled all the stockings ; then turned with a jerk. 
And laying his finger aside of his nose, 
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 
Ho sprang to his sleigh, to the team gave a whi.stle, 
And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle. 
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, 
"Happy Christmas to all, aud to all a good-night!'' 



Caleb €. (Jloltou. 

Colton (1779-1833) was, like Churchill, one of the 
mauvaU snjets of lito'ature and the Cliurch. A native 
of England, he was educated at Cambridge, took orders, 
and became vicar of Kew and Petersham. Gambling, 
extravagance, and eccentric habits forced liim to leave 
England, and he resided some time in the United States 
aud in Paris. At one period in France he was so suc- 
cessful as a gambler that he realized £35,000. He was 
the author of " Lacon ; or, Many Things in Few Words " 
(1830) — an excellent collection of apothegms and moral 
reflections, which had a great sale. He corresponded for 
the London Murning Chmnkle under the once filmed sig- 
nature of O. P. Q. Notwithstanding his dissolute life, lie 
was the Ciirnest advocate of virtue. He committed sui- 
cide at Fontainebleau — it was said, to escape the p;iia 
of a surgical operation from which no danger could be 
apprehended. In his "Lacon" we find these words: 
"The gamester, if he die a martyr to his profession, is 
doubly ruiucd. He adds his soul to every other loss, 



352 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISB AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



and by the act of suicide renounces earth to forfeit 
heaven." Colton published several poems, of which we 
fjive the best. His " Modern Antiquity, and other Lyri- 
cal Pieces," api^eared after his death. 



LIFE. 



Hdvr long sliall man's imprisoued spirit groan 
'Twixt doubt of lieaveu and deep di.sgnst of earth? 

Where all worth knowing never can be known, 
And all that can be known, alas ! is nothing worth. 

Untaugbt by saint, by cynic, or by sage, 

And all the spoils of time that load their shelves, 

Wc do not quit, but change our joys in age — 
Joys framed to stifle thought, and lead us from 
ourselves. 

The drug, the cord, the steel, the flood, the flame. 

Turmoil of action, tedium of rest, 
And hist of change, though for the worst, iiroclaim 

How dull life's banquet is — how ill at ease the 
guest. 

Known were the bill of fare before we taste. 
Who would not spurn the banquet and the board — 

Prefer the eternal but oblivious fast 

To life's frail-fretted thread, and death's sus- 
pended sword ? 

He that the topmost stone of Babel planned. 
And ho that braved the crater's boiling bed — 

Did these a clearer, clo.ser view command 

Of heaven or hell, we ask, than the blind herd 

they led? 

Or he that in Yaldarno did prolong 

The night her rich star-studded page to read — 
Could he jioiut out, 'mid all that brilliant throng, 

His fixed and final home, from fleshy thraldom 
freed ? 

Minds that have scanned creation'.s vast domain. 
And secrets solved, till then to sages sealed, 

While nature owned their intellectual reign 

Extinct, have nothing known or uothing have 
revealed. 

Devouring grave ! we might the less deplore 
The extinguished lights that in thy darkness dwell, 

Wouldst thou, from that last zodiac, one restore. 
That might the enigma solve, aud doubt, man's 
tyrant, quell. 



To live in darkness — iu despair to die — 
Is this, indeed, the boon to mortals given ? 

Is there no port — no rock of refuge nigh ? 

There is — to those who fix their auchor-hope iu 
heaven. 

Turn then, O man ! and cast all else aside ; 

Direct thy wandering thoughts to things above ; 
Low at the cross bow down — in Ihat conlidc. 

Till doubt be lost in faith, and bliss secured iu love. 



Cjoi'tict Smitl). 



Horace Smith (1779-1849), a native of London, and 
son of an eminent lawyer, was a more voluminous writ- 
er than Ids brother James. He was tlie author of 
"Brambletye House," and some dozen other novels — 
no one of marked merit. As a poet, he was more suc- 
cessful. His "Address to tlie Mummy," "Hymn to the 
Flowers," and some smaller poems, h.ave attained a mer- 
ited celebrity. Shelley once said of Horace Smith: "Is 
it not odd that the only truly generous person I ever 
knew, who had money to be generous with, should be a 
stock -broker?" Shelley also wrote these hues, more 
truthful than poetical, iu his praise : 

"Wit and seuse, 
Virtue and hnniaii knnwledije — all that DiigUt 
Make this dull wuiid ii business of delight — 
Are all combined in II. S." 

Horace Smith died at the age of seventy, widely re- 
spected and beloved. A collection of his poems was 
publislied in London in 1840, and republished in New 
York, 185'J. See the account of James Smith. 



ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI'S 
EXHIIUTION. 

And thou hast walked about (how strange a story !) 
Iu Thebcs's streets three thousand years ago, 

When the Memnonium was in all its glory, 
And time had not begun to overthrow 

Those temples, palaces, aud piles stupendous. 

Of which the very ruins are tremendous ! 

Spe.ak ! for thou long enough hast acted dummy: 
Thou hast a tongue — come, let us hear its tune ; 

Thou'rt standing on thy legs .above-ground, mummy. 
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon! 

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, 

But with thy boues and flesh, and limbs aud features. 

Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recollect — 
To whom wo should assign the Sphinx's fame. 

Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 

Of cither pyramid that bears his uaiue ? 



BOB ACE SMITH. 



35:i 



Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer? 

Hail Tliebes a liundrecl gates, as suug by Homer? 

Perliaps tliou wert a mason, and forbidden 
By oath to tell tbc secrets of thy trade — 

Tlieu say, what secret melody was bidden 

In Memnon's statue, wbicb at sunrise jdaycd ? 

Perbaps tbou wert a priest ; if so, my struggles 

Are vail), for priestcraft never owns its juggles. 

Perebance tbat very band, now pinioned tlat, 
Has bob-a-nobbed with Pbaraob, glass to glass. 

Or dropped a balf-penny in Homer's bat. 

Or doti'ed tbino own to let Queen Dido jiass. 

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 

A torch at the great Temple's dedication. 

I need not ask tboe if that band, when armed, 
Has any Roman soldier mauled and knncklcd ; 

For tbou wert dead and buried and embalmed 
Ere Eomuliis and Eemus bad been suckled : 

Anticpiity appears to have begun 

Long after tby primeval race was run. 

Tbou couldst develop, if tbat witberod tongue 
Jligbt tell ns what those sightless orbs have seen, 

How the world looked when it was fresh and young, 
And the great deluge still had left it green ; 

Or was it then so old that history's pages 

Contained no record of its early ages? 

Still silent, incommunicative elf! 

Art sworn to secrecy ? then keeii tby vows ; 
But prithee tell us something of thyself — 

Reveal the secrets of tby prison-house : 
Since in the world of spirits tbou bast slumbered, 
AVhat hast tbou seen — what strange adventures 
numbered ? 

Since first thy form was in this box extended, 
AVe have, above-ground, seen some strange mu- 
tations : 

The Roman Empire has begun and ended, 

New worlds have risen, we have lost old uations, 

And countless kings have into dnst been humbled, 

While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. 

Didst tbou not hear tbc pother o'er thy bead 
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, 

Maicbed armies o'er tby tomb with thundering tread, 
O'ertbrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, 

And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder 

When the gigantic Memuou fell asunder ? 
23 



If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, 
The nature of thy private life unfold: 

A heart has throbbed beueatb tbat leathern breast, 
And tears adowu that dusky cheek have rolled ; 

Have children climbed those knees and kissed that 
face? 

What was tby name and station, age and rate? 

Statue of Uesh ! innnortal of the dead ! 

Imperishable type of evauesceuce ! 
Posthumous man, who qnit'st thy narrow bed. 

And staudest undecayed within our presence ! 
Tbou wilt hear nothing till tbc judgment morning, 
When the great trump shall thrill thee with its 
warning. 

Why should tliis worthless tegument endure, 
If its undying guest be lost forever ? 

Ob, let us keep tbo soul embalmed and pure 
In living virtue, that, when both must sever, 

Although corruption may our frame consume, 

Tlio immortal spirit in the skies may bloom. 



MORAL COSMETICS. 

Ye who would save your features florid, 
Lithe limbs, bright eyes, unwrinkled forehead, 
From Age's devastation horrid. 

Adopt this plan, — 
'Twill make, in climate cold or torrid, 

A bale old man : — 

Avoid in youth, luxurious diet; 
Restrain the passions' lawless riot; 
Devoted to domestic quiet, 

Be wisely gay ; 
So shall ye, spite of Age's fiat. 

Resist decay. 

Seek not in Mammon's worship pleasure ; 
But find your richest, dearest treasure 
In books, friends, music, polished leisure : 

The mind, not sense. 
Make the sole scale by which to measure 

Your opulence. 

This is the solace, this the science — 
Life's purest, sweetest, best appliance — 
Tbat disappoints uot man's reliance, 

Whate'er his state ; 
But challenges, with calm defiance, 

Time, fortune, fate. 



354 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



SONNET. 

Eternal and Omnipotent Unseen ! 

Who bacVst the world, -nitb all its lives complete, 

Start from tbe void and thrill beneath thy feet, 

Tbee I adore vith reverence serene : 

Here in the fields, thine own cathedral meet, 

Bnilt by thyself, star-roofed, and bung with green, 

Wherein all breathing things, in concord sweet, 

Organed by winds, perpetual hymns repeat — 

Here hast thou spread that Book to every eye, 

Whose tongue and truth all, all may read aud 

prove, 
On -whose three blessM leaves, Earth, Ocean, Sky, 
Thine own right band hath stamped might, justice, 

love : 
Grand Trinity, which binds in due degree 
God, man, and brute in social unity. 



THE FIRST OF MARCH. 

The bnd is in the bough, and the leaf is in the bud, 
Aud Earth's beginning now in her veins to feel the 

blood 
Which, wanned by summer suns iu tbe alembic of 

the vine. 
From her founts will overrun in a ruddy gush of 

wine. 

Tbe perfume aud the bloom that shall decorate the 

flower 
Are quickening iu the gloom of their subterranean 

bower ; 
And the juices meant to feed trees, vegetables, fruits. 
Unerringly proceed to their prcajipointed roots. 

The Summer's iu her ark, and this snuny-pinioued 

day 
Is commissioned to remark whether Winter holds 

his sway : 
Go back, thou dove of peace, with the myrtle on 

thy wing; 
Say that floods and tempests cease, aud the world 

is ripe for spring. 

Thou hast fanned tbe sleeping Earth till her dreams 
are all of flowers. 

And the waters look in mirth for their overhang- 
ing bowers ; 

The forest seems to listen for the rustle of its leaves, 

Aud the very skies to glisten in the hope of sum- 
mer eves. 



The vivifying spell has been felt beneath the 

wave, 
By the dormouse iu its cell, aud the mole within 

its cave : 
And the summer tribes that creep, or in air expand 

their wing 
Have started from their sleep at the summons of 

the spring. 

The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and 
the hills. 

And the feathered race rejoices with a gush of tune- 
ful bills ; 

And if this cloudless arch fill the poet's song with 
glee. 

Oh thou sunny First of March, be it dedicate to 
thee! 



HYAIN TO THE FLOWERS. 

Day-st,ars! that ope your eyes with man, to 
twinkle. 
From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation. 
And dew-drops on her louely altars sprinkle 
As a libation — 

Ye matin worshippers ! who, bending lowly, 
Before the uprisen sun, God's lidlcss eye, 
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 
luceuse on high ! 

Ye bright mosaics! that with storied beauty 

The floor of Nature's temple tesselate, — 
What numerous emblems of instructive duty 
Your forms create ! 

'Neatb clustered boughs, each floral bell that 
swiugeth, 
And tolls its perfume on the passing air. 
Makes Sabbath in tbe fields, and ever riugeth 
A call for prayer! 

Not to the domes where crumbling arch aud column 

Attest the feebleness of mortal hand ; 
But to that fane, most catholic aud solemn. 
Which God hath planued ; 

To that cathedral, boundless as our wouder, 

Whose quenchless lamps the sun aud nioou 
supply- 
Its choir the winds aud waves, its organ thunder. 
Its dome the sky! 



HORACE SMITH.— PAUL MOOX JAMES.— WILLIAM DIMOXD. 



355 



TluTe, as in solitiulo and sUade I -wander 

ThrongU the green aisles, or stretcbed upoa tbe sod, 
Awed by tbe silence, reverently ponder 
Tbo T\ays of God — 

Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living preacbers, 

Eacb cup a pulpit, and eacb leaf a book, 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teacbers 
From loneliest nook. 

Floral apostles ! tbat in dewy splendor 

"Weep witbout woe, and blusb witbout a crime," 
Ob, may I deeply Icaru and ne'er surrender 
Your lore sublime! 

" Tbou -wert not, Solomon, in all tby glory. 

Arrayed," tbe lilies cry, " in robes like ours : 
How vain your grandeur ! ab, bow transitory 
Are bumau flowers '." 

In tbe sweet-scented pictures, Heavenly Artist ! 
Witb wbicb tbou paiutest Nature's wide-spread 
ball, 
Wbat a deligbtful lesson tbou impartest 
Of love to all ! 

Not useless are ye, flowers, tbougli made for pleasure, 
Blooming o'er field and wave, bj' day and nigbt ; 
From every source your sanction bids me treasure 
Harmless delight! 

Epbemeral sages ! wbat instructors boary 

For sucb a world of tbougbt could fiiruisb scope? 
Eacb fading calyx a memento muri, 
Yet fount of bope ! 

Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection ! 

Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, 
Y'e are to me a type of resurrection 
And second birth. 

Were I, O God ! in cburchless lands remaining, 

Far from all voice of teachers and divines, 

My soul would find, in flowers of tby ordaining, 

Priests, sermons, shrines ! 



|]aul Bloon lamc0. 

James (1780-1854), who owes his fame to one brief 
lyric, which has been often claimed for Moore, was for 
many ycai's a banker in Birmingham, England. "Tlinugh 
quite a man of business," writes his niece. Miss Lloyd 



(1878), " my uncle never allowed it to interfere with his 
domestic engagements. In the early morning his gar- 
den, conservatory, and pet birds, and in tlie evening read- 
ing and drawing, were among the pleasant resources of 
liis leisure lionrs." His earliest poems were published 
in 17aS; "The Beacon" in 1810. 



THE BEACON. 

The scene was more beautiful, far, to tbe eye. 

Than if day in its pride had arrayed it: 
The l.and-breeze blew mild, and the azure-arched sky 

Looked iiure as the spirit tbat made it. 
Tbe murmur rose soft, as I silently gazed 

On the shadowy waves' playful motion, 
From tbe dim, distant isle, till the light-house fire 
blazed 

Like a star iu tbe midst of the ocean. 

No longer tbe joy of the sailor-boy's breast 

Was heard in his wildly-breathed numbers ; 
The sea-bird h.ad flowu to her wave-girdled uest, 

Tbe fisherman sunk to his slumbers. 
One moment I looked from the bill's gentle slope, 

All bushed was the billows' commotion ; 
And o'er them tbe light-house looked lovely as 
bope, — 

Tbat star of life's tremulous ocean. 

Tbe time is long past, and tbe scene is afar. 

Yet, when my head rests on its pillow, 
Will memory sometimes rekindle the star 

That; blazed on tbe breast of the billow : 
In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies. 

And death stills the heart's last emotion, 
Oh, then may the seraph of Mercy arise, 

Like a star on eternitv's ocean ! 



iHilliam Dimcnlr. 



Dimond was born about tlie year 1780, at Bath, Eng- 
land, where his father was a patentee of the Tlieatre 
Koyal. William had a good education, and was entered 
a student of the Inner Temple, with a view to tlie Bar. 
He wrote dramas, of which "Tbe Foundling of the For- 
est" (1809) seems to have been the last. He published, 
besides, a volume entitled "Petrarchal Sonnets." His 
poem of "The Mariner's Dream" is tlie only one of his 
productions that seems to be held in remembrance. He 
was living in 1812, but is believed to have died soon after. 
Among his pieces for tlie stage are "A Sea-side Story," 
an operatic drama (1801) ; "The Hero of the North," an 
historical play (180.3) ; "The Hunter of the Alps " (1804) ; 
"Touth, Love, and Folly," a comic opera (1805); "The 
Young Hussar," an operatic piece (1807). 



356 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH JXD AllERICAX POETRY. 



THE MARINER'S DREAM. 

Ill slumbers of iiiiilnigbt the sailor-boy laj-, 

His hammock swiiug loose at the sport of the 
■u-iiul ; 

Bnt, ^T:ltcll-\vonl ami weary, liis cares flew awa.y, 
And visious of bappincss dauced o'er bis miud. 

He dreamed of bis Lome, of his dear native bowers, 
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn ; 

While memory each scene gayly covered with 
flowers, 
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. 

Then Fancy her m.agical piuious spread wide. 
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise ; — 

Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, 
And the cot of bis forefathers blesses his eyes. 

The jessamine clambers, iu flower, o'er the thatch. 
And the swallow sings sweet from her uest iu the 
wall ; 

All trembling with transport ho raises the latch, 
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. 

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight ; 

His cheek is bedewed with a mother's warm tear; 
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite 

With the lii)s of the maid whom bis bosom holds 
dear. 

The he.art of the sleeper beats high in his breast; 

Joy qniokensbis pulses, — his hardships seem o'er; 
And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest, — 

" O God ! thou hast blessed me ; I ask for no 
more.'' 

Ah! whence is that flame which now glares on his 
eye? 
Ah ! what is that sound which now bursts on bis 
ear 1 
'Tis the lightning's red gleam, painting hell ou the 
sky ! 
'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the 
sphere ! 

Ho springs from his hammock, — he flies to the deck; 

Amazement confronts him with images dire ; 
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel awreck. 

The masts fly in splinters ; the shrouds are on fire ! 

Like ninuntains the billows tremendously swell: 
In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save; 



Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell. 
And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the 
Avave. 

O sailor-boy ! woe to thy dream of delight ! 

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss ; 
Whore now is the i^icture that Fancy touched bright, 

Thy parents' fond iiressure, and love's honeyed 
kissf 

O sailor-boy ! sailor-boy ! never again 

Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay ; 

Unblessed and nnbonoi'ed, down deep in the main, 
Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decaj-. 

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, 
Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge ; 

But the white foam of waves shall thy winding- 
sheet be, 
And winds iu the midnight of winter thy dirge ! 

On abed of green sea-flowers thy limbs shall belaid; 

Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow ; 
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made. 

And every jiart suit to thy mansion below. 

Days, mouths, years, and ages shall circle away. 
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll : 

Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye, — 
O sailor-boy ! sailor-boy ! peace to thy soul ! 



(George (trolij. 



Croly (1780-1860), rector of St. Stephen's, London, was 
a native of Dublin, and was educated at Trinity College. 
He is the auUior of two volumes of poetry (1S30) ; " Cat- 
iline," a tragedy, containing some forcible scenes ; va- 
rious novels ; and several tlieological and historical 
works. A brief memoir of Croly was published by his 
son in 1803. 



THE DEATH OF LEONIDAS. 

It was the wild midnight, 

A storm was iu the sky ; 
The lightning gave its light. 

And the thunder echoed by. 
The torrent swept the glen. 

The oceau lashed the shore ; 
Then rose the Spartan men, 

To make their bed in gore ! 
Swift from the deluged ground 

Three hundred took the shield, 



GEORGE CItOLT. 



357 



The leader of tbe field. 

He spoke no warrior-^\ord, 

Ho bade no trumpet blow ; 
But tbe signal tbuuder roared, 

And tbej' rusbed upon tbe foe. 
Tbe fiery element 

Sbowed, with one migbty gleam, 
Eampart, and fl.ag, and tent, 

Like tbe spectres of a dream. 
All up the mouutaiu-side. 

All down tbe woody vale, 
All by the rolling tide 

Waved the Persian banners pale. 

And King Leonidas, 

Among the slumbering band. 
Sprang foremost from the pass, 

Like the lightning's living brand : 
Then double darkness fell, 

And tbe forest ceased to nioaii ; 
But there came a clash of steel, 

And a distant dying groan. 
Anon a trumpet blew, 

Aud a fiery sheet hnrst high, 
That o'er the midnight threw 

A blood-red cauoiiy. 

A host glared on the hill, 

A host glared by the bay ; 
But the Greeks rushed onwai'd still, 

Like leopards in their play. 
The air was all a yell, 

And tbe earth was all a flame, 
Whei-e the Spartan's bloody steel 

On the silken turbans came ; 
And still the Greek rushed on. 

Beneath the fiery fold. 
Till, like a rising sun. 

Shone Xerxes' tent of gold. 

They found a royal feast. 

His midnight banquet, there ! 
And the treasures of tbe East 

Lay beueatb tbe Doric spear. 
Then sat to tbe repast 

The bravest of the brave ; 
That feast must be their last, 

That spot must be their grave. 
They pledged old Sparta's name 

In cups of Syrian wine, 



And the warrior's deathless fame 
Was sung in strains divine. 

They took the rose- wreathed lyres 

From eunuch and from slave. 
And taught the languid wires 

Tbe sounds that Freedom gave. 
But now the morning-star v 

Crowned Qita's twilight brow, 
And the Persian horn of war 

From tbe hill began to blow: 
Up rose the glorious rank, 

To Greece one cup poured high ; 
Tlicn, haud-in-hand, tliey drank 

'■ To Immortality 1" 

Fear on King Xerxes fell. 

When, like spirits from the tomb. 
With shout and truuniet-knell. 

He saw tbe warriors come ; 
But down swept all his jjower 

With chariot and with charge ; 
Down poured the arrowy shower. 

Till sank the Dorian's targe. 
They marched within the tent. 

With all their strength unstrung; 
To Greece cue look they sent, 

Then on high their torches linng: 

To heaven the blaze uprollcd. 

Like a migbty altar-fire ; 
And the Persians' gems and gold 

Were tbe Grecians' funeral pyre. 
Their king sat on the throne. 

His captains by his side. 
While the flame rusbed roaring on, 

And their paian loud replied! 
Thus fought the Greek of old : 

Thus will be fight again ! 
Shall not the self-same mould 

Bring forth the self-same men ? 



THE SEVENTH PLAGUE OF EGYPT. 

'Twas morn : the rising splendor rolled 
On marble towers and roofs of gold ; 
Hall, court, and gallery, below, 
Were crowded with a living flow; 
Egyptian, Arab, Nubian, there, — ■ 
The bearers of the bow and spear, 



358 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



The lioaiy iiricst, tlie Clialileo sago, 
The slave, the genimeil anil glittering page, — 
Helm, turban, and tiara shone 
A dazzling ring round Pharaoh's throne. 
There came a man : — the human tide 
Shrank backward from his stately stride: 
His cheek with storm and time vas tanned; 
A shepherd's staff was in his hand ; 
A shudder of instinctive fear 
Told the dark king what step was near : 
On through tlie host the stranger came, 
It jiarted roniul his form like flame. 

He stooped not at the footstool-stone, 
He clasped not sandal, kissed not throne ; 
Erect he stood amid the ring. 
His only words, "Be just, O king!" 
On Pharaoh's check the blood flushed high, 
A fire was in his sullen eye ; 
Yet on the chief of Israel 
Ko arrow of his thousands fell ; 
All mute aud moveless as the grave, 
Stood, chilled, the satrap and the slave. 

'■Thou'rt come!" at length the monarch spoke 
(Haughty and high the words outbroke); 
"Is Israel weary of its lair. 
The forehead jieeled, the shoulder bare 3 
Take back the answer to your band : 
Go, reap the wind! go, plough the sand! 
Go, vilest of the living vile, 
To build the never-ending pile, 
Till, darkest of the nameless dead, 
The vulture on their flesh is fed ! 
What better, asks the howling slave, 
Than the base life our bounty gave ?" 

Shouted in pride the turbaned peers, 
Upclashed to heaven the golden spears. — 
"King! thou and thine are doomed! — Behold!" 
The prophet spoke, — the thunder rolled ! 
Along the pathway of the sun 
Sailed vapory inouutains, wild and dun. 
" Yet there is time," the prophet said : 
He raised his statf, — the storm was stayed : 
" King ! be the word of freedom given ! 
Wliat art thou, man, to war witli Heaven ?" 

There came no word. — Tlie thunder broke! — 
Like a huge city's final smoke; 
Thick, Inrid, stifling, mixed with flame, 
Through court and hall the vapors came. 
Loose as the stubble in the field. 
Wide flew the men of spe.ar and shield ; 
Scattered like foam along the wave. 
Flew the proud pageant, prince aud slave; 



Or, in the chaius of terror bound. 
Lay, eoriise-like, on the smouldering ground. 
"Speak, king! — the wrath is but begun! — 
Still dumb ? — then, Heaven, thy will be doue !" 

Echoed from earth a hollow roar. 
Like ocean ou the midnight shore ! 
A sheet of lightning o'er them wheeled, 
The solid ground beneath them reeled; 
In dust sank roof and battlement ; 
Like webs the giant walls were rent ; 
Red, broad, before his startled gaze 
The monarch saw his Egypt blaze. 
Still swelled the plague, — the flame grew pale, — 
Burst from the clouds the charge of hail ; 
With arrowy keenness, iron weight, 
Down poured the ministers of fate ; 
Till man and cattle, crushed, congealed. 
Covered with death the boundless fielil. 

Still swelled the plague, — uprose the blast. 
The avenger, fit to be the last : 
Ou ocean, river, forest, vale. 
Thundered at once the mighty gale. 
Before the whirlwind flew the tree. 
Beneath the whirlwind roared the sea; 
A thousand ships were on the wave — 
Where are they ? — ask that foaming grave ! 
Uowu go the hope, the pride of years, 
Down go the myriad mariners ; 
The riches of earth's richest zone 
Gone! like a flash of lightning, gone! 

Aud lo ! that first fierce triumph o'er. 
Swells ocean on the shrinking shore; 
Still onward, onward, dark and wide. 
Ingulfs the land the furious tide. — 
Theu bowed thy spirit, stubborn king, 
Thou serpent, reft of fang aud sting! 
Humbled before the prophet's knee. 
He groaned, " Bo injured Isr.ael free !" 

To heaven the sago upraised his hand : 
Back rolled the deluge from the land ; 
Back to its caverns sank the gale ; 
Fled from the noon the vapors pale ; 
Broad burnt again the joyous sun : 
The hour of wrath and death was done. 



DEFIANCE TO THE ROMAN SENATE. 

FnoM " Catiline." 

"Traitor?" I go— but I returu. This trial! 

Here I devote your senate ! I've had wrongs 
To stir a fever in the blood of age. 



JAMES KENNEY.— EDWARD HOVEL THURLOir {LORD THVELOW). 



359 



Or uialio tlie iufaut's sinew strong as steel. 

Tliis day's the biitli of sorrows ! This hour's work 

Will breed proscriptions. Look to your hearths, 

my lords ! 
For there heucefortli shall sit, for household gods, 
.Sliajies hot from Tartarus; all shames aud crimes! 
Wau Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn ; 
.Suspicion, poisoning the brother's cup; 
Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe. 
Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones ; 
Till Anarchy comes down on you like Night, 
And Massacre seals Kome's eternal grave !' 



Raines Kcnucn. 

Kenney (lTSO-1849), a native of Ireland, was for some 
time a clerk in a baiiking-liousc. lu 1803 he published 
"Societj'j in two parts, with other Poems." He was 
tlie author of several successful farces and plays ; among 
them, "R.Tising tlie Wind," and "Sweethearts and 
Wives." From the latter the followintr song is taken. 



WHY ARE YOU WANDERING HERE? 

"Why are you wandering here, I pray?" 
An old man asked a maid one day. — 
" Looking for poppies, so bright aud red, 
Father," said she, " I'm hither led."' 
" Fie, fie !" she heard him cry, 
" Poppies 'tis known, to all who rove. 
Grow in the field, and not in the grove." 

" Tell me," again the old man said, 

'■Why are you loitering here, fair maid?" — 

" The nightingale's song, so sweet and clear. 

Father," said she, " I'm come to liear." 

'• Fie, fie !" she heard him cry, 

'• Nightiugales all, so people say, 

Warble by night, and not by day." 

The sage looked grave, the maiden shy, 
W'heu Lubiu jumped o'er the stile hard by; 
The sage looked graver, the maid more glum, 
Lnbin, he twiddled his finger and thumb. 
" Fie, fie !" was the old man''s cry ; 
" Poppies like the.se, I own, are rare, 
Aud of such nightingales' songs beware!" 

' Byron, wlio did not scruple to descend to ecurrility at 
times, refers to Ci-oly iu the following lines : 

"Aud Pegasus hath a psnlmodic amble 

Beneath the very Reverend Rowley Powley, 
Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts, — 
A modern Ancient Pistol, — by the hilts 1" 



(J-bvuarir fjoocl i^ljurlom (£orb iHljurlou)]. 

This nobleman (lTSl-1829) is sometimes confounded 
with Lord Thurlow, the celebrated Lord High Chancel- 
lor of Euglaud ; but he was quite a difl'erent person. 
His poems were ridiculed by Moore and Byron, but, 
with many faults, show some rare beauties. His "Se- 
lect Poems" were published in 1831. 



TO A BIRD THAT HAUNTED THE WATERS 
OF LAKEN IN THE W'lNTER. 

O melancholy bird ! a winter's day. 

Thou standest by the margin of the pool. 

And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school 

To patience, which all evil can allay: 

God has appointed thee the fish thy prey, 

Aud given tliyself a lesson to the fool 

Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule. 

And his unthinking course by thee to weigh. 

Tliere need not schools nor the professor's chair, 

Tliougli these be good, true wisdom to imp.art : 

He wlio has not enough for these to spare 

Of time or gold, m.ay yet amend his heart, 

Aud teach his soul by brooks aud rivers fair; 

Nature is always wise in every part. 



SONG TO MAY. 

May, queeu of blossoms 
And fulfilling flowers, 

With what pretty music 
Shall wo charm the honrs ? 

Wilt thou have pipe and reed, 

Blowu iu the open mead ? 

Or to the lute give heed 
In the green bowers ? 

TIiou hast no need of us, 

Or pipe or wire, 
Thou hast the golden bee 

Ripened with fire ; 
Aud many thousand more , 
Songsters that thee adore, 
Filliug earth's grassy floor 

With new desire. 

Thou hast thy mighty herds, 
Tame, and free livers ; 

Doubt not, thy music too, 
Iu tlie deep rivers; 



360 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



And the whole plumy flight, 
Waibliug the day and night; 
Up at the gates of light, 
Sec, the lark qnivers ! 

When with the jacinth 
Coy fonntains are tressed; 

And for the monvnfnl bird 
Greeu woods are dressed, 

That did for Tereus piue ; 

Theu shall our songs he thine, 

To whom onr hearts incline : 
May, be thou blessed ! 



(fbciujcr (Elliott. 

Elliott (1781-1849) was born at Masborougli, in York- 
shire. His father was an iron-founder, and lie liimself 
wrought at the business for many years. His vigorous 
"Corn-Law Rhymes," published between 1830 and 1S36, 
did mucli to compel Government to abolish all restric- 
tions on the importation of corn. Tlie champion of the 
poor and oppressed, an intense hater of all injustice, he 
was no Communist, as the following epigram sliows : 

"What is a Communist? One who has yearnings 
For equal division of nneqnal earnings." 

Elliott had a genuine taste, and the eye of an artist for 
nattu'al scenery. He was by nature a poet. Tliere is a 
tenderness and grace tliat has rarely been excelled in 
some of his descriptive touches. In the religious senti- 
ment and a devout faith in the compensations of Divine 
Providence lie was also strong. His career was manly 
and honorable ; and in the latter part of his life his cir- 
cumstances, through his own exertions, were easy, if not 
afllueut. 



FAREWELL TO EIVILIN. 

Beautiful River! goldenly shining 
Where with thee cistns and woodbines are twinini; 
(Rirklands around thee, mountains above thee): 
Riviliu wildest ! do I not love thee ? 

Why do I love thee, heart-hreaking River? 
Love thee and leave thee? leave thee forever? 
Never to see thee, where the storms greet thee ! 
Never to hear thee, rushing to meet me.' 

Never to hail thee, joyfully chiming 
licauty is music. Sister of Wiming ! 
Playfully mingling laughter and sadness, 
Ribblediu's Sister, sad in thy gladness ! 

Why must I leave thco, moiirnfiilly sighing 
Man is a shadow? River undying! 



Dream-like he passeth, clond-liko he wasteth, 
£'eu as a shadow- over thee hasteth. 

Oh, when thy poet, weary, reposes. 
Coffined in slander, far from thy roses. 
Tell all thy pilgrims, heart-breaking River, 
Tell them I loved thee — love thee forever! 

Yes, for the spirit blooms ever vernal : 
River of beauty! love is eternal: 
While the rock reeleth, storm-struck and riven, 
Safe is the fountain flowing from heaven. 

There wilt thou hail me, joyfully chiming 
Beauty is music, Sister of Wiming! 
Homed with the angels, hasten to greet me, 
Glad as the heath-flower, glowing to meet thee. 



FROM "LYRICS FOR MY DAUGHTERS.'' 

For Spring, and flowers of Spring, 
Blossoms, and what they bring, 

Be our thanks given ; 
Thanks for the maideu's bloom. 
For the sad prison's gloom. 
And for the sadder tomb. 

Even as for heaven ! 

Great God, thy will is done 
When the soul's rivers run 

Down the worn checks! 
Done when the righteous bleed, 
When the wronged vainly plead, — 
Done in the uncndcd deed, • 

When the heart breaks ! 

Lo, how the dutiful 
Snows clothe in bcautil'iil 

Life the dead earth! 
Lo, how the clouds distil 
Riches o'er vale and hill, 
While the storm's evil will 

Dies in its birth ! 

Blessed is the unpeopled down. 
Blessed is the crowded town, 

Where the tired groan : 
Pain but appears to be; 
What arc man's fears to thee, 
God, if all tears .shall he 

Gems on thy throne? 



EBENEZEB ELLIOTT. 



3G1 



HYMN. 

Nm-se of the Pilgrim sires, who sought, 

Beyoinl the Atlantic foam, 
For fearless truth ami houest thought, 

A refuge aiul a home ! 
Who would not be of tliem or thee 

A not unworthy son, 
That hears, amid tlio chained or free, 

The name of Washington ? 

Cradle of Shakspcarc, Milton, Knox! 

King-shaming CromwcH's throne ! 
Home of the Russells, Watts, and I^oekes ! 

Earth's greatest are thine own : 
And shall thy children forge base chains 

For men that would he free ? 
No ! by thy Elliots, Hampdens, Vanes, 

Pynis, Sydneys, yet to be ! 

No ! — for the blood which kings have gorged 

Hath made their victims wise, 
While every lie that fraud hath forged 

Veils wisdom from his eyes: 
But time shall change the despot's mood : 

And mind is mightiest then, 
Wheu turuiug evil into good, 

And monsters into men. 

If round the soul the chains are bound 

That hold the world in thrall— 
If tyrants laugh when men are found 

In brutal fray to fall — 
Lord! let not Britain arm her hands, 

Her sister states to ban ; 
But bless through her all other lands, 

Thy family of man. 

For freedom if thy Hampden fought ; 

For peace if Falkland fell ; 
For peaee and love if Bentham wrote, 

And Burns sang wildly well — 
Let knowledge, strongest of the strong, 

Bid hate and discord cease ; 
Be this the burden of her song — 

" Love, liberty, and peace !" 

Then, Father, will the nations all. 

As with the sound of seas. 
In universal festival, 

Sing words of joy, like these : — 
Let each love all, and all be free. 

Receiving as they give; 



Lord ! — Jesus died for love and thee ! 
So let thy children live ! 



NOT FOR NAUGHT. 

Do and sutfer naught in vain ; 

Let no trifle trifling be : 
If the salt of life is pain. 

Let even wrongs bring good to thee ; 
Good to others, few or many, — 
Good to all, or good to any. 

If men curse thee, plant their lies 

Where for truth they best may grow ; 

Let the railers make thee wise, 
Preaching jieace where'er thou go : 

God no useless plant hath planted. 

Evil (wisely used) is wanted. 

If the nation-feeding corn 

Thriveth under icM suow ; 
If the small bird on the thorn 

Useth well its guarded sloe, — • 
Bid thy cares thy comforts double. 
Gather fruit from thorns of trouble. 

See the rivers ! how they run, 

Strong in gloom, and strong in light ! 

Like the never-wearied sun. 

Through the day and through the night, 

Each along his jiath of dnty, 

Turning coldness into beauty! 



SPRING: A SONNET. 

Again the violet of our early days 

Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun. 

And kindles into fragrance at his blaze ; 

The streams, rejoiced that winter's work is done. 

Talk of to-morrow's cowslips as they run. 

Wild apple ! thou art bursting into bloom ; 

Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossomed thoru ! 

Wake, buried lily! spirit, quit thy tond) ; 

And thou, shade-loving hyacinth, bo born! 

Then haste, sweet rose! sweet woodbine, hymn the 

morn. 
Whose dew-drops shall illume with pearly light 
Each grassy blade that thick embattled stands 
From sea to sea; while daisies infinite 
Uplift in praise their little glowing hands, 
O'er every hill that uuder heaven expands. 



:!62 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



THE DAY WAS DARK. 

The (lay was dark, save when the beam 

Of iioou through darkness broke : 
lu gloom I sat, as in a dream, 

Beneath my orchard oak, 
Lo, splendor, like a spirit, came ! 

A shadow like a tree! 
While there I sat, and named her name 

Who once sat there with me. 

I started from the seat iu fear, 

I looked around iu awe ; 
But saw no beauteons spirit near, 

Though all that was I saw : 
The seat, the tree, where oft in tears 

She mourned her hopes o'erthrowu, 
Her joys cut off iu early years. 

Like gathered Howers half-blowu. 

Again the bud and breeze were met, 

But Mary did not come ; 
And e'en the rose which she had set 

Was fated ne'er to bloom ! 
The thrush proclaimed iu accents sweet 

That Winter's reign was o'er ; 
The bluebells thronged around my feet. 

But Mary came no more. 

I think, I feel — but Avhen will she 

Awake to thought again ? 
A voice of comfort auswers me, 

That God does naught iu vaiu : 
He wastes uor flower, nor bud, nor leaf, 

Nor wind, uor cloud, nor wave ; 
And will he waste the hope which grief 

Hath iilanted iu the grave ? 



A rOET'S EPITAPH. 

Stop, Mortal ! Here thy brother lies. 

The Poet of the poor : 
His books were rivers, woods, and skies. 

The meadow aud the moor; 
His teachers were the torn heart's wail, 

The tyrant, and the slave. 
The street, the factory, the jail, 

The palace — and the grave ! 
Sill met thy brother everywhere! 

And is thy brother blamed ? 
From passion, danger, doubt, and care 

He no exemption claimed. 



The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm, 

He feared to scorn or hate ; 
But, honoriug in a peasant's form 

The equal of the great. 
He blessed the steward whose wealth makes 

The poor man's little more ; 
Yet loathed the haughty wretch that takes 

From plundered labor's store. 
A hand to do, a head to plan, 

A heart to feel aud dare — 
Tell man's worst foes, hero lies the man 

Who drew them as they are. 



Cjcuvu J^JiiK-cving. 



AMERICAN. 

Pickering (1781-1838) was a native of Newburgli, New 
York, where he was born in a liouse once the heail-quar- 
ters of Washington. In ISOl his father, who was quar- 
termaster-general of the army, and had been with Wash- 
ington at the siege of Yorktown, returned to his native 
State, Massachusetts, and Henry engaged in mercantile 
pursuits at Salem. Unsuccessful in business, he removed 
to New York, and resided several years at Rondout and 
other places on the bauks of the Hudson. An edition 
of "The Buckwheat Cake," a poem In blank verse, in 
the mock-heroic style, but of trifling merit, from his 
pen, was published In Boston lu 1831. 



THE HOUSE IX WHICH I WAS BORN. 

(ONCE THE llEAU-QUAItlEltS OF \V.\SI1IXGT(1N.) 
I. 

Square, and rough-hewn, and solid is the mass, 

And aucieut, if aught ancient here appear 

Beside you rock-ribbed hills : bnt many a year 

Hath into dim oblivion swept, alas! 

Since, bright iu arms, the worthies of the land 

Were here assembled. Let me reverent tread ; 

For now, meseejnis, the spirits of the dead 

Are slowly gathering round, while I am fanned 

By gales unearthly. Ay, they hover near — 

Patriots and Heroes — the august and great — • 

The founders of a young aud mighty State, 

Whoso grandeur who shall tell ? With holy fear. 

While tears unbidden my dim eyes suffuse, 

I mark them one by cue, and, marvelling, muse. 



I gaze, but they have vanished ! And the eye, 
Free now to roam from where I take my stand, 
Dwells on the hoary pile. Let no rash hand 
Attempt its desecration : for though I 



SEGINALD EEBER. 



363 



Bcneatli tlie sod shall sleep, and memory's sigh 
Be there forever stitied in this breast, — 
Yet all who boast them of a laud so blessed, 
Whose pilgrim feet may some day hither hie. 
Shall melt, alike, aud kimlle at the thought 
That these rude walls have echoed to the sound 
Of the great Patriot's voice ! that even the ground 
I tread was trodden too by him who fought 
To make us free ; aud whose unsullied name, 
Still, like the sun, illustrious shines the same. 



Ucqinalb Cjcbcr. 



Heber (1783-18:26), the son of a clergyman, was born 
at Malpas, in Cheshire. A precocious youtli, he was ad- 
mitted of Brascnose College, Oxford, in 1800. Alter 
taking a prize for Latin hexameters, he wrote the best 
of University prize poems, ''Palestine." Previous to its 
recitation in the theatre he read it to Sir Walter Scott, 
tlien at Oxford, who remarked that in the poem the fact 
was not mentioned that in the construction of Solo- 
mon's Temple no tools were used. Young Heber re- 
tired for a few minutes to the corner of the room, and 
returned with these beautiful lines, which were added: 

" No hnmnier fell, no ponderous axes niuij: 
Like some tall palm the mystic fabric spvuuj;. 
Majestic silence 1" 

In 1807 Heber took orders in the Cliurch, and in 1809 
he married a daughter of the Dean of St. Asaph, and 
settled at Hodnet. Contrary to the advice of prudent 
friends, he accepted in 1S23 the Bishopric of Calcutta. 
In April, 1836, a few days after his arrival at Trichi- 
nopoly, he died of an apoplectic attack while taking a 
Oath. Heber was a man of exalted piety, earnest aud 
faitlifnl in the discharge of his clerical duties, and an 
industrious writer. There is a grace and finish in his 
poems, sliowing a high degree of literary culture as well 
as genuine poetical feeling. 



FROM BISHOP HEBEE'S JOURNAL. 

If thou wert by my side, my love ! 

How fast would evening fail 
In green Bengala's palmy grove, 

Listening the nightingale ! 

If thon, my love ! wert by my side, 

My babies at my knee, 
How gayly would our pinnace glide 

O'er Gunga's mimic sea ! 

I miss thee at the dawning gray 
When, on our deck recliued. 

In careless ease my limbs I lay, 
Aud woo the cooler wind. 



I miss thee when by Gunga's stream 

My twilight stejis I guide. 
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam, 

I miss thee from my side. 

I spread my books, my iieneil try, 

The lingering noon to cheer, 
But miss thy kind approving eye, ., 

Thy meek, attentive ear. 

But when of morn and eve the star 

Beholds nie on my knee, 
I feel, though thon art distant far, 

Thy ju-ayers ascend for me. 

Then on ! then on ! where duty leads, 

My course be onward still, 
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads. 

O'er black Almor.ih's hill. 

That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates, 

Nor wild Malwab detain. 
For sweet the bliss us both awaits, 

By yonder western main. 

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, 

Across the dark blue sea ; 
But ne'er were hearts so light aud gay. 

As then shall meet in thee ! 



THE WIDOW OF NAIN. 

Wake not, O mother! sounds of lamentation! 

Weep not, O widow ! weep not hopelessly ! 
Strong is His arm, the Briuger of Salvation, 

Strong is tho Word of God to succor thee ! 

Bear forth the cold corpse, slowly, slowly bear him : 
Hide his pale features with the sable pall : 

Chide not the sad one wildly weeping near him : 
W'idowed aud childless, she has lost her all ! 

Why pause the mourners ? Who forbids our weep- 
ing ? 

Who the dark iiomp of sorrow has delayed ? 
"Set down the bier, — he is not dead, but sleeping! 

Young man, arise!'' — Ho sp.ake, and was obeyed! 

Change then, O sad one ! grief to exultation : 
Worship and fall before Messiah's knee. 

Strong was His arm, the Bringer of Salvation ; 
Strong was the Word of God to succor thee ! 



304 



CYCLOFJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



JIISSIONAKY HYMN. 

From Greenland's icy mountains, 

From India's coral strand, 
Where Afric's sunny fountains 

Roll down their golden sand ; 
From many an ancient river, 

From many a jialmy i)laiu, 
They call us to deliver 

Their laud from error's chain ! 

What though tlie spicy breezes 

Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle. 
Though every prospect pleases, 

And only man is vile : 
In vain with lavish kindness 

The gifts of God are strown, 
The heathen in his Llindness 

Bows down to wood and stone ! 

Can we, whose souls are lighted 

With wisdom from on higli, 
Cau we to men benighted 

The lamp of life deny ? 
Salvation ! oh. Salvation ! 

The joyful sound lu'oclaim, 
Till each remotest nation 

Has learued Messiali's name ! 

■Waft, waft, ye winds, his story. 

And you, yo waters, roll. 
Till, lilic a sea of glory. 

It spreads from pole to pole ! 
Till o'er our ransomed nature, 

The Lamb for sinners slain, 
Redeemer, King, Creator, 

In bliss returns to reign ! 



CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning! 

Dawn on our darkness, and lend us Thine aid ! 
Star of the East, tlie horizon adorning. 

Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid ! 

Cold on His cradle the dew-drops are shining, 
Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall ; 

Angels .adore Him in slumber reclining, 
Mak(U- and Monarch and Saviour of all! 

Say, shall we yield lliui, in costly devotion, 
Odors of Ivloui, and offerings divine ? 



Gems of the mountain and pearls of the ocean, 
Myrrh from the forest or gold from the mine ? 

Vainly we offer each ampler oblation ; 

Vainly with gifts would His favor secure: 
Richer by far is the heart's adoratiou ; 

Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. 

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning ! 

Dawn on our darkuess, and lend us Thine aid! 
Star of the East, the horizon adorning. 

Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid ! 



EARLY PIETY. 

By cool Siloam's shady vill 

How sweet the lily grows ! 
How sweet the breath beneath the hill 

Of Sharon's dewy rose ! 
Lo ! such the child whose early feet 

The paths of peace have trod. 
Whose secret heart with influence sweet 

Is upward drawn to God ! 

By cool Siloam's shady rill 

The lily must decay ; 
The rose that blooms beneath the hill 

Must shortly fade away. 
And soon, too soon, the wintry hour 

Of man's maturer ago 
Will shake the soul with sorrow's power, 

And stormy passiou's rage ! 

O thou, whose infant feet were found 

Within thy Father's shrine! 
Whose years with changeless virtue crowned 

Were all .alike divine! 
Dependent on thy bounteous breath. 

We seek-tliy grace alone. 
In childhood, manhood, age, and death, 

To keep us still thy own ! 



THE MOONLIGHT MARCH. 

I see them on their winding way. 
About their ranks the moonbeams play ; 
Their lofty deeds and daring high 
Blend with the notes of victory. 
And waving arms, and banners bright, 
Are glancing in the mellow light : 



REGINALD HEBEB.—JANIi TATLQB. 



365 



They're lost, — and gone — the moon is jiust, 
The wood's dark shade is o'er them cast ; 
And fainter, fainter, fainter still 
The march is rising o'er the hill. 

Again, again, the pealing drum. 
The clashing hoiii, — they come; they come! 
Throngh rocky pass, o'er ■wooded steep, 
In long and glittering files they sweep ; 
And nearer, nearer, yet more near. 
Their softened chorns meets the car ; 
Forth, forth, and meet them on their way ; 
The trampling hoofs brook no delay ; 
With thrilling fife and pealing drnm, 
And clashing horn, they come ; they come ! 



MAY-DAY. 

Queen of fiesh flowers. 

Whom vernal stars obey. 
Bring thy warm showers. 
Bring thy genial ray. 
In nature's greenest livery dressed, 
Descend on earth's expectant breast, 
To earth and heaven a welcome guest, 
Thou merry mouth of Jlay ! 

Mark ! how we meet thee 
At dawn of dewy day! 
Hark I how wo greet thee 
With our roundelay ! 
While all the goodly things that be 
In earth, and air, and ample sea, 
Are waking up to welcome thee, 
Thou merry mouth of May ! 

Flocks on the mountains. 

And birds upon the spray. 
Tree, turf, and fountains 
All hold holiday ; 
And love, the life of living things. 
Love waves his torch and claps his wings. 
And loud and wide thy praises sings. 
Thou merry month of May. 



Sane (J^aiilor. 

Jane Taylor (1783-1824) was a native of London, but 
brought up chiefly at Larcnham, iu Suffolk. Hei- father, 
Isaac Tayloi' (1759-18:29), was an engraver, and ultimately 
pastor of an lurtepcndeut Congregation at Ongar, iu Es- 
sSx, and a voluminous author. Jaue'a mother {nee Ann 



Martin) also wrote books. Jointly with her sister Ann 
(17S3-1800), Jane produced "Original Poems for Iniimt 
Minds." The sisters also wrote "Hymns for Infant 
Minds," wiiich were very popular. Their two little po- 
ems, "My Mother," and "Twiuklc, twinkle, little star," 
will not readily become obsolete in the nursery. Jane 
was the author of " Display," a novel (1815), of "Essays 
in Rhyme" (1810), and " Contributions of Q Q." She bad 
a brother, Isaac Taylor (1787-1805), who wrote "Physi- 
cal Theory of Another Life," and other much esteemed 
works. 



TEACHING FROM THE STARS. 

Stars, that on your wondrous way 
Travel through the evening sky, 

Is there nolhiug you can say 
To such a little child as I ? 

Tell me, for I long to know, 

Who has made you sparkle so ? 

Yes, methiuks I hear you say, 
" Child of mortal race attend ; 

While we run our wondrous way. 
Listen ; we would be your friend ; 

Teaching you (hat name divine. 

By whose mighty word we shine. 

"Child, as truly as we roll 

Through the dark and distant sky. 
You have an immortal soul, 

Boru to live when we shall die. 
Suns and jilanets pass away : 
Spirits never can decay. 

" When some thousand years at most. 
All their little time have spent, 

One by one our sparkling host. 
Shall forsake the firmameut : 

We shall from our glory fall ; 

You must live heyoud us all. 

" I'es, and God, who bade us roll, 
God, who hung us in the sky. 

Stoops to watch au infant's soul 
With .a condescending eye ; 

And esteems it dearer far, 

More iu value than a star ! 

" Oh, then, while your breath is given, 
Let it rise in fervent prayer ; 

And beseech the God of heaveu 
To receive your spirit there. 

Like a living star to blaze. 

Ever to your Saviour's praise." 



366 



CYCLOPEDIA OF JililTiSa AND AMERICAN POETMT. 



2q\)\\ Kcnnou. 



The son of a wealthy English West Indian mercliant, 
Kenyon (17S3-1856), a native of Jamaica, inlierited a 
large fortune. He cultivated the society of literary 
men ; and among his associates were Byron, Words- 
worth, Procter, Browning, and other eminent poets. 
Dying, he bestowed more than £100,000 in legacies to 
his friends. He wrote "A Rhymed Plea for Tolerance" 
(1833); "Poems, for the most part Occasional" (1838); 
and "A Day at Tivoli, with other Poems" (1849). 



CHAMPAGNE ROSfi. 

Lily on liqnid roses floating — 

So floats yon foam o'er pink cbauipagne ;— 
Fain would I join such pleasant boating, 

And prove that ruby maiu, 

Aiid float away on wine! 

Those seas are dangerous, graybeards swear,- 
Whose sea-beacb is the goblet's brim ; 

And true it is they drown old Care — • 
But what care wo for bini, 

So we but float on wine ! 

And true it is tbey cross in pain 
Who sober cross the Stygian ferry ; 

But only make our Styx champagne, 
And we shall cross quite nurry, 
Floating away in wine ! 

OKI Charon's self shall make him mellow, 
Then gayly row his boat from shore ; 

While we, and every jovial fellow. 
Hear unconcerned the oar 

That dips itself in wine! 



^llan Cunuingljam. 

Poet, novelist, and miscellaneous writer, Cunninnliam 
(1784-1842) was born of humble parentage in Dumfries- 
shire, Scotland. He began life as a stone-mason: hi 
1810 he repaired to London, got an ajipointment of trust 
in the studio of the sculptor Cliantrey, and there settled 
for life. He liad early shown a taste for literature, and 
written for the magazines of the day. His taste and at- 
tainments in the line arts were remarkable. His warm 
heart, his upright, independent character, attracted the 
affectionate esteem of all who enjoyed his acquaintance. 
He left four sons — Joseph D., Alexander, Peter, aud 
Francis— all of whom have won distinction in literature. 
Cunuingliani was the author of " Paul Jones," a success- 
ful romance (1820); aud from 182U to 1833 he produced 



for " Murray's Family Library" his most esteemed prose 
work, "The Lives of the most eminent British Painters, 
Sculptors, and Architects," in sis volumes. 



A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea, 

A wind that follows fast, 
And fills the white aud rustliug sail, 

Aud bends the gallaut mast ; 
And bends the gallaut mast, my boys. 

While, like the eagle free. 
Away the good ship flies, aud leaves 

Old England on the lee. 

Oh for a soft aud gentle wiud! 

I heard a fair oue cry ; 
But give to me the snoring breeze. 

And white waves heaving high ; 
Aud white waves heaving high, my boys. 

The good ship tight and free — 
The world of waters is onr home, 

Aud merry men are we. 

There's tempest in yon horn(?d moon. 

And lightning in yon cloud; 
Aud hark, the music, mariners, 

The -wind is piping lond ! 
The wind is piping lond, my boys. 

The lightning flashing free — 
While the hollow oak onr palace is. 

Our herit.ige the sea. 



IT'S HAME, AND IT'S HAME. 

It's hanie, and it's haiue, haiuo fain wad I be, 
An' it's hame, hame, haine, to my ain couutrie! 
Wheu the flower is i' the bud, aud the leaf is on 

the tree;. 
The lark shall sing me hame in my aiu couutrie : 
It's hame, and its haiue, hame fain wad I be. 
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my aiu couutrie! 

The green leaf o' loyalty's beginning for to fa'. 
The bonnie white rose it is witheriug an' a' ; 
lint I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyraunie, 
An' green it will grow in my ain couutrie. 
It's haute, aud it's hame, hamo faiu wad I be. 
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my aiu couutrie! 

Tliere's naught now frao ruin my country can .save. 
But the keys o' kiud Heaven to open the grave. 



ALLAN CONNiyOHAM. — WILLIAM TENNANT. 



367 



That :i' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie, 
May rise again aud tight for their ain countiie. 
It's harae, aud it's hame, bame faiu wad I be, 
Au' it's Lame, Lame, Lame, to my aiu couutrie ! 

The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save; 
The new grass is springing on the tap o' tlieir grave ; 
But the sua tbro' the mirli blinks blithe in my e'e: 
"I'll shine on you yet in yonr aiu countrie !" 
It's Lame, and it's hame, Lame fain wad I be, 
Au' it's Lame, Lame, hame, to my ain couutrie ! 



THE SPRING OF THE YEAR. 

Goue were but the winter cold, 
And gone were but tbe suow, 

I conkl sleep iu the wild woods 
Where primroses blow. 

Cold's the snow at my head, 

Aud cold at my feet; 
And the finger of death's at my eeu. 

Closing them to sleep. 

Let none tell my father. 

Or my mother so dear, — 
I'll meet them both in Leaven 

At the spring of tLe year. 



lUilliam iTcnnant. 

Tenuant (1784-1818) was a native of Anstrutlier, Scot- 
land, who, while filling the situation of clerk in a mer- 
cantile house, studied ancient and modern literature, and 
taught himself Hebrew. He is known in literature by 
his mock-heroic poem of "Anster Fair" (1813), written 
in the otiava-rima stanza, afterward adopted by Frere and 
Byron. The subject was the marriage of Maggie Lauder, 
the famous heroine of Scottish song. The poem was 
praised by Jeffrey in the Edinburgh Eeview; and several 
editions of it were published. After struggling with 
poverty till 1834, Tennaut received the appointment of 
Professor of Oriental Languages in St. Mary's College. 
In 1845 he published "Hebrew Dramas, founded on In- 
cidents in Bible History." A memoir of his life and 
writings appeared in 1861. 



DESCRIPTION OF MAGGIE LAUDER. 

Her form was as tLo Morning's blithesome star. 
That, capped with lustrous coronet of beams. 

Rides up the dawning orieut in her car, 
Ne w-wasLcd, aud doubly fulgent from tLe streams : 



The Chaldee shepherd eyes her light afar, 

And on his knees adores her as she gleams ; 
So shone the stately form of Maggie Lauder, 
And so the admiring crowds pay homage aud ap- 
plaud Ler. 

Each little step her trampling palfrey took, 
Shaked her majestic person into graap,' 

Aud as at times his glossy sides she strook 
Eudearingly with whip's green silken lace, 

The prancer seemed to court such kind rebuke, 
Loiteriug with wilful tardiness of pace — 

By Jove, the very waving of her arm 

Had power a brutish lout to unbrutify and charm ! 

Her face was aa the summer cloud, whereon 
The dawuing sun delights to rest his rays ! 

Compared with it, old Sharon's vale, o'ergrown 
With flaunting roses, had resigned its jjraise : 

For why ? Her face with heaven's own roses shone, 
Mocking the morn, and witching men to gaze ; 

And he that gazed with cold, uusmitten soul, 

That blockhead's heart was ice thrice baked be- 
neatL tLe Pole. 

Her locks, apparent tufts of wiry gold. 
Lay ou her lily temples, fairly dangling, 

And on each Lair, so Larmless to beLold, 
A lover's soul Lung mercilessly strangling ; 

The piping silly zephyrs vied to unfold 

The tresses in tLeir arras so slim and tangling. 

And thrid in sport these lover-noosing snares. 

And played at Lide-and-seek amid the golden hairs. 

Her eye was as au honored palace, where 

A choir of lightsome Graces frisk aud dance ; 

What object drew Ler gaze, Low mean soe'er. 
Got dignity and Lonor from tLe glance ; 

Woe to tLe man on whom she unaware 
Did tLe dear witcLery of Ler eye elauce ! 

'Twas sucL a thrilling, killing, keen regard — 

May Heaven from such a look preserve each ten- 
der bard ! 

So on she rode in virgin m.njesty. 

Charming tLe thin dead air to kiss Ler lips. 
And with the light and grandeur of her eye 

Shaming the proud sun into dim eclipse ; 
While round her jtresence clusteriug far and nigh, 

Ou horseback some, witL silver spurs and wLips, 
And some afoot with shoes of dazzliug buokIe.s, 
Attended knights, aud lairds, aud clowns with 
horny kuuckles. 



368 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEIIICAN POETRY. 



'2\tXM\i\tx llobqcr. 



Rodgei- (1784-1846) was a native of East-CaUler, Scot- 
land. In 1797 he was apprenticed to a weaver iu Glas- 
gow. He married, and had a large family, some of 
whom emigrated to the United States. Having written 
some articles against the Government in a radical news- 
paper, he was imprisoned for some time. His first ap- 
pearance as an author was in 1837, when he puhlished a 
volume of poems. Some of his songs are still very 
popular. 



BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK. 

Behave yoursel' Ijefoie folk, 
Behave yoursel' before folk ; 
And illnna bo so rude to nie 
As kiss me sae before folk. 

It wadua gi'e uic micklo jiain, 
Gin we were seen and heard by uaue, 
To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane, 
But, guiilsake ! no before folk ! 
Behave yoursel' before folk, 
Behave yoursel' before folk ; 
Whate'er you do when out o' view, 
Be cautious aye before folk. 

Consider, lad, how folk will crack. 
And what a great affair they'll mak' 
C naethiug but a simple smack 

That's gi'eu or ta'eu before folk. 

Behave yoursel' before folk, 

Behave yoursel' before folk ; 

Nor gi'e the tongue o' anld or young 

Occasion to come o'er folk. 

It's no through hatred o" a kiss 
That I sae plainly tell you this; 
But, losh ! I tak' it sair amiss 
To bo sae teased before folk. 
Behave yoursel' before folk, 
Behave yoursel' before folk ; 
When we're our lane yon may tak' anc, 
But Sent a aue before folk. 

I'm sure wi' you I've been as free 
As ony modest lass should be ; 
But yet it doesna do to see 

Sic freedom used before folk. 
Behave yoursel' before folk, 
Behave yoursel' before folk ; 
I'll ne'er sulimit again to it — 
So mind you that — before folk. 



Ye tell me that my face is fair : 
It may bo sae — I diuna care ; 
But ne'er agaiu gar 't blush sae sair 
As ye ha'e done before folk. 
Behave yoursel' before folk. 
Behave yoursel' before folk ; 
Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks. 
But aye be douce before folk. 

Ye tell me that my lips aTe sweet : 
Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit ; 
At ony rate, it's hardly meet 

To pree their sweets before folk. 
Behave yoursel' before folk, 
Behave yoursel' before folk ; 
Gin that's the case, there's time and place. 
But surely no before folk. 

But gin you really do insist 
That I should suffer to be kissed, 
Gae, get a license frac the priest. 
And mak' me yours before folk. 
Behave yoursel' before folk. 
Behave yoursel' before folk ; 
And when we're ane, baith flesh and bane. 
Ye may tak' ten — before folk. 



Scrnarb Carton. • 

Barton (1784-1849) has often been spoken of as "the 
Quaker poet." He became a hanUer's clerk at the age 
of twenty-six, and continued in that position, like Lamb 
in tlie East India House, to the cud of his life. Pure, 
gentle, and amiable, his poetry retlects liis character. To 
the "Sonnet to a Graudniother," Charles Lamb affixed 
the characteristic comment, "A good sonnet. Dixi. — C. 
Lamb." Barton's "Poems and Letters" were published, 
with a memoir, by his daughter, iu 1S53. 



TO A GRANDMOTHER. 

''Old age is dark and unlovely." — Ossian. 

Oh, say not so ! A bright old age is thine. 

Calm as the gentle light of summer eves. 

Ere twilight dim her dusky mantle weaves; 

Because to thee is given, iu thy decline, 

A heart that docs not thanklessly repine 

At aught of which the baud of God bereaves, 

Yet all he sends with gratitude receives. 

May such a quiet, thankful close be mine ! 

And hence thy fireside chair appears to me 

A peaceful throne — which thou wert formed to fill ; 



BERNARD BARTOX.—LEri FRISBIE. 



3G9 



Th}' cliiUlreu iniiiistcrs who do tliy will; 

Auil those graiulcliiUli'Oii, sporting round thy knee, 

Thy little subjects, looking uji to thee 

As one who cluiius their foud allegiauce still. 



FAREWELL. 

Nay, shrink not from the word "farewell," 
As if 'twere friendship's final knell! 

Sneh fears may prove hut vaiu : 
So changeful is life's tiectiug day, 
Whene'er we sever, Hope may say, 

" We part — to meet again !" 

E'en the last parting heart can know 
Brings not unutterable woe 

To souls tliat heavenward soar; 
For humble Faith, with steadfast eye. 
Points to a, brighter world on high. 
Where hearts that hero at parting sigh 

Maj' meet — to part no more. 



A WINTER NIGHT. 

A wiuter night! the stormy wind is high, 
Rocking the leafless branches to and fro : 
The sailor's wife shrinks as she hears it blow, 
And mournfully surveys the starless sky; 
The hardy shepherd turns out fearlessly 
To tend his fleecy charge iu drifted snow; 
And the poor homeless, houseless child of. woe 
Sinks down, perchance, iu dumb despair to die! 
Happy the fireside student — happier still 
The social circle round the blazing hearth, — 
If, while these estimate aright the worlh 
Of every blessing which their cup may fill, 
Their grateful hearts with sympathy can thrill 
For every form of wretchedness on earth. 



£ci)i JTrisbic. 

AMERICAN. 

Frisbic (178I-1S33) was the son of a clcriryman of Ips- 
wich, Mass. He was educated at Harvard, and did much 
to defray his own expenses by teaching. After finishing 
his course, lie was successively Latin tutor, Professor of 
Latin, and Professor of Mor-il Philosophy. A volume 
containing some of bis philosophical writings and a few 
poems, and edited by his friend, Andrews Norton, was 
published iu 1S23. 

24 



A CASTLE IN THE AIR. 

I'll tell you, friend, what sort of wife, 
Whene'er I scan this scene of life, 

Inspires my waking schemes. 
And when I sleep, with form so light. 
Dances before my ravished sight. 

In sweet aerial dreams. ,^ ' 

The rose its blushes need not lend. 
Nor yet the lily with them blentl. 

To captivate my eyes. 
Give me a cheek the heart obeys, 
And, sweetly mutable, dis|d.ays 

Its feelings as they rise ; 

Features, where pensive, more than gay, 
Save when a rising smile doth play. 

The sober thought you see ; 
Eyes that all soft and tender seem — 
And kind affections round them beam, 

But most of all on mc ! 

A form, though not of finest mould. 
Where yet a something you behold 

Unconsciously doth please ; 
Manners all graceful, without art. 
That to each look and word impart 

A modesty and ease. 

But still her air, her face, each charm, 
Must speak a heart with feeling warm. 

And mind inform the whole ; 
With mind her mantling cheek must glow, 
Her voice, her beaming eye, must show 

An all-inspiring soul. 

Ah ! could I such a being find. 

And were her fate to mine but joined 

By Hymen's silken tie. 
To her myself, my all, I'd give, 
For her ahnie delighted live. 

For her cousent to die. 

Whene'er by anxious care oppressed, 
On the soft pillow of her breast 

My aching head I'd lay ; 
At her sweet smile each care should cease, 
Het kiss infuse a balmy peace, 

And drive my griefs away. 

In turn, I'd soften all her care. 

Each thought, each wish, each feeling, share ; 



370 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISB AND AMEKICAX FOETKY. 



Should sickness e'er iuvade, 
My voice slioiild soothe each rising sigh, 
My hand the cordial should supply ; 

I'd vratch beside her bed. 

Should gathering clouds our sky deform, 
My arms should shield her from the storm ; 

And, were its fury hurled, 
My bosoui to its bolts I'd bare, 
In her defence undaunted dare 

Defy the opposing world. 

Together should our iirayers ascend ; 
Together would we humblj- bend 

To praise the Almighty name ; 
And when I saw her kindling eye 
Beam upward to her native sky, 

My soul should catch the flame. 

Thus nothing should our hearts divide. 
But on our years serenely glide, 

And all to love be given ; 
And, when life's little scene was o'er, 
We'd part to meet and part no more, 

But live aud love in heaveu. 



£cicil) tjuut. 



TIic son of a West Indian who settled in England and 
became a clergyman, James Henry Leigh Hunt (ITSi- 
1S5'J) was born at Soutligate, and educated at Christ's 
llospibd, London. In connection witli his brother ho 
ustaljlislied the Fxmniiicr newspaper in 1808, and became 
tlie literary associate of Coleridge, Liunb, Campbell, 
Hood, Byron, Shelley, and other men of note. Having 
called the Prince Regent "an Adouis of iifly," he and 
liis brother were condemned to two years' imprison- 
ment, with a line of £.500 each. On Hunt's release, Keats 
addressed to him one of his finest sonnets. Improvident 
;md somewhat l;\x in money matters, and often in want 
of "a loan," Hunt's life was spent in struggling with 
influences contrary to his uaturc and temperament. In 
18:32 lie went to Italy to reside with Lord Byron; and in 
1828 he published " Lord Byron, and some of his Con- 
temporaries," for which he was bitterly satirized by 
-Moore, in some biting verses, as an ingrate. Certain af- 
fectations in his style caused Hunt to be credited witli 
founding the "Cockney School of Poetry." 



TO T. L. II., SIX YEARS OLD, DURING SICIfNESS. 

Slec]> breathes at last from out thee, 

My little patient boy; 
And balmy rest about thee 

Smooths off the day's annoy. 



I sit me down and think 
Of all thy winning ways ; 
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, 
Tliat I had less to jiraise. 

The sidelong pillowed meekness, 

Tiiy thanks to all that aid. 
Thy heart, iu paiu aud weakness, 

Of fancied faults afraid; 

The little trembling hand 

That wipes thy quiet tears, 
These, these are things that may demand 

Dread memories for years. 

Sorrows I've had, severe ones, 

I will not think of now ; 
Aud calmly 'mid my dear ones. 

Have wasted with dry brow ; 

But whcu thy fingers press 

And pat my stooping head, 
I cauuot bear the gentleness, — 

The tears are iu their bed. 

Ah, first-boru of thy mother. 

When life aud hope were new ; 
Kind playmate of thy brother, 

Thy sister, father, too ; 

My light where'er I go, 

My bird when prisou-bound. 
My hand-iu-hand companion — no. 

My jirayers shall hold thee round. 

To say — " He has departed " — 

" His voice — ^his face — is gone !" 
To feel impatieut-hearted, 

Yet feel wo must bear on ; 

All, I could not endure 

To whisper of such woe. 
Unless I felt this sleep insure 

That it will not be so. 

Yes, still he's fixed and sleeping ; 

This silence too, the while — 
Its very hnsli aud creejiing 

Seems whispering ns a smile : 

Something divine and dim 

Seems going by cue's car, 
Like parting wings of .Seraphim, 

Who say, " We've finished here !'" 



1 John Wilson, once the lusty assnilnnt of Hunt, called 
him at last "the most vivid of poets and most, cordial of 
critics." 



LEIGH BUST. 



371 



ABOU BEN ADEEM AND THE ANGEL. 

Abou Ben Adhem (may liis tribe increase!) 
Awoke oue uigbt fiom a deep dream of i)eace, 
And saw, witbiu tbe moouligbt iu his room, 
Making it rich, aud like a lily iu bloom, 
All angel, writing in a book of gold: — 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold. 
And to the presence in the room he said, 
"What writest thou ?" — The vision raised its head, 
And, with a look made of all sweet accord. 
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." 
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," 
Keiilied the angel. Abou spake more low, 
But cheerily still ; and said, " I pray thee, then, 
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 

The angel vrrote, aud vanished. The next night 
It came again with a great wakening light. 
And showed the names whom love of God had 

blessed, 
Aud lo ! Bon Adhem's name led all the rest. 



H AN ITALLVN MORNING IN MAY. 

FEOii "The Story of Rimini." 

The sun is up, and 'tis a morn of May 

Round old Ravenna's clear-shown towers aud bay ; 

A morn, the loveliest which the year has seen. 

Last of the spring, yet fresh ^n ith all its green ; 

For a warm eve, and gentle rains at uight. 

Have left a sparkling welcome for the light, 

And there's a crystal clearness all about ; 

The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out; 

A balmy briskness conies upon the breeze; 

The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees ; 

And Tvlien you listen, you may hear a coil 

Of bubbling springs about the grassier soil ; 

And all the scene, in short, — skj-, earth, and sea, — 

Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out 

openly. 
'Tis nature, full of spirits, waked aud springing : — 
The birds to the delicious time are singing. 
Darting with freaks aud suatches up and down. 
Where the light woods go seaw.ard from the towu ; 
While happy faces, striking through the green 
Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen ; 
Aud the far ships, lifting their sails of white 
Like joyful hands, come up with scattered liglit. 
Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for d.-iy, 
Aud chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the 

bay. 



THOUGHTS ON THE AVON, SEPT. 2S, 1817. 

It is the loveliest day that we li.ave had 
This lovely month — sjiarkliug, and full of cheer; 
The suu has a sharp eye, yet kind and glad ; 
Colors are doubly bright : all things appear 
Strong outlined in the spacious atmosphere ; 
And through the lofty air the white slouds go. 
As on their way to some celestial show. 

The banks of Avou must look -n-ell to-day : 
Autumn is there in all his glory and treasure ; 
The river must ruu bright, the ripiiles play 
Their crispest tunes to boats that rock at leisure ; 
The ladies are abroad with cheeks of pleasure ; 
And the rich orchards, iu their sunniest robes, 
Are pouting thick with all their winy globes. 

And why must I be thinking of the prido 

Of distant bowers, as if I had no nest 

To sing in here, though by the hou.ses' side ? 

As if I could uot in a minute rest 

In leafy fields, rural, and self-posses.sed, 

Having on oue side Hanipstead for my looks, 

On t'other, London, with its wealth of books? 

It is uot that I envy autumn there. 

Nor the sweet river, though my fields have none ; 

Nor yet that iu its all-productive air 

Was born Humanity's divinesfc son. 

That sprightliest, gravest, wisest, kindest one, 

Sliakspeare ; nor yet — oh no — that here I miss 

Souls not unworthy to be named with his. 

No ; but it is that on this very day, 
And upon Sliakspeare's stream — a little lower, 
Where, drunk with Delphic air, it conies away, 
Dancing in perfume by the Peary Shore — 
Was born the lass that I love more aud more ; 
A fruit as fine as iu the Hesperian store. 
Smooth, roundly smiling, noble to the core; 
An eye for art ; a nature that of yore 
Mothers and daughters, wives and sisters wore, 
Wlien in the Golden Age one tune they bore — 
Marian, — who makes my heart and very rhymes 
run o'er. 



MAY AND THE POETS. 

There is May in books forever : 
May will part from Spenser never ; 
JIay's in Milton, Slay's in Pryor, 
May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer ; 



372 



CYCLOrJEDIA OF BRITISH ASD AMEBICAX POETRY. 



May's iu all tlie Italian books : 
She lias okl ami uioileru uooUs, 
Where she sleeps with iiyniphs auil elves 
111 happy places they call shelves, 
And will rise ami dress your vooiiis 
With a drapery thick with blooms. 
Come, ye raius, theu, if ye will ; 
May's at home, ami with me still: 
Hut come rather, thou, good weather, 
And lind us in the lields toirether. 



DEATH. 

Death is a road our dearest friends have gone : 
Wliy, with such leaders, fear to say, " Lead on ?" 
Its gate repels, lest it too soon be tried. 
But turns iu balm on the immortal side. 
Mothers have passed it; fathers, children ; men 
Wliose like we look not to behold again ; 
Wimien that smiled away their loving breath : — 
Soft is tlie travelling on the road of Death ! 
But guilt has passed it? — men not tit to die f 
Oil, hush — for He that made us all is by! 
Human were all — all men, all born of mothers ; 
All our own .selves in the worn-out sliape of otliers; 
Our HS«?, and oh, bo sure, not to be i7/-used brothels. 



JENNY KISSED ME. 

Jenny kissed me when we met, 

Jumping from tlie chair she sat iu: 

Time, you thief, who love to get 
Sweets into your list, put that in! 

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad ; 

Say that Iiealth and wealth have missed me; 

Say I'm growing old, but add — 

Jenny kissed me ! 



i?amcs iX'clsou Cavbr. 

AMERICAN. 

Barker (17S4-18.58), better known as a dramntie writer 
tliaii by his other produetious, was a native of Pliiladel- 
]iliia, and a son of General Jolin Barker, an oifieer of llie 
Revolution, and at one time mayor and sheriff of the 
city. James was a captain in the artillery during the 
war of 1812 with Great Britain, was for one year mayor 
of Philadelphia, and afterward collector of the port. 
In 1807 he produced a comedy, entitled "Tears and 
Smiles;" in 1SI7, "How to Try a Lover," never pci- 
forincd; and in IS'33, a tragedy, "Superstition," one of 



the ijrincipal parts in which is Goff, the regicide. Bar 
ker was also the author of some sprightly poems, one of 
which we subjoin. 



LITTLE EED RIDING-HOOD. 
She was, indeed, a iiretty little creature ; 
So meek, so modest ! What a pity, madam. 
That one so young and innocent should fall 
A prey to tlie ravenous wolf! 

The wolf, indeed ! 

You've left the nursery to but little purpose 
If you believe a wolf could ever spc:ilc, 
Though in the time of .^sop or before. 

Was 't not a wolf, then ? I have read the story 

A hundred times, and heard it told ; May, told it 

Myself to my yonnger sisters, when we've sliruuk 

Together iu the sheets, from very terror. 

And, with iiroteeting arms, each round the other, 

E'eu sobbed ourselves to sleep. But I remember 

I s.iw the story acted on the stage 

Last winter in the city, I and my school-mates, . 

With our most kind preceptress, Mrs. Bazely : 

And so it was a robber, not a wolf, 

That met poor little Riding-hood i' the wood ? 

Nor wolf nor robber, child : this uursei-y tale 

Contains a hidden moral. 

Hidden ? Nay, 

I'm not so young but I can spell it out, 

And thus it is: Children, when sent on errands. 

Must never stop by the T\"ay to talk with wolves. 

Tut ! wolves again ! Wilt listen to me, child ? 

Say on, dear grandma. 

Thus, then, dear my daughter: 

In this young person, culling idle llowers, 
Y'ou see the peril that attends the maiden 
Who, iu her walk through life, yields to temptation, 
And quits the onward path to stray aside, 
Allured by gaudy weeds. 

Nay, none but children 

Could gather buttercups and May-ueed, mother ; 
But violets, dear violets — niethinks 
I could live ever ou a bank of violets, 
Or die most happy there. 

Y'ou die, indeed ! 

At your years die ! 

Then sleep, ma'am, if you please, 

As you did yesterday, in that sweet spot 
Down by the fountain, where you seated you 
To read the last new novel — what d'ye call it f — 
"The Prairie," was it not? 

It was, my love; 

And there, as I remember, your kind arm 
I'illowed my aged head. 'Twas irksome, sure, 



JAMES NELSON BARKER. 



373 



To your young limbs :md spirit. 

Xo, believe mo : 

To keep tbe insects from disturbing you 
Was sweet employment, or to f:iu your cheek 
When the breeze lulled. 

You're a dear cbiUl ! 

A;id then 

To gaze on such a scene ! tlie grassy bank, 

So gently sloping to tbe rivnlet. 

All purple with my own dear violet, 

And sprinkled over with spring flowers of each tint! 

There was that pale and bumble little blossom. 

Looking so like its namesake, Innocence ; 

The fairy-formed, flesh-hued anemone. 

With its fair sisters, called by country people 

Fair maids o' the spring; tbe lowly ciuque-foil, too, 

And statelier marigold ; tbe violet sorrel. 

Blushing so rosy-red in basbfulness. 

And her companion of the season, dressed 

In varied pink ; the partridge evei'green, 

Hanging its fragrant wax-work on each stem, 

And studding the green sod with scarlet berries, — 

Did you see all those flowers ? I marked them 

not. 

Oh, many more, whose names I have not learned ! 

And then to see the light-blue butterfly 
Roaming about, like an enchanted thing, 
Fjom flower to flower, and tbe bright bouey-bee — 
And there, too, was the fountain, overhung 
With bush and tree, draped by the graceful vine 
Where the white blossoms of the dog-wood met 
Tbe crimson redbud, and the sweet birds sang 
Their madrigals ; while the fresh springing waters. 
Just stirring the green fern that bathed within them. 
Leaped joyful o'er their fairy mound of rock. 
And fell iu music, then passed prattling on 
Between the flowery banks that bent to kiss them. 

1 dreamed not of these sights or sounds. 

Then just 

Beyond the brook there lay a narrow strip. 

Like a rich ribbon, of enamelled meadow. 

Girt by a pretty precipice, whose top 

Was crowned with roscbay. Ilalf-way down there 

stood. 
Sylph-like, the light, fantastic Columbine, 
As ready to leap down unto her lover, 
Harleciuiu Bartsia, in his painted vest 
Of green and crimson. 

Tut ! enough, enough ! 

Your madcap fancy runs too riot, girl. 
We must shut up your books of botany. 
And give you graver studies. 

Will you shut 



Tlie book of nature too f — for it is that 
I love and study. Do not take me back 
To the cold, heartless city, with its forma 
And dull routine, its artificial manners 
And arbitrary rules, its cheerless pleasures 
And mirthless masking. Yet a little longer. 
Oh let me bold communion here with nature ! 

Well, well, we'll see. But we neglect our lecture 

Upon this picture — 

Poor Red Riding-hood ! 

We had forgotten her: yet mark,, dear madam, 
How patiently the poor thing waits our leisure. 
And now the hidden moral. 

Thus it is : 

Mere children read such stories literally, 

But the more elderly and wise dednco 

A moral from the fictiou. In a word, 

The wolf that you must guard against is — love. 

1 thought love was an infant — "toiijoius enfant." 

The world and love were young together, child. 

And innocent — Alas ! time changes all things. 

True, I remember, love is now a man, 

And, the song says, "a very saucy one;" 
But how a wolf? 

In r.avenous appetite, 

L'upitying and unsparing, passion is oft 
A beast of prey: as the wolf to the lamb, 
Is he to innocence. 

1 shall remember. 

For now I see the moral. Trust me, madam, 
Sliould I e'er meet this wolf-love in my way. 
Be be a boj- or man, I'll take good heed. 
And hold no converse with him. 

You'll do wisely. 

Nor e'er in field or forest, plain or jiathway, 

Shall he from me know whither I am going. 
Or whisper that he'll meet me. 

That's my child. 

Xor in my grandam's cottage, nor elsewhere, 

Will I e'er lift the latch for him myself. 
Or bid him pull the bobbin. 

Well, my dear, 

Y'ou've learned your lesson. 

Y'et one thing, my mother. 

Somewhat perplexes me. 

Say what, my love, 

I will explain. 

The wolf, the story goes. 

Deceived poor grandam first, and ate her up : 
What is the moral here ? Have all our grandmas 
Been first devoured by love ? 

Let us go in : 

The air grows cool. You are a forward chit. 



374 



VTCLOFJEDIA OF BRITISH JXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



iJoljii llHlson. 



Pi'ofcssoi' Jolin Wilson (lT85-lSrj4), son of an opulent 
manufacturer, was a native of Paisley, Seotland. Edu- 
cated at Oxfoi'd, he bought the beautiful estate of El- 
leray, on Lal^e Windermere, married, built a house, kept 
a yacht, wrote poetry, cultivated the society of Words- 
worth, and enjoyed himself generally. Reverses came, 
however, and he was compelled to woik in earnest. He 
was appointed Professor of Moral Philosophy in the 
University of Edinburgh, took the editorship of Mack- 
vjooiVs ildgazine, and there made for himself quite a rep- 
utation, in his day, under tlie nom tie plume of Christo- 
pher North. Seott speaks of him, in one of his letters, 
as "an eccentric genius." The poetical works of Wilson 
consist of "The Isle of Palms" (1813), "The City of the 
Plague" (ISlfi), and several smaller pieces. In reference 
to his prose writings, Hallam characterized him as "a 
living writer of tlie most ardent and enthusiastic genms, 
whose eloquence is as the rush of miglity waters." In 
18.51 Wilson was granted a pension of £300 per annum. 
An interesting memoir of him by Ids daughter, Mrs. 
Gordon, ajipearcd in 1SG3. 



ADDRESS TO A WILD-DEER. 

Mngnificcnt creature ! so .stately and bright ! 
In the iiride of thy spirit pursuing thy flight ; 
For what hath the child of the desert to dread. 
Wafting up bis owu mouutaius that far beaming 

bead ; 
Or bonio like a whirlwind down on the vale! — 
Hail! kiug of the wild and the beautiful! — hail! 
Hail ! idol divine ! — whom nature hath borue 
O'er a hundred hill -tops since the mists of the 

morn, 
Whom the pilgrim louo wandering on mountain 

and moor, 
As the vision glides hy liini, may blameless adore; 
For the joy of the happy, the strength of the free, 
-Vre spread in a garment of glory o'er thee, 
Up! up to yon clilF! like a king to Lis tbi'one ! 
O'er the black silent forest piled lofty and loue — 
A throne which the eagle Is glad to resign 
Unto footsteps so fleet and so fearless as thine. 
There the bright heather springs up in love of 

thy l>reast, 
Lo ! the clouds iu the depths of the sky arc at 

rest ; 
And the race of the wild winds is o'er on the hill! 
In the hush of the mountains, ye antlers, lie still! — 
Though your branches now toss in tlic storm of 

d(dight 
Liki^ the .-irnis of the pine on yon sheltcrlc^ss 

height, 



One moment — thou bright apparition — delay! 

Then melt o'er the er.ags, like the sun from the day. 

Aloft on the weather-gleam, scorning the earth, 
The wild spirit bung in majestieal mirth ; 
In dalliance witli danger, he bounded iu bliss 
O'er the fathomless gloom of each moaning abyss ; 
O'er the grim rocks careering with prosperous 

motion, 
Liko a ship by herself iu full sail o'er the ocean! 
Tlieu proudly be turned ere be sank to the dell, 
And shook from his foreheail a liangbty farewell, 
While his horns in a crescent of radiance slione, 
Like a flag burning bright when the vessel is gone. 

The ship of the desert liath passed on the wind, 
And left the dark ocean of mountains behind! 
But my siiirit will travel wherever she flee, 
And behold her iu jiomp o'er the rim of tlie sea — 
Her voyage pursue — till her anchor bo cast 
In some cliti'-girdlod haven of beauty at last. 

What lonely magnificence stretches around ! 
Each sight how sublime ! and how awfnl each 

sound ! 
All hushed and serene as a region of dreams. 
The mountains I'epose 'mid the roar of the streams. 
Their glens of Hack umbrage by cataracts riveu, 
But calm their blue tops in the beauty of heaven. 



IIYMX. 

From " Lord P.onald's Child." 

FIRST VOICE. 

Oh beautiful the streams 

That through our valleys run, 

Singing and dancing in the gleams 
Of summer's cloudless sun. 

The sweetest of them all 

From its fairy banks is gone ! 

And the music of the water-fall 
Hath left the silent stone! 

Up among the mountains 

In soft and nio.ssy cell. 
By the silent spi'ings and fountains 

The happy w ild-llowers dwell. 

The queen-rose of the wilderness 
Hath withered in the wind, 



JOHN WILSOX. 



375 



Ami tlie sliepherds see no lovcliuess 
111 the blossoms left bebiud. 

Birds cheer our lonely groves 

With mauy a beauteous ■wing — 
Wlien happy in their bavmless loves, 

How teuderl}' they sing ! 

0"er all the rest was beard 

One wild and mournful strain, — 
But bushed is the voice of that hynming bird, 

She ne'er must sing again! 

Bright through the yew-trees' gloom, 

I saw a sleeping dovo! 
On the silence of her silvery plume. 

The sunlight lay in love. 

Tlie grove seemed all her own 

Round tlie beauty of that breast — 

— But the startled dove afar is flown ! 
Forsaken is her nest ! 

Ill yonder forest \^ide 

A flock of wild-deer lies, 
Beauty breathes o'er each tender side 

And shades their peacefnl eyes ! 

The hunter in the night 

Hath singled out the doe. 
In whose light the luountaiu-flock lay bright, 

Whose hue was like the snow ! 

A thousand stars shine forth, 

With pure and dewy ray — 
Till by night the mountains of our north 

Seem gladdening in the day. 

Oh empty all tlio heaven ! 

Though a thousand lights be there — 
For clouds o'er the evening-star are driven, 

And shorn her golden hair! 

SECOND VOICE. 

— What though the stream be dead, 

Its banks all still and dry! 
It murniurcth now o'er a lovelier bed 

In the air-groves of the sky. 

What though our prayers from death 

The queen-rose might not save ! 
With brighter bloom and balmier breath 

She springeth from the grave. 



What though our bird of light 
Lie mute with plumage dim! 

Ill heaven I see her glancing bright — 
I hear her angel hymn. 

What though the dark tree smile 

No more — with our dove's calm sleep ! 

She folds her wing on .a sunny isle 
In heaven's untroubled deep. 

True that our beauteous doe 
Hath left her still retreat — 

But purer now in heavenly snow 
She lies at Jesus' feet. 

Oh star ! untimely set ! 

Why should we weep for thee ! 
Thy bright and dewy coronet 

Is rising o'er the sea ! 



THE EVENING CLOUD. 

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun ; 
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow ; 
Long bad I watched the glory moving on. 
O'er the still radiance of the lake below. 
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow, — 
Even in its very motion there was rest; 
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow 
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west : — 
Emblem, inethought, of the departed soul. 
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given; 
And, by the breath of Mercy, made to roll 
Right onw.ard to the golden gates of he.aven ; 
Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies, 
And tells to man his glorious destinies. 



THE SHIPWRECK. 

Fnosi " Toe Isle of Palsis." 

It is the midnight hour : — the beauteous sea. 
Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven dis- 
closes, 
While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee, 
Far down within the watery sky reposes. 
The mighty moon, she sits above, 
Encircled with a zone of love ; 
A zone of dim and tender light, 
That makes her wakeful eye more bright ; 
She seems to shine with a sunny ray. 
And the night looks like a mellowed day. 



37C 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETEY. 



Ami, lo ! upon tlie murmiiriug -waves 

A glorious shape appeariug ! 
A broad-xviuged vessel, tbrousli tlio shower 

Of gliiuuierlug lustre steoriug ! — 
As if the beauteous ship enjoyed 

The beauty of the sea. 
She lifteth up her stately head, 

And saileth joyfully. 
A lovely path before her lies, 

A lovely path behind ; 
She sails amid the loveliuess 

Like a thing with heart and mind. 

Fit pilgrim through a sceuo so fair, 

Slowly she beareth on; 
A glorious phantom of the deep, 

Kisen up to meet the inoou. 
The moon bids her tenderest radiance fall 

On her wavy streamer and snow-white wings, 
And the quiet voice of the rocking sea. 

To cheer the gliding vision, sings. 
Oh, ue'er did sky and water bleud 

In such a holy sleep. 
Or bathe in brighter quietude 

A roamer of the deep. 

But, list! a low and moaning sound 

At distance heard, like a spirit's song ! 
And now it reigns above, around. 

As if it called the ship along. 
The moon is sunk, and a clouded gray 

Declares tliat her course is run. 
And, like a god who brings the day. 

Up mounts the glorious sun. 
Soon as his light has warmed the seas. 
From the parting cloud fresh blows the breeze! 
.Vnd tliat is tlie spirit whose well-known song 
Makes the vessel to sail in joy along. 

No fears hath she! her giant form 
O'er wrathful surge, througli blackening storm, 
Majestically calm would go 
'Mid the deep darkness white as snow! 
Hut gently now the small waves glide 
Like playful lambs o'er a mountaiu side. 
So stately her bearing, so proud her array, 
Tlie main she will traverse forever and aye. 
Many ports will exult at the gleam of her ni.ast ! 
Hush, hush, thou vain dreamer! this hour is her 
last. 

Five hundred souls in one instant of dread 
Are hurried o'er the deck ; 



And fast the miserable ship 

Becomes a lifeless wreck. 
Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock, 

Her planks are torn asunder, 
And down come her masts with a reeling shock. 

And a hideous crash like thnndei'. 
Her sails are draggled in the brine. 

That gladdened late the skies. 
And her pennant that kissed the fair moonshine 

Down many a fathom lies. 
Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow-hues 

Gleamed softly from below. 
And tlnug a warm and sunny flush 

O'er the wreaths of niurniuring snow. 
To the coral rocks are hurrying down. 
To sleep amid colors as bright as their own. 

Oh, many a dream was in the ship 

An hour before her death ; 
And sights of home with sighs disturbed 

The sleeper's long-drawn breath. 
Instead of the murnnir of the sea, 
The sailor heard the humming tree. 

Alive through all its leaves, 
The hum of the spreading sycamore 
That grows before his cottage door. 

And the swallow's song in the eaves. 
His arms enclosad a blooming boy. 
Who listened with tears of sorrow and joy 

To the dangers his father had pas.sed ; 
And his wife — by turns she wept and smiled. 
As she looked on the father of her child 

Returned to her lieart at last. 

He wakes at the vessel's sndden roll, 
And the rush of waters Is in his soul. 
Astounded the reeliug deck he paces, 
'Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces; — 

The whole ship's crew are there. 
Wailings around and overhead. 
Brave spirits stupefied or dead, 

And madness and despair. 

Now is the ocean's bosom bare. 

Unbroken as the floating air ; 

The ship hath melted quite away, 

Like a struggling dream at break of day. 

No image meets ray waudering eye. 

But the new-ri.sen sun and the sunny sky. 

Though the night-sh.ades are gone, yet a vapor dull 

Bedims the waves so beautiful; 

While a low and melancholy moan 

Mourns for the glory that hath flowu. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE.— SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 



37 



C)cnri) Kirkc llUjitc. 

White (1785-1806), the son of a butcher, was born iu 
Nottintrham, England. His juvenile verses attracted the 
attention of generous patrons, particularly Mr. Southey. 
At seventeen he published a volume of poems. He had 
got admission to the University of Cambridge, and was 
f:ist acquiring distinction, when too much brain -work 
terminated his life. Southey wrote a brief biography of 
him, and edited his " Remains ;" and Byron consecrated 
some spirited lines to his memory, from which we quote 
the following: 

"So the struck engle, stretched upon the plain. 
No more through rt)lliiig clouds to soar .igiiiu. 
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart. 
And winged ttie shaft that quivered to his heart." 

(See the two lines by Katharine Phillips, page 119 of 
this volume.) A tablet to White's memory', with a me- 
dallion by Chantrey, was placed in All Saints' Church, 
Cambridge, England, by a young American, Francis Boot 
of Boston. In judging White's poetry we must remem- 
ber that it was all written before his twentieth year. 



TIME. 



Time inovetli not ; onr being 'tis that moves ; 
And we, swift gliding dowu life's rapid stream, 
Dream of .swift ages, and revolving years, 
Ordained to chronicle our passing days: — 
So the young sailor, in the gallant bark, 
Scudding before the wind, beholds the coast 
Receding from Ills eye, and thiulis the while, 
Struck with amaze, that he is motionless, 
And that the laud is sailing. 



CONCLUDING STANZAS OF "THE CHRISTIAD." 

Thus far have I pursued ray solemn theme, 

With self-rewarding toil ; thus far have suug 
Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem 

The lyre which I in early days have strung ; 

And now my spirits faint, and I have hung 
The shell, that solaced me iu saddest hour. 

On the dark cypress ! and the strings which rung 
With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er. 
Or wlieu the breeze comes by, moan, aud are heard 
no more. 

And must the harp of Judah sleep again ? 
Shall I no more reanimate the Lay ? 

Oh! thou who visitest the sons of men. 

Thou who dost listen when the humble pray, 
One little space prolong my monriiful day I 

One little lapse suspend thy last decree ! 



I am a youthful traveller in the way, 
And this slight boon would consecrate to thee. 
Ere I with Death shake bauds, and smile that I 
am free. 



TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. 

Mild oft'spring of a dark and sullen sire! 
Whose modest form, so delicately tine. 
Was nursed in whirling storms, 
.And cradled iu the w iuds : — 

Thee when young Spring first questioned Winter's 

sway. 
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, 

Thee on this bank he threw 

To mark the victory. 

In this low vale, the promise of the year, 
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale. 

Unnoticed and alone, 

Thy tender elegance. 

So virtue blooms, brought forth :imid the storms 
Of chill adversity; in some lone walk 

Of life she rears her bead, 

Obscure aud unobserved ; 

Wliile every bleaching breeze that on her blows 
Chastens her spotless purity of breast, 

And hardens her to bear 

Serene the ills of life. 



Samuel lHooliuiortlj. 

AMERICAN. 

Woodworth (178.5-1843), known chiefly by his one 
homely but vigorous lyric, was a native of Scituate, 
Mass. Removing to New York, he became a printer by 
trade, and was connected with a number of not prosper- 
ous periodical publications. "Except bis one famous 
song," says Mr. E. C. Stedraan, "I can find nothing 
worth a day's remembrance in his collected poems." 



THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my child- 
hood. 
When fond recollection presents tbera to view! 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild 
wood, 
And ever}' loved spot which my infancy knew ; 



378 



CYCLOPMDIA OF BEITISB AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



The wide-spreading pond, aud the mill which stood 
1>.V it, 

The bridge, and the rock -nhcre the cataract fell ; 
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, 

Aud e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well I 
The old oakeu bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well! 

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure ; 

For often, at noou, when returned from the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure. 

The purest and sweetest that Nature can yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were 
glowing, 

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing. 

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; 
The old oakeu bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green niossj' brim to receive it. 

As poised on the curb it inclined to ray lips! 
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to 
leave it, 

Though tilled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved situation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell. 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation. 

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well ; 
The old oakeu bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. 



liobcrt (Prant. 

Tlie Right Hon. Sir Robert Grant (1785-1838) was a 
native of the county of Inverness, Scotland. He gradu- 
ated with high houois at Cambridge in 1800, was called 
to the Bar in Lincoln's Inn in ISO", elected to Parlia- 
ment in 18:26, and made governor of Bombay in 181^. 
An clesant volume, entitled " Sacred Poems, by Sir Rob- 
ert Grant," was published by Lord Glcnelg in 1839. 



WHOM HAVE I IN HEAVEN BUT THEE? 

Lord of earth ! thy bounteous baud 
AVell this glorious frame hath planned ; 
Woods that wave and hills that tower, 
Ocean rolling in his power; 
All that strikes the gaze un.souglit. 
All that charms the lonely thought ; 
Friendship — gem transcending price, — 
Love — a flower from Paradise! 



Yet, amid this scene so fair, 
Should I cease thy smile to share. 
What were all its joys to me ! 
Whom have I in earth but Thee ? 

Lord of heaven ! beyond our sight 
Rolls a world of purer light ; 
There, iu Love's nuclonded reign, 
Parted hands shall cla,sp again ; 
Martyrs there, aud prophets high, 
Blaze — a. glorious companj' ; 
While immortal music rings 
From iiuunmbered seraph-strings. 
Oh! that world is passing fair; 
Yet if thou wert absent there. 
What were all its joys to me ! 
Whom have I iu heaven but Thee f 

Lord of earth and heaven ! my breast 
Seeks in thee its only rest ! 
I was lost — thy accents mild 
Homeward lured thy wandering child ; 
I was blind — thy healing ray 
Charmed the long eclipse away; 
Source of every joy I know, 
Solace of my every woe ! 
Yet should ouce thy smile divine 
Cease upou my soul to shine, 
Wliat were earth or heaven to me! 
Whom have I iu each but Thee ? 



(Pcorgc Parlcj). 

Darlcy (178.5-1849) was a native of Dublin, and died iu 
London. He w.is both a mathematician and a poet; 
producing "Familiar Astronomy" (1830), "Popular Al- 
gebra, third edition" (1836), etc., as well as "Poems: 
Sylvia, or the May Queen" (1837); "Ethelstan, a Dra- 
matic Chronicle" (1811); "Errors of E.xtasie and other 
Poems" (1819). Allan Ciinningliaui says (1833) : "George 
Darley is a true poet and e.vccllcnt mathematician." He 
was an accomplished critic, and the latter part of his life 
wrote for tlie Atheiiaum. His verses arc at times rug- 
ged and obscure, and his use of odd or obsolete words is 
not always happy. 



FROM "THE FAIRIES." 

Have you not oft in the still wind, 
Heard sylvan notes of a strange kind. 
That rose one moment, aud then fell, 
Swooning away like a far knell f 
Listen ! — that wave of perfume broke 
Into sea-music, as I spoke, 



GEORGE n.tnLEY.—Jony pierpoxt. 



370 



Fainter tlian that wbicU seems to roar 
On the moon's silver-saniU'd shore, 
Whon tbrongli tlie sileneo of the night 
Is lieaid the ebb and llow of light. 

Oh, shut the eye and ope the ear! 
Do you not hear, or think you hear, 
A ^vido hush o'er the woodbind pass 
Like distant waving fields of grass ? — 
Voices ! — ho ! ho ! — a band is coming, 
Loud as ten thonsand bees a-humniing. 
Or ranks of little merry men 
Tromboning deeply frouj the glen, 
And now as if they changed, and rnng 
Their citterns small, and ribbon-slnug. 
Over their gallant shoulders hung ! — 
A chant ! a chant ! that swoons and swells 
Like soft winds jangling nieadow-bells ; 
Now brave, as when in Flora's bower 
Gay Zephyr blows a triimpct-flowor ; 
Now thrilling tine, and sharp, and clear. 
Like Dian's moonbeam dnkiiuer ; 
But mixed with whoops, and infant langhter. 
Shouts following one another after, 
As on a hearty holiday 
When youth is flush and full of May; — 
S[uall shouts, indeed, as wild bees knew 
Both how to hum. and halloo too! 



THE QUEEN OF THE MAY. 

Here's a bank with rich cowslijis and cuckoo-buds 
strewn. 
To exalt your bright looks, gentle Qneeu of the 
May : 
Here's a cushion of mo.ss for your delicate shoon, 
And a woodbine to weave you a canopy gay. 

f 

Here's a garland of red maiden-roses for you ; 

Such a delicate wreath is for beauty alone ; 
Here's a golden kingcup, brimming over with dew, 
To be kissed bj' a lip just as sweet as its own. 

Here are bracelets of pearl from the fount in the 
dale, 
That the nymph of the wave on your wrists 
doth bestow ; 
Here's a lilj'-wronglit scarf your sweet blushes to 
hide, 
Or to lie on that bosom, like snow upon snow. 

Here's a myrtle enwreathed with a jessamine band. 
To express the fond twining of beauty and youth ; 



Take the emblem of love iu thy exquisite hand. 
And do thou sway the evergreen sceptre of Trnth. 

Then around you we'll dance, and around you we'll 

sing. 

To soft i)ipe and sweet tabor we'll foot it away ; 

And the hills and the dales and the forest shall ring, 

AVhile we hail you our lovely young Qfiieen of the 

Mav. 



SUICIDE. 
From " Etuelstan." 

Fool ! I mean not 
That poor-souled jiiece of heroism, self-slaughter; 
Oh no ! the miserablest day we live 
There's mauv a better thing to do than die! 



3o\]n JJicrpont. 

AMERICAN. 

Piurpont (178.5-1866) was born in Litcbfiekl, Conn., 
and educated at Tale College. He studied law awliiie, 
and then entered into mercantile pursuits at Baltimore 
with John Neal, of Portland, Maine, who also became 
somewhat famous in litci-ature, and was a man of mark- 
ed power. Failing iu business in consequence of the 
War of 1813, Picrpont studied for the ministry, and was 
settled over HoUis Street Church in Boston. Ardent 
and outspoken on all subjects, especially those of intem- 
perance and slaver}', lie disalfeetcd some of his hearers, 
and left his congregation. He was afterward settled over 
Unitarian societies in Troy, N. Y., and Medford, Mass. 
In his later years he became a Spiritualist, and advocated 
the new cause with his characteristic eloquence and zeal. 
He was employed, a few years before his death, in the 
Treasury Department at Washington. Pierpont's iiist 
poetical venture, "The Airs of Palestine," placed him 
high among tlie literary men of the day. He wrote a 
number of hymns and odes, showing fine literary cult- 
ure. Bold, energetic, and devoted in all his undertak- 
ings, he left the reputation of a man of sterling integ- 
rity, generous tempei", noble aspirations, and great in- 
trepidity in all his efforts for what he esteemed the right 
and true. See Bryant's lines on him. 



THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 

Tlio Pilgrim Fathers, where are they ? 

The waves that brought them o'er 
Still roll iu the bay, and throw their spray, 

As they break along the shore — 
Still roll in the bay as they rolled that day 

When the May-Flower. xaooreA below. 
When the sea around was black with storms. 

And white the shore with snow. 



3S0 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BEITISH AXD AMEBICAX POETRY. 



The mists that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep 

Still brood upon tlie tide ; 
Aud his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, 

To stay its waves of pride: 
But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale 

Whcu the heavens looked dark, is gone ; 
As an angel's wing through au opeuiug cloud 

Is seen, aud then withdrawn. 

The pilgrim exile — sainted name ! 

The hill whose icy brow 
Rejoiced, when he came, in the moruiug's Hame, 

lu the morning's flame burns now. 
Aud the moon's cold light, as it lay that uight 

On the hill-side aud the sea, 
Still lies where he laid his houseless head ; 

But the pilgrim, where is he ? 

The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest : — 

When Summer is throned on high, 
And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed, 

Go, stand on the hill where they lie : 
The earliest ray of the golden day 

On the hallowed spot is cast ; 
Aud the evening sun, as he leaves the world, 

Looks kiudly ou that spot last. 

The pilgrim sinrit has not fled : 

It walks in uoou's broad light ; 
Aud it watches the bed of the glorious dead, 

With the holy stars by uight : 
It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, 

Aud shall guard this ice-bound shore, 
Till the waves of the bay where the May-Flower lay 

Shall foam and freeze uo more. 



FROM "THE DEPARTED CHILD." 

I cannot make him dead ! 

His fair suushiny head 
Is ever bounding round my study-chair; 

Yet when my eyes, now dim 

With tears, I turn to him. 
The vision vanishes — he is uot there ! 

I know his face is hid 

Under the cofHu-lid ; 
Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair: 

My hand that marble felt ; 

O'er it in prayer I knelt; 
Yet my heart whispers that — he is uot thei-c ! 



I cannot make hun dead ! 

When i)assing by the bed, 
So long watched over with pareutiil care, — 

My spirit and my eye 

Seek it inquiringly, 
Before the thought comes that — he is uot there! 

Whcu, at the cool gray break 

Of day, from sleep I wake, 
With my first breathing of the morning air 

My soul goes up with joy 

To Him who gave my boy; 
Then comes the sad thought that — he is not there ! 

When, at the day's calm close. 

Before wo seek repose, 
I'm with his mother ofiering np our prayer, 

Or evening anthems tuning, — 

In spirit I'm communing 
With our boy's spirit, though — he is not there! 

Not there ! — where, then, is he ? 

The form I used to see 
Was but the raiment that he used to wear; 

The grave that now doth iiress 

Upon that east-oflf dress 
Is but his wardrobe locked — he is uot there! 

He lives! — in all the past 

He lives ; nor to the last 
Of seeing him agaiu will I despair. 

lu dreams I see him now ; 

Aud on his angel brow 
I see it written — -'Thou slialt see me there!"' 

Yes, we all live to God! 

Father, thy chastening rod 
So help US, thine alllicted ones, to bear. 

That, in the Spirit-laud, 

Meeting at thy right hand, 
'Twill be our heaven to fiud that — he is there r 



WHAT BLESSES NOW MUST EVER BLESS. 

Lord, thou knowest ! 

Man never knew uio as thou knowest me. 

I never could reveal myself to man : 

For neither had I, while I lived, the power 

To those who were the nearest to my heart 

To lay that heart all open, as it w.as, 

And as thou, Lord, hast seen it; nor could they. 

Had every inmost feeling of my soul 



JOHX PIERPONT.—jyDREWS XORTOX. 



381 



By seraphs' lips been uttereJ, e'er have had 

The ear to hear it, or the soul to feel. 

The world has seeu the snrfiico ouly of me : — 

Xot that I've striven to hide myself from luou ; — 

No, I have rather labored to be known : — 

But when I would have spoken of my faith, 

My conuiiuuiugs with thee, my heavenward hope, 

My love for thee and all that thou hast miide, 

The perfect peace in which I looked on all 

Thy works of glorious beauty, — then it seemed 

That thou .alone couldst understand me, Lord : 

And so my lips were sealed — or the world's phrase. 

The courteous question, or the frank reply 

Alone escaped them. I have ne'er been known, 

My Father, but by thoo : and I rejoice 

That thou, who mad'st me, art to be my Judge ; 

For iu thij judgments thou reraemberest mercy. 

I cast myself upon them. Like thy laws, 

They are all trne and right. The law that keeps 

This planet iu her p.ath around the sun 

Keeps all her sister-planets too in theirs. 

And all the other shining hosts of heaven. 

Al! worlds, all times, are under that one law ; 

For what binds one, binds all. So all thy so:is 

And danghters, clothed iu light — hosts brighter far 

Tluiu suns and plauets — spiritual hosts, 

Whose glory is their goodness — have one law, 

The perfect law of love, to guide them through 

All worlds, all times. Thy Kingdom, LAd, is one. 

Life, death, earth, heaven, eternity, and time 

Lie all within it; and what blesses now 

Must ever bless, — Love OF things true and eight. 



vluiirciiis 3\'ovtoii. 

AMERICAN. 

Norton (1786-1853) was a native of Hingham, M.iss. 
He was educated at Harvard College, and became eminent 
as a Unitarian theologian. He edited an American edition 
of the poems of Mrs. Hemans, whose fiieiidship he form- 
ed while in England. 



SCENE AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER. 

The rain is o'er. How dense and bright 
Yon pearly clouds reposing lie ! 

Cloud above '■loud, a glorious sight. 
Contrasting with the dark blue sky! 

In grateful silence, earth receives 

The general blessing ; fresh and fair, 

Each flower expands its little leaves. 
As giad the common joy to share. 



The softened sunbeams jiour around 

A fairy light, uncertain, pale ; 
The wind flows cool ; the scented ground 

Is breathing odors ou the gale. 

'Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile, 
Methinks some spirit of the air 

Might rest, to gaze below awhile. 
Then turn to bathe and revel there. 

The sun breaks forth ; from off the scene 
Its floating veil of mist is flung; 

And all the wilderness of green 

With trembling drops of light is hung. 

Now gaze on nature — yet the same — 
Glowing with life, by breezes fanned, 

Luxuriant, lovely, as she came. 

Fresh in her youth, from God's own hand : 

Hear the rich music of that voice, 
Which sounds from all below, above : 

She calls her children to rejoice. 

And round them throws her arms of love. 

Drink in her inflnence ; low-born care, 
And all the train of mean desire, 

Refuse to breathe this holy air, 
And 'mid this living light expire. 



TRUST AND SUBMISSION. 

My God, I thank thee; may no thought 
E'er deem thy chastisement severe; 

But may this heart, by sorrow taught. 
Calm each wild wish, each idle fear. 

Thy mercy bids all nature bloom ; 

The sun shines bright, and man is gay; 
Thy equal mercy spreads the gloom 

Tliat darkens o'er his little day. 

Full many a throb of grief and pain 
Thy frail and erring child must know; 

But not one prayer is breathed in vain. 
Nor does one tear unheeded flow. 

Thy various messengers employ, 

Thy purposes of love fulfil ; 
And 'mid tlie wreck of human joy. 

Let kneeling Faith adore thy will. 



382 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEHICAX POETRT. 



illain HusscU illitfovii. 

Miss Mitford (17Sfi-lSo5) was the dauglitei- of an Eng- 
lish physician, impvovirtcnt anil dissipated. She wrote 
sketches of nu-al life under the title of "Our Village" 
(1824) for her support; for her father had become a bur- 
den on her bands. Her success as a prose writer was 
considerable; but she published a Tolume of Sonnets and 
Poems, and wrote the plays of "Julian" (1823), "The 
Foscari" (1826), and "Rienzi," her best dramatic pro- 
duction (1828). In it she shows good literary taste, if 
not much force in the delineation of character. 



EIEXZI'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS. 

From " Rienzi." 
Fiieuds ! 
I come uot here to talk. Ye know too well 
The story of our tliralilom. We are slaves ! 
The bright snu rises to liis course, ami lights 
A race of slaves ! He sets, and his last beam 
Falls on a slave : uot such as, swept aloug 
By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads 
To crimsou glory and undying fame, — 
But ba.sc, ignoble slaves! — slaves to a horde 
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots ; lords, 
Rich iu some dozen paltry villages ; 
Strong iu some hundred spearnieu ; only groat 
Iu that strauge siiell — a name! Each hour, dark 

fraud, 
Or open rapine, or protected murder, 
Cry out against them. But this very day. 
An houest man, my neighbor, — there he stands, — 
Was struck — struck like a dog, by one who wore 
The badge of Orsiui ! because, forsooth, 
He tossed uot high his ready cap iu air, 
Nor lifted up his voice iu servile shouts. 
At sight of that great ruftiau ! Be we men, 
And snti'er such dishonor? Jleu, and wash uot 
The stain away iu blood? Such shames are common. 
I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to ye, — 
I had a brother once, a gracious boy, 
Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope, 
Of sweet and finiet joy. There was the look 
Of heaven upon his face, which limners give 
To the beloved disciple. How I loved 
That gracious boy ! Yiuiuger by lifteou years, 
Brother at once ami son ! Ho left my side, 
A snuuner bloom on his fair cheeks — .a smile 
Parting his innocent lips. Iu one short hour, 
The pretty, hanuless boy was slain ! I s.iw 
The corse, the mangled corse, ami then I cried 
For veugeauce! Rouse, ye Romans! Rimse, yc 

slaves ! 



Have ye brave sous? — Look iu the next lierce brawl 
To see them die ! Have ye fair daughters ? — Look 
To see them live, torn from your arms, distained. 
Dishonored; and, if ye dare call for justice. 
Be answered by the lash! Yet, this is Rome, 
That sat ou her seven hills, and from her throne 
Of beauty ruled the world ! Y'et, we are Romans. 
Why, iu that elder day, to be a Roman 
Was greater than a King! And once again — 
Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread 
Of cither Brutus ! — ouce again I swear 
The Eternal Citv shall be free! 



SONG. 

The sun is careering iu glory and might, 

'Mid the deep blue sky and the cloudlets white; 

The bright wave is to.ssing its foam ou high, 

And the summer breezes go lightly by ; 

The air and the water dauce, glitter, and play, 

And why should not I be as merry as they ? 

Tlie linnet is singing the wild wood through : 
The fawn's bounding footstep skims over the dew : 
The butterfly flits round the flowering tree, 
jVud the cowslip and bluebell are bent by the bee; 
All the creatures that dwell in the forest are gay, 
And why'should not I be as merry as they f 



;3llcj'anbcr Daiiuv 



Laing (1787-1857) was a native of Brechin, Forfarshire, 
Scotland. Ho was of humble origin, and followed tlie 
business of a packman the greater part of his life. In 
1840 he published by subscription a collection of his 
p;)cms and songs, under tlie title of " Wayside Flowers." 
He edited two editions of Burns, and one of Tanuahill. 



THE HAPPY MOTHER. 

An' O ! nuiy I never live single again, 

I wish I may never live single again ; 

I ha'e a gnde-man, an' a hame o' my ain, 

An' O ! may I never live single again. 

I've twa bonuio bairuies, the fairest of a'. 

They cheer up my heart when their daddie's awa' : 

I've ano at my foot, and I've ane "ii my knee; 

An' fondly they look, an' say "Manimio" to me. 

At gloamiu' their daddie comes iu frfto the plough, 
Tlie blink in his e'e, an' the smile ou his brow, 



ALEXANDER LAING.— RICHARD HENRY DANA. 



383 



Says, " How are jc, lassie, O ! liow are ye a', 
An' how's the ■wee botUes siu' I gaed awa' ?" 
Ho slugs i' the e'eniu' fu' cheery an' gay, 
Ho tells o' the toil an' the news o' the day ; 
The twa bouuio lammies he taU's ou his knee, 
An' Ijliuks o'er the ingle fu' couthie to nie. 

O hiippy's the fatlicr that's happy at hame, 
An' blithe is the mitlier that's blithe o' tlie name; 
Tlie cares o' the warld they fear na to dree — 
The warld it is uaethiug to Johnny an' me. 
Though crosses ^ill mingle wi' mitherly cares, 
Awa', bonnie lassies — awa" wi' your fears ! 
Gin ye get a laddie that's loving and fain, 
Ye'll wish ve may never live single again. 



Uicljari) ficnnj Dana. 

AMERICAN. 

Dana (1787-1S7S) was born in Cambridge, Mass., passed 
three years at Harvard College, and was admitted to tlie 
Bar in 1811. His principal poem, "The Buccaneer," ap- 
peared in 1827, and is still recognized as a work of gen- 
uine power. He wrote a series of lectures on Shak- 
spearc; also a memoir of his brother-in-law, the poet- 
painter, Allston. An edition of Daua's collected works, 
in prose and verse, was published in 1850. A son, bear- 
ing his name, distinguished himself early in life by his 
very successful prose work, " Three Years before the 
Mast." Beloved and esteemed, Dana, a year older than 
Byron, celebrated his ninetieth birtlulay, November loth, 
1877, and died a year afterward. 



IMMORTALITY. 

From "The Utsband's and \Vife*s Grave." 

Oh ! listen, man ! 
A voice within ns speaks that startling word, 
" Man, thou shalt never die !" Celestial voices 
Hymn it nuto our souls ; according harps, 
I5y angel fingers touched, when the mild stars 
Of morning sang together, sound forth still 
The song of our great immortality : 
Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, 
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas 
Join in this solemn, imiversal song. 
Oh ! listen, ye, our spirits ; drink it in 
From all the air. 'Tis in the gentle moonlight; 
'Tis floating 'mid Day's setting glories ; Night, 
Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step 
Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears : 
Night, and tlie dawn, hright day, and thoughtful eve. 
All lime, all bounds, the limitless expairse. 
As one vjis^ mystic iiistrumcut, are touched 



By an un.seeu living Hand, and conscious chords 
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. 
The dying bear it ; and, as sounds of earth 
Grow dull and distant, wake their pa,ssing souls 
To mingle in this heavenly harmony. 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

I look through tears on Beauty now ; 
And Beauty's self less radiant looks on me. 
Serene, yet touched with sadness is the brow 
(Once hright with joy) I see. 

Joy-waking Beauty, why so sad ? 
Tell where the radiance of the smile is gone 
At which my heart and earth and skies were glad — 
That linked ns all in one. 

It is not on the mountaiu's breast ; 
It comes not to me with the dawning day ; 
Nor looks it from the glories of the west, 
As slow they pass away. 

Nor on those gliding roundlets bright 
That steal their play among the woody shades, 
Nor on thine own dear children doth it light — 
Tlic flowers along the gl.ades. 

Ami altered to the living mind 
(The great high-priestess with her thought-born race 
Who round thine altar aye have stood ami shiiied) 
The comforts of thy face ! 

Why shadowed thus thy forehead fair ? 
Why on the mind low hangs a mystic gloom ? 
And spreads away upon the genial air, 
Like vapors from the tomb ? 

Why should ye shine, yon lights above f 
Why, little flowers, open to the heat? 
No more within the heart ye filled with lovo 
The living pulses beat ! 

Well, Beauty, may you mourning stand! 
The fine beholding eye whose constant look 
Was turned on thee is dark — and cold the hand 
That gave all vision took. 

Nay, heart, bo still! — Of heavenly birth 
Is Beauty sprung — Look up ! behold, the place ! 
There he who reverent traced her steps on earth 
Now sees her face to face. 



3:^4 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BIUTISn AXD JMIJIllCAX POETRY. 



THE ISLAND. 

FnoM " The Buccaneeb." 

The isliiud lies nine leagues away : 

Along. its solitary shore 
Of craggy rock aud sandy bay, 
No souud but ocean's roar ! 
Save where tlic bold wild sea-bird makes her home, 
Her shrill cry coming throiigli the sparkling foam. 

But when the light winds lie at rest, 

And oil the glassy heaving sea 
The black duck with her glossy breast. 
Sits swinging silently, — 
How be.antifnl! no ripples break the reach, 
And silvery waves go noiseless np the beach. 

And inland rests the green, warm dell : 

The brook comes tinkling down its side; 
From ont tlie trees the Sabbath bell 
Rings cheerful, far and wide. 
Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks. 
That feed about the vale among the rocks. 

Nor holy bell nor pastoral bleat, 

111 former days within the vale! 
Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet; 
Curses were ou the gale ; 
Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men; 
Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then. 

But calm, low voices, words of grace, 

Now slowly fall upon the ear ; 
A quiet look is in each face, 
Siibdued and holy fear: 
Fach motion gentle, all is kindly done; 
Come, listen how from crime this isle was won. 



THE PIRATE. 

Fhum " The Bl'ccaneeb.*' 

Twelve years are gone since Matthew Lee 

Held in this isle unquestioned sway; 
A dark, low, brawny man was he ; 
His law, — ''It is my way." 
Beneath his thick-set brows a sharp llglit broke 
From small gray eyes ; his langli a triumph spoke. 

Cruel of heart, and strong of arm, 
Loud in his sport and keen for spoil. 

Ho little recked of good or harm, 
Fierce both in mirth and toil: 



Yet like a dog could fawu, if need there were : 
Speak mildly when ho would or look in fear. 

Amid the uproar of the storm, 

And by the lightning's sharp red glare, 
AVere seen Lee's face and sturdy form ; 
His axe glanced quick in air : 
Whose corpse at morn is floating in the sedge ? 
There's blood aud hair. Mat, on thy axe's edge. 



nirc. (Pmiiua (C. IVilltxvD. 

AMERICAN. 

.Miss Hart, by marriage Willaid, was a native of New 
Berlin, Conn. She began the work of a teaelier at six- 
teen, aud in 1821 established a famous Female Seminary 
at Troy, N. Y. In IS'AO she published a volume of poems. 
Her "Rocked iu the Cradle of the Deep," admiiahly 
sung by Braliani, attained deserved cclebritj'. She re- 
sided several months in Paris, aud on her return home 
published a volume of "Travels," the profits of which, 
amouutiug to twelve hundred dollars, were devoted to 
the founding of a school for female teachers iu. Greece. 
Born iu 1787, she died iu 1870. 



ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP. 

Rocked in the cradle of the deep 
I lay me down in peace to sleep; 
Secure I rest upon the wave, 
F(U' thou, O Lord ! liast power to save. 
I know thou wilt not slight my call, 
For Thou dost mark the sparrow's fall ; 
Aud calm and peaceful sh.all I sleep. 
Rocked in the cr.adlo of the deeji. 

When in tho dead of night I lie 
And gaze upon the trackless sky. 
The star-bespangled heavenly scroll. 
The boundless waters as they roll, — 
I feel thy wondrous ])ower to save 
From perils of the stormy wave : 
Rocked iu the cradle of tho deep, 
I calmly rest and soundly sleep. 

And such the trust that still were mine. 
Though stormy winds swept o'er the brine. 
Or though the tempest's liery breath 
Roused me from sleep to wrerk an I donth ! 
In ocean cave, still safe with '1'Ium> 
The germ of immortality! 
And calm and peaceful shall ' !■ ■ . , 
Rocked in the cradle of tho -'. i . 



SRYAX WALLER PROCTER {BARRY CORNWALL). 



335 



Dryan lUallcr |3roctcr (Banri Covu- 
luall). 

Procter (1787-1874), better known, in literature, by tlie 
liseudonjm of "Barry Cornwall" (an anagram of his 
name, less five letters), was a native of Loudon. He was 
fiUicatcd at Harrow, where he was the school-fellow of 
Byron and Peel. In 1819 appeared his " Dramatie Scenes, 
and other Poems;" in 1821, his " Mirandola: a Tragedy." 
He became a barrister at law, and one of the Commis- 
sioners of Lunacy. In 1857, Mr. John Kenyon, a wealthy 
West Indian geutleman, and author of some graceful 
verses, left more than £140,000 in legacies to his friends: 
to Elizabeth Barrett Browning, £4000 ; to Robert Brown- 
ing, £6500 ; and to Procter, £0500. Some of Procter's 
minor pieces have the true lyrical ring, and are likely to 
be long remembered. 



THE SEA. 

The sea ! the sea ! the open sea ! 

The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! 

Without a mark, without a houud, 

It runneth the earth's wide regions round; 

It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies, 

Or like a cradled creature lies. 

I'm ou the sea! I'm on the seal 

I am where I would ever bo, 

With the blue above, aud the blue below. 

And silence wheresoe'er I go. 

If a storm should come, and awake the deep, 

What matter? I sliall ride and sleep. 

I love, oh how I love to ride 
Ou the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, 
When every mad wave drowns the moon, 
Or whistles aloft his temjiest tune. 
And tells how goeth the world below, 
And why the sou'-west blasts do blow ! 

I never was ou the dull, tame shore, 
But I loved the great sea more and more, 
And backward flew to her billowy brea.st, 
Like a bird that seeketh its niothei''8 nest ; 
And a mother she was aud is to me, 
For I was born ou the open sea ! 

The waves were white, and red the morn, 
In the noisy hour when I was born ; 
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, 
Aud the dolphins bared their backs of gold ; 
Aud never was heard such an outcry wild 
As welcomed to life the ocean child ! 
25 



I've lived since then, in calm and strife. 
Full fifty summers a sailor's life. 
With wealth to spend, and a power to range. 
But never have sought, nor sighed for change ; 
And Death, whenever he comes to me, 
Shall come on the wild unbounded sea! 



THE RETURN OF THE ADMIRAL. 

How gallantly, how merrily. 

We ride along the sea! 
The morning is all sunshine, 

The wind is blowing free ; 
The billows are all sparkling, 

And bounding in the light, 
Like creatures in whose sunny veins 

The blood is running bright. 
All nature knows our triumph : 

Strange birds about us sweep ; 
Strange things come up to look at us. 

The masters of the deep ; 
In our wake, like any servant, 

Follows even the bold shark — 
Oh, proud must be our admiral 

Of such a bonny bark ! 

Proud, jiroud must be our admiral 

(Though he is pale to-day). 
Of twice five hundred iron men. 

Who all his nod obey ; 
Who've fought for him, and conquei'ed— 

Who've won, with sweat and gore, 
NohiVitij ! which he sh.all have 

Whene'er he touch the shore. 
Oh, would I Tvere our admiral, 

To order, with a word — 
To lose a dozen drops of blood. 

And straight rise up a lord ! 
I'd shout e'en to yon shark there, 

Who follows in our lee, 
" Some day I'll make thee carry me. 

Like lightning through the sea." 

— The admiral grew p.aler, 

And paler as we flew : 
Still talked he to his oflBoers, 

And smiled upon his crew ; 
And he looked up at the heavens, 

And he looked down on the sea. 
And at last ho spied the creature 

That kept following in our lee. 



38fi 



CTCLOr^EDIA OF BUITISn AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Ho shook — 'twas but an iustant, 

For speedily the pride 
Ran crimson to liis heart, 

Till all chances he defied : 
It threw boldness on his forehead, 

Gave firmness to his breath ; 
And he stood like some grim warrior 

New risen np from death. 

That night a horrid whisper 

Fell on lis where we lay, 
And wo knew our ohl fine admiral 

Was changing into clay : 
And we heard the wash of waters, 

Though nothing could we sec, 
And a whistle and a plunge 

Among the billows in our lee ! 
Till dawn wo watched the body 

In its dea<l and ghastly sleep. 
And next evening at sunset 

It was slung into the deep ! 
And never, from that moment, 

Save one shudder throngh the sea. 
Saw we (or heard) the shark 

That had followed in our lee ! 



SONNET TO ADELAIDE. 

Child of my heart ! my sweet beloved First-born ! 
Thou dove, who tidings briug'st of calmer hours! 
Tliou rainbow, who dost .shine when all the showers 
Are iiast — or passing ! Kose which hath no thorn, 
No spot, no blemish, — pure and nnforlorn ! 
Untouched, untainted! Oh, my Flower of llowers! 
-More welcome than to bees are summer bowers. 
To stranded seamen life-assuring morn I 
Welcome, — a thousand welcomes! Care, who clings 
Kound all, seems loosening now its serpent fold ; 
New hope springs ujiward, and the bright world 

seems 
Cast back into a youth of endless springs! 
Sweet mother, is it so? — or grow I old, 
iii'wildcred in divine Elysian dreams? 



A PETITION TO TI.ME. 

Touch ns gently. Time! 

Let ns glide adown thy stream 
Gently — as wo sometimes glido 

Through a quiet dream ! 



Humble voyagers are we. 
Husband, wife, and children three 
(One is lost — an angel, fled 
To the azure overhead !) 

Touch ns gently, Time ! 

AV'e've not jjroud nor soaring wings ; 
Our ambition, our content. 

Lies in simiilo things. 
Humble voyagers are we 
O'er life's dim, unsounded sea, 
Seeking only some calm clime ; — 
Touch us jfeH(?//, gentle Time! 



SOFTLY WOO AWAY ITER BREATH. 

Softly woo away her breath. 

Gentle Death ! 
Let her leave thee with no strife, 

Tender, mournful, murmuring Life ! 
She hath seen her happy day ; 

She hath had her bud and blossom ; 
Now she pales and shrinks away. 

Earth, iuto thy gentle bosom. 

She hath done her bidding here, 

Angels dear ! 
Bear her perfect soul above, 

Seraph of the skies — sweet Love ! 
Good she was, and fair in youth, 

And her mind was seen to soar. 
And her heart was wed to truth ; 

Take her, then, for evermore — 

For ever — evermore ! 



LIFE. 



We are born ; wo laugh ; we weep ; 

Wo love ; we droop ; we die ! 
Ah, wherefore do wo laugh or weep ? 

Why do we live or die? 
Who knows that secret deep ? 

Alas, not I ! 

Why doth the violet spring 

Unseen by human eye ? 
Why do the radiant seasons bring 

Sweet thoughts that quickly liy ; 
Why do our fond hearts cling 

To things that die ? 



MRS. LAVIXIA STODDARD.— CAROLINE (BOWLES) SOUTHEY. 



387 



AVo toil — tliroiigli jiaiu ami wrong ; 

We figlit— aud fly ; 
We love ; we lose ; and then, ere long, 

Stouc-dead we lie. 
O Life ! is all tliy song 

" Eiuliiro aud — die ?" 



illvG. £at)inta StoiibaiLi. 



Mrs. Stoddard (1787-1820) w.is the daughter of Elijah 
Stone, and a native of Guilford, Conn. Iler family re- 
moved to Patei'son, N. J. ; and in ISll she was married 
to Dr. William Stoddard. TUey established an aeademy 
at Troy, N. Y. ; but in 1818 removed to Blakely, Ala., 
where Dr. Stoddard died, leaving liis wife in jjoverty 
and among strangeis. The one poem by whieh she is 
known was prompted by her own sad aud sincere ex- 
periences, and written but a short time before her death. 
In her life, as in her poem of "The Soul's Defiance," 
she exemplified the truth of these lines by Shelley : 

"Wretched men 
Are cradled into poetry by wron;; : 
They learn in sulferiiig what they teach in song."' 



THE SOUL'S DEFIANCE. 

I said to Sorrow's awfnl storm 

That beat against my breast, 
" Rage on, — thou mayst destroy this form, 

Aud lay it low at rest ; 
Rut still the spirit that now brooks 

Tliy temjicst, raging high, 
Uudannted on its fury looks, 

With steadfast eye." 

I said to Penury's meagre train, 

" Come on, — your threats I brave ; 
Jly last poor life-drop you may drain, 

And crush me to the grave; 
Yet still the spirit that endures 

Shall mock your force the while, 
And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours 

With bitter smile." 

I said to cold Neglect and Scorn, 

" Pass on, — I heed you not ; 
Ye may pursue me till my form 

Aud being are forgot ; 
Yet still the .spirit, which you see 

Undaunted by your wiles. 
Draws from its own nobility 

Its high-born smiles."- 



I said to Friendship's menaced blow, 

" Strike deep, — uiy heart shall bear : 
Thou canst but add one bitter woo 

To those already there ; 
Yet still the spirit that sustains 

This last severe distress 
Shall smile upon its keenest painsj 

Aud scorn redress." 

I said to Death's uplifted dart, 

'•Aim sure, — ob, why delay? 
Thou wilt not find a fearful heart, 

A weak, reluctant prey : 
For still the spirit, firm and free, 

Unruffled by dismay. 
Wrapt in its own eternity, 

Shall pass away." 



(Caroline (Boiuks) Goutlicij. 

Caroline Anne Bowles, afterward Mrs. Southey (1787- 
1854), was the daughter of Captain Charles Bowles, and 
born at Buckland, Hants. She lost her parents while 
young, and in her country retirement cultivated litera- 
ture successfully. In 1839 she married Southey, poet- 
laureate, with whom she had long been well ncquaiuted. 
There is an original veiu of pathos distinguishing her 
poems. Her life, she tells us, was uneventful ; for "all 
lier adventures were by the fireside or in her garden, 
and almost all her migrations from the blue bed to the 
brown." The followiug picture of her ehildliood is im- 
pressive : 

" Sly father loved the patieut angler's art, 
And many a summer's day, from early moru 
To latest eveuiiig, by some streamlet's side, 
We two h.ave tarried ; strange companionship ! 
A sad and silent man ; a jxiyons child ! 
Yet those were days, as I recall them now, 
Snprcmely happy. Silent though he was, 
Sly father's eyes were often on his child 
Tenderly ehjqneut — and his few words 
Were kind and gentle. Never angry tone 
Itepnlted me if I broke upon his thoughts 
With childish question. Bat I learned at last, 
Intuitively learned to hold my peace. 
When the dark honr was on him, and deep sighs 
Spoke the perturbed spirit — only then 
I crept a little closer to his side. 
And stole my hand in his, or on his arm 
Laid my cheek softly: till the simple wile 
Won on his sad abstraction, aud he turned 
"With a fault smile, and sighed and shook his head, 
Stoopuig toward me; so I reached at last 
Sline arm about his neck and clasped it close. 
Printing his pale brow with a silent kiss." 

This passage will be found in her " Birthday," a poem 
whicli may be ranked among the most graceful and 
I touching productions of feminine genius. 



:i^.- 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THE EIVEE. 

River ! River ! little River ! 

Bright you sparkle on your ^\ay, 
O'er the yellow jiebbles clauciug, 

Through the flowers aud foliage glauciug 
Like a child at play. 

River! River! swelliug River ! 

On you rush o'er rough aud smooth — 
Louder, faster, brawliug, leaping 
Over rocks, Ijy rose-hanks sweeping, 
Like impetuous youth. 

River! River! brimming River! 

Broad aud deep aud stUl as Time; 
Seeming still — yet still in motion. 
Tending onward to the ocean, 
Just like mortal prime. 

River! River! rapid River ! 

Swifter now you slip awny ; 
Swift aud silent as an arrow. 
Through a channel dark and narrow. 
Like life's closing day. 

River! River! headlong River! 
Down you dash into the sea ; 
Sea, that lino hath never sounded. 
Sea, that voyage hath nevoi- rounded, 
Like eternity. 



TO LITTLE MARY. 

I'm bidden, little Mary, 

To writo verses upon thee ; 
I'd fjiiu obey the bidding, 

If it rested but with nic : 
But the Mistre.s.ses I'm bound to 

(Niiu) Ladies hard to please) 
Of all their stores poetic 

So closely keep the keys, 
It's ouly uow and then — 

By good luck, as one may say — 
Tliat a couplet or a rhyme or two 

Falls fairly iu my way. 

Fruit forced is never half so sweet 
As that comes quite iu season ; 

But some folks nnist bo satisfied 
With rhyme iu siniv of reason : 



So, Muses ! uow befriend lue. 

Albeit of help so chary. 
To string the pearls of poesie 

For loveliest little Mary! 

Aud yet, ye pagan Damsels, 

Not over-fond am I 
To invoke your haughty favors. 

Your fonut of Castaly : — 
I've sipped a purer fountaiu, 

I've decked a holier shrine, 
I own a mightier Mistress — 

Nature ! Thou art mine ; 
And Feeling's fount than Castaly 

Yields waters more divine ! 

Aud only to that well-head, 

Sweet Mary, I'll resort. 
For just an artless verse or two, 

A simple strain and short. 
Befitting well a Pilgrim 

Wayworu with earthly strife, 
To oifer thee, young Traveller ! 

Iu the morning track of life. 

Tlierc's many a one will tell thee 

'Tis all with roses gay — 
There's many a one will tell thee 

'Tis thorny all the way: — 
Deceivers are they every one. 

Dear Child, who thus pretend: 
God's ways are not unequal — 

Make him thy trusted friend, 
And mauy a path of iileasautuess 

He'll clear away for thee. 
However dark and intricate 

Tlie labyrinth may be. 

I need not wish thee beauty, 

1 need not wish thee grace ; 
Already both are budding 

In that infant form and face : 
I u-ill not wish tliee grandeur, 

I will not wish thee wealth — ■ 
But only a contented heart. 

Peace, competence, and health — 
Fond friends to love thee dearly, 

Aud honest friends to chide, 
And faithful ones to cleave to thee. 

Whatever may betide. 

Aud uow, my little Mary, 
If better things remain, 



CAROLINE {BOWLES) SOUTHEY. 



3i9 



Unheeded in ray blindness, 
Unnoticed iu luy strniii, — 

I'll sum tliem np succinctly 
Iu "English iindefiled," 

My mother-tongue's Ijest hcnison : 
God bless thee, precious Child .' 



' SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY IS THE EVIL 
THEREOF." 

Oh ! by that gracious rule, 

Were we but wise to steer, 
On the \Yide sea of Thought, — 
What momeiits trouble-fraught 
Were spared us here ! 

But we (perverse and blind), 

As covetous of pain, 
Not only seek for more 
Yet hidden — but live o'er 

The past again. 

Tills life is called brief: 

Man on the earth but crawls 

His threescore years and ten. 

At best fourscore — and then 
The ripe fruit falls. 

Yet, betwixt birth and death. 

Were but the life of man 
By his thoughts measnrcSd, — 
To what an age would spread 

That little span ! 

There are who 're born and die, 
Eat, sleep, walk, rest between. 

Talk — act by clock-work too, — 

So pass in order due 
Over the scene. 

With these the past is past, 

The future, nothing yet ; 
And so, from day to day 
They breathe, till called to pay 

The last great debt. 

Their life, in truth, is brief; 

A speck — a iioiut of time ; 
Whether in good old age 
Endcth their pilgrimage. 

Or iu its prime. 



But other some there are 
(I call them not more wise), 

In whom the restless mind 

Still lingereth behind. 
Or forward flies. 

With these, things pass awayi; ' 
But iiast things are not dead : 
In the heart's treasury. 
Deep, hidden deep, they lie 
Unwithercd. 

And there the soul retires. 

From the dull things that are, 
To mingle oft and long 
With the time-hallowed throng 
Of those that were. 

Then into life start out 

The scenes long vanished ; 
Then we behold again 
The forms that long have lain 
Among the dead. 

We seek their grasp of love. 
We meet their beaming eye ; 

We speak — the vision's flown, 

Dissolving with its own 
Intensity. 

Years rapidly shift on 

(Like clouds athwart the sky), 
And lo ! sad watch we keep, 
When in perturb(5d sleep 

The sick doth lie. 

We gaze on some pale face. 

Shown by the dim watch-light. 
Shuddering, we gaze and pray, 
And weep, and wish away 
The long, long night. 

And yet minutest things, 

That mark time's tedious tread. 
Are on the feverish brain, 
With self-protracting paiu, 

Deep minuted. 

The drops with trembling hand 
(Love steadied) poured out ; — 

The draught reijleuish^d, — 

The label oft re-read, 
With nervous doubt : — 



3ao 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



The watch that ticks so loud ; 

The wimliug it, for one 
Whose hand lies powerless ; — ■ 
And then the fearful guess, — 

"Ere this hath run. ■. . ." 

The shutter, half unclosed, 

As the night wears away ; 
Ere the last stars are set — 
Pale stars! — that linger yet. 
Till perfect day. 

The morn so oft invoked, 
Tliat bringeth no relief, 

From which, with sickening sight, 

We turn, as if its light 
But mocked our grief. 

Oh, never after-dawu 

For us the east shall streak, 
But we shall see again. 
With the same thoughts as then, 

That pale daybreak ! 

Tlie desolate awakening, 

When first we feel aloue ! 
Dread memories are these !— 
Yet who for heartless ease 
Would exchange ouo ? 

These are the soul's liid wealth, 
Kclics embalmed with tears; 

Or if her curious eye 

Searcheth futurity — 
The depth of years, — 

Tlicre (from the deck of yontli) 
Enchanted land she sees ; 

Blue skies, and suu-briglit bowers, 

Kefleeted, and tall towers 
On glassy seas. 

But heavy clouds collect 

Over that bright-blue sky ; 
And rough winds rend the trees, 
And lash those glassy seas 
To billows high ! 

And then, the next thing seen 

By that dim light, may be 
With helm and rudder lost, 
A lone wreck, tempest-tossed, 
On the dark sea! 



Thus doth the soul extend 
Her brief existence here, 

Tlius multiplicth she 

(Yea, to iutinity !) 
The short career. 

Presumptuous and unwise ! 

As if the present sum 
Were little of life's woe, 
Why seeketh she to know 

Ills yet to come ? 

Look up, look np, my soul. 

To loftier mysteries; 
Trust in his word to thee. 
Who saith, "AH tears shall be 

Wiped from all eyes." 

And when thou turnest back, 
(Oh, what can chain thee here ?) 

Seek out the Isles of light 

On "Memory's waste" yet bright; — 
Or if too near 

To desolate iilaius they lie. 

All darlc with guilt and tears, — 

Still, still retrace the past, 

Till thou alight at last 
On life's tirst years. 

There not a passing cloud 
Obscures the sunny scene ; 

No blight on the young tree ; 

No thought of what may be, 
Or what liatli been. 

There all is hope — not hope— 
For all things are possessed ; 

No — bliss without alloy, 

And inuoccnee and joy. 
In the young breast ! 

And all-confiding love, 

And holy ignorance ; 
Their blessed veil ! Soon torn 
From eyes foredoomed to mourn 

F(U' man's oftenee. 

Oil! thither, weary spirit! 

Flee from this world defiled. 
How oft, heart-sick and sore, 
I've wislicd I were once more 

A little child ! 



CABOLIXE (BOTTLES) SOVTHEY. 



391 



THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. 

Tread softly — bow the head — 
111 reverent silence bow: 

No passiug-bell doth toll, 

Yet au immortal soul 
Is iiassiiig now. 

Stranger! however great, 
AVith lowly reverence bow; 

There's one iii that poor shed — 

One by that iialtry bed. 
Greater than thou. 

Beneath that Tieggar's roof, 

Lo ! Death doth keep his state: 

Enter — no crowds attend — 

Enter — no guards defend 
This palace gate. 

That iiavenient, damp and C(dd, 

No smiling courtiers tread; 
Ouo silent woman stands, 
Lifting with meagro hands 
A dying head. 

No mingling voices sound — 

Au infant wail alone ; 
A sob suppressed — again 
That short, deep gasp, and then 

The parting groan. 

Oh, change ! — oh, wondrous change ! 

Burst are the prison bars ! 
This moment tliere, so low, 
So agonized, and now 

Beyond the stars ! 

Oh, change! — stupendous change! 

There lies the soulless clod ; 
The Sun eternal brealss — 
The new Immortal wakes — ■ 

Wakes with his God. 



TO A DYING INFANT. 

Sleep, little baby, sleep ! 

Not in thy cradle-bed, 
Not ou thy mother's breast 
Heucieforth shall be thy rest. 

But with the quiet dead! 



Yes ! with the quiet dead, 

Baby, thy rest shall be ! 
Oh! many a weary wight. 
Weary of life and light, 

Would faiu lie down witli thee. 

Flee, little tender nursling! 

Flee to thy grassy nest ; 
There the lirst flowers shall blow ; 
The lirst pure flake of snow 

Shall fall upou thy breast. 

Peace! peace! the little bosom 
Labors with shortening breath :^ 

Peace ! peace ! that trciunlons sigh 

Speaks his departure uigh ! 
Those are the damps of death. 

I've seen thee in thy beauty, 
A tliiug all health and glee ; 

Bat never then wert thou 

So beautiful as now, 

Baby, thou seem'st to me ! 

Thine upturned eyes glazed over, 
Like harebells wet with dew ; 

Already veiled and hid 

By the couvuls(5d lid, 

Their pupils, d;ukly blue ; 

Tliy little month half open — 

The soft lip quivering, 
As if, like suuuuer-air, 
Euftliug the rose-leaves, there. 

Thy soul were fluttering : 

iSIonnt up, immortal essence! 

Young siiirit, hence — depart ! 
And is this de.ath ? — Dread thing! 
If such thy visiting, 

How beautifnl thou art ! 

Oh ! I could gaze forever 

Upou that waxen face ; 
So passionless, so pure ! 
The little shrine was sure 

An angel's dwelling-place. 

Thou weepest, childless mother ! 

Ay, weep — 'twill ease thine heart ;- 
Ho was thy first-born son. 
Thy lirst, thine only one, 

'Tis hard from him to part. 



392 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



'Tin Lard to lay tby darling 
Deej) iu the damp cold eartL, 

His empty crib to see, 

His sileut uursery, 

Late riuging with his mirth. 

To meet again in slumber, 

His small mouth's rosy kiss; 
Then, wakened with a start 
By thine own throbbing heart, 
His twining arms to miss ! 

To feel (half conscious why) 
A dull, heart-sinking weight. 

Till memory on the soul 

Flashes the painful whole, 
That thou art desolate ! 

And then, to lie and weep, 
And think the livelong night 

(Feeding thine own distress 

With accurate greediness) 
Of every iiast deligbt ; 

Of all his winning ways, 

His pretty, playful smiles, 
His joy at sight of thee. 
His tricks, his mimicry. 

And all his little wiles ! 

Oh ! these are recollections 

Kound mothers' hearts that cling, — 
That mingle with the tears 
And smiles of after years, 

Witb oft awakening. 

But thou wilt then, fond mother! 

In after years look back 
(Time brings such wondrous easing). 
With sadness not unpleasing, 

Even on this gloomy track. 

Thon'lt say, " My first-born blessing ! 

It almost broke my heart. 
When thou wert forced to go. 
And yet for thee, I know, 

'Twas better to depart. 

"God took thee in his mercy, 
A lamb, untasked, untried : 

Ho fought the fight for thee, 

He won the victory. 

And thou art sanctified .' 



" I look around, and see 

The evil ways of men ; 
And oh ! belovM child ! 
Fni more than reconciled 

To thy departure then. 

" TIio little arms that clasped me. 
The innocent lijis that pressed — 

Would they have been as i>ure 

Till now, as when of yore 
I lulled thee on my breast ? 

" Now, like a dew-drop shrined 

Within a crystal stone, 
Thou'rt safe iu heaven, my dove ! 
Safe witli the Source of Love, 

The Everlasting One! 

"And when the hour arrives. 

From flesh that sets me free. 
Thy spirit may await, 
The first at heaven's gate. 
To meet and welcome ine !" 



OH, FEAR NOT THOU TO DIE. 

Oh, fear not thou to die — 

Far rather fear to live — for life 

Has thousand snares thy feet to try, 

liy jK-ril, pain, and strife. 

Brief is the work of death; 

But life — the spirit shrinks to see 

How full, e'er Heaven recalls the breath, 

The cup of woo may be. 

Oh, fear not thou to die — 

No more to sutt'er or to sin — 

No snare without, tliy faitli to try — 

No traitor -heart within; 

But fear, oh rather fear 

The gay, the light, the changeful scene — 

Tho fluttering smiles tliat greet thee here, 

From heaven thy heart to wean. 

Oh, fear not thou to die — 

To die, and be that blessdd one 

Who iu tho bright and beauteous sky 

May feel his conflict done — 

May feel that never more 

Tho tear of grief, of shame, shall come, 

For thousand wanderings from tho Power 

Who loved and called thee homo. 



SIB AUBREY DE YE RE. 



393 



Sir ilrlubrcij be llcrr. 

Sir Aubrey de Vere (1788-1846) was a native of Cur- 
ragh Cliase, Limericli County, Ireland. He was educa- 
ted at Harrow with Byron and Peel, but never entered a 
university. He was tlie autlior of two dramatic poems, 
"Julian the Apostate" (1822), and "The Dulce of Mcr- 
cia" (1833); also of "A Song of Faith, Devout Exer- 
cises, and other Poems" (1842). Sir Aubrey dedicates 
this last volume to Wordsworth, and says, in his letter, 
"To know that you have perused many of the follow- 
ing poems with ple.isurc, and did not hesitate to reward 
thera with your praise, has been to me cause of unmin- 
gled happiness. In accepting the Dedication of this vol- 
ume, you permit me to link my name — which I have 
hitherto done so little to illustrate — with yours, tlie 
noblest of modern literature." Sir Aubrey must not be 
confounded with his third son, Aubrey Thomas de V'ere 
(born 1814), and also a poet of considerable note. 



CEANMER. 

Too feebly nerved for so severe a trial 
Wert thou, O Cranmer ! yet thy heart was trne, 
Aud the Church owes thee much, and loves thee too. 
If thou didst faint beneath the fierce.st rial 
That wrath could pour, oh let no liar.sh decrial 
Tarnish the martyr's fame ! The Saviour knew 
How weak are even the best ! — ere the cock crew, 
Peter thrice uttered the foretold denial! 
Think not of Cranmer to his chains descending. 
Fear-palsied, and his mind scarce half awake ; 
But Cranmer, with the faithful Ridley, bending 
Over the liturgy; Cranmer as he spake 
From his last pulpit ; Cranmer when extending 
His hand through flame, undaunted, at the stake ! 



•SOXXET. 

There is no remedy for time misspent; 
No healing for the waste of idleness. 
Whose very languor is a punishment 
He.avier than active souls can feel or guess. 
O hours of indolence aud discouteut, 
Not now to be redeemed! ye sting not less 
Because I know this span of life was lent 
For lofty duties, not for selfishness. — 
Not to be whiled away in aimless dreams. 
But to improve ourselves, and serve mankind. 
Life and its choicest faculties were given. 
Man should be ever better than he seems, 
Aud shape his acts, and discipline his mind. 
To walk adorning earth, with hope of heaven. 



SONNETS ON COLUMBUS. 

Columbus nlw.iys considered th.it he w.is inspired, and cho?en 
for the great service of discovering a new world aud conveying 
to it the light of salvation. 

I. 

The crimson sun was sinking down to rest, 
Pavilionetl on the clondy verge of heaven ; 
And Ocean, on her gently heaving breast, 
Caught aud flashed back the varying tints of even ; 
When on a fragment from the tall clilf riven. 
With folded arms, and donbtfnl thoughts oppressed, 
Columbus sat, till sudden hope was given — 
A ray of gladness, shooting from the West. 
Oh, what a glorious vision for mankind 
Then dawned above the twilight of his mind — 
Thoughts shadowy still, but iudistiuctly grand I 
There stood his Genius, face to face, and signed 
(So legends tell) far seaward with her hand — 
Till a new world sprang up, aud bloomed bene;uli 
her wand. 

II. 
He was a mau whom danger could not daunt, 
Nor sophistry perplex, nor palu subdue ; 
A stoic, reckless of the world's vain taunt, 
And steeled the path of honor to imrsne : 
So, when by all deserted, still he knew 
How best to soothe the heart-sick or confront 
Sedition, schooled with equal eye to view 
The frowns of grief, and the base pangs of want. 
But when he saw that promised laud arise 
In all its rare and bright varieties, 
Lovelier than fondest fancy ever trod ; 
Then softening nature melted in his eyes ; 
He knew his fame was full, and blessed his God : 
And fell upon his face, aud kissed the virgin sod ! 



Beautiful realm beyond the western main. 
That hymns thee ever with resounding wave ! 
Thine is the glorious sun's peculiar reign ; 
Fruit, flowers, and gems in rich mosaic pave 
Thy paths ; like giant altars o'er the plain 
Thy mountains blaze, loud thuuderiug, 'mid the rave 
Of mighty streams that shoreward rush amain. 
Like Polypbeme from his Etnean cave. 
Joy, joy for Spain ! a seaman's hand confers 
These glorious gifts, and half the world is hers ! 
But where is he — that light whose radiauce glows 
The load-star of succeeding mariners ? 
Behold him ! crushed beueath o'ermastering woes — 
Hopele.ss, heart-broken, chained, abandoned to his 
foes ! 



394 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



DIOCLETIAN AT SALONA. 

On being solicited by Maxiniiiui to renssume the inipeiiiil 
purple, Diocletian rejected tlie oflev with :i smile or pity, calmly 
obsemiig that if lie could show Jlaximi:>n the cabbages wliich 
be had planted with his own liands at Salona, lie should no 
longer be urged to relinquish the enjoyment of happiness for 
the pursnit of power. 

Take back these vaiu insignia of eommand, 

Crown, truuclicon, golden eagle — baubles all — 

And robe of Tyriau dye, to rue a pall ; 

And be forever alien to my hand, 

TliougU laurel-wreathed, War's desolating brand. 

I wonld have friends, not courtiers, in my hall ; 

Wi.se books, learned conver.se, beauty free from thrall. 

And leisure for good deeds, thoughtfully planned. 

Farewell, thou garish world ! thou Italy, 

False widow of departed liberty! 

I scorn thy base caresses. Welcome the roll 

Between ns of my own bright Adrian sea ! 

Welcome these wilds, from whose bold heights my 

soul 
Looks down on your degenerate Capitol! 



GLENGAEIFF. 

A sun-burst on the bay ! Turu and behold ! 
The restless waves, resplendent in their glory, 
Sweep glittering past yon purpled promontory, 
Bright as Apollo's breastplate. Balhcd in gold. 
Yon bastioued islet gleams. Thin mists are rolled 
TraiLslueent through each glen. A mantle hoary 
A'eils those jieaked hills, shapely as e'er in story, 
Delphic, or Alpine, or Vesuvian old. 
Minstrels have snug. From rock and headland proud 
The wild-wood spreads its arms around the bay; 
The manifold mountain cones, now dark, now bright. 
Now seen, now lost, alternate from rich light 
To spectral shade ; aud each dissolving cloud 
Reveals new mountains while it floats away. 



£ovLi Bnvon. 

George Gordon Noel Ryron was born in London, Jan- 
uary 23cl, 17SS, and (lied at Missoloni;in, Greece, April 
19th, 1824, Uiied thirty-six years and three months. His 
father, Captain Byron, nephew to the possessor of the 
fitniily title, was remarkable only for his dissoluteness 
and improvidence. At the age of five the future poet 
w.as a pupil at a d.ty-scliool in Aberdeen. At ten he 
became a peer of the realm and possessor of Newstcad 
Abbey. Ills mother was a woman of ungovernable pas- 
sions, foolish and capricious, aud her example had a dis- 



astrous influence on her son. Byron went to Harrow, 
then to Cambridge. At nineteen, when still a student, 
he published a collection of verses, entitled "Hours of 
Idleness." A touch of lordly conceit at the close of the 
little book caused the Edinburgh Review to langh at it. 
Byron retorted in a poem, "English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers," which gave unexpected evidence of the 
youtli's real powers. Two years of foreign travel (1809- 
1811) led to the first two cantos of "Childe Harold's 
Pilgrimage," written at the age of two-and-twenty. In 
1811 he rcturued to England, just in time to sec Ins 
mother die. 

In 1812 Byron made his first speech in the House of 
Lords. "Childe Harold" had caused him, in his own 
words, "to wake up one morning, and find himself fa- 
mous." It was followed by poem after poeiu. In Jan- 
uary, 1815, he married Jliss JlilbanUe ; his daughter, 
Augusta Ada, was born December lOtli of the same year; 
two months afterward his wife parted from him; and in 
April, 1S16, he left England, never to return. He went 
first to Switzerland, where he wrote, the same year, the 
third canto of "Childe Harold" and the "The Prisoner 
ofChillon." In Julj-, ISlti, in his remarkable poem of 
"The Dream," he compared his lucUless marriage with 
another that "might have been." In November, 1810, 
lie went to Venice, then to Pisa and Genoa. Shelley's 
untimely death in 1832 affected him greatly. Before leav- 
ing Italy to espouse the cause of Greek independence, 
he wrote the fourth canto of "Childe Harold," "Bep- 
po," "Manfred," "Mazeppa," "Cain," " Don Juan," and 
many other poems. A violent cold caught at Misso- 
longhi ended his life. His remains were brought to 
England for interment. Burial in Westminster Abbey 
was refused, and they were deposited in the family vault 
in Hucknall Church, Nottinghamshire. 

Both in his emotional and his inteUectnal natnre Byron 
shows the struggle of evil with good. In all his princi- 
pal poems his men and women are pictures of himself; 
aud to this inability to get out of the vicious circle of 
his own passions and jirejudiees may be attributed bis 
failure as a dramatic writer. His sncccss in attracting 
the public ear and eye of contemporaries was immeas- 
urably beyond that of Wordsworth, but postei-ity has 
rectiticd the injustice: Wordsworth is now the more 
conspicuous figure. Emerson tells us that "Byron had 
nothing to say — aud he said it beautifully." This may 
apply to him, considered as a philosopher, but uot as a 
poet, in which capacity he exercises a genuine power 
over the emotional nature, wilh a mastery of apt, Ijeau- 
tiful, and simple language excelled oidy by Shakspeare. 
Surely it requires as much intellectual power to give 
apt and eloquent voice to mountains, cataracts, tem- 
pests, oceans, ruins, and, above all, to the stormy emo- 
tions of the human heart, — making vivid the obscure and 
evasive, — as to diji deep into transcendental subtleties 
or ethical speculations. 

Byron may have been overrated in his day, but his place 
in English literature must ever be in the front rank of 
the immortals. As Matthew Arnold says of him, — 

"When Byron's eyes were shut in death 
We l)()wed our head aud held our breath, 
lie taught us little: luit our soul 
Had felt him like the thunder's roll," 



LOBD BYEOK. 



395 



FROM "CHILDE HAROLD." 

OPENING OF CANTO lU. 

Is tby face like thy mother's, my fair cLiUl ! 
Ada ! sole daughter of my Louse and heart ? ' 
Wlien last 1 saw thy young blue eyes they smiled,' 
And then \ve parted, — not as uow \ve part, - 
But ^vith a hope. — 

Awaking with a start. 
The waters heave arouud nie ; and on high 
The winds lift up their voices: I depart, 
Whither I know not ; but the hour's gone by, 
Whcu Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad 
mine eye. l^ 

Once more upou the waters! yet once more! 
And the ■waves bound beneath me as a steed 
That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar ! 
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead ! 
Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed. 
And the rent canvas tluttering strew the gale. 
Still must I on ; for I am as a weed, 
Fluug from the rock, on ocean's foam, to sail 
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath 
prevail. 

In my youth's summer I did sing of one, 
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind ; 
Again I seize the theme then but beguu, 
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind 
Bears the cloud onward: iu that talc I find 
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, 
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, 
O'er which all heavily the journeying years 
Plod the last sands of life, — where not a flower 
appears. 

Since my young days of passion — ^jny, or paiu. 
Perchance my heai't and harp have lost a string. 
And both may jar: it may be, that iu vain 
I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
Yet, though a dre.ary strain, to this I cling ; 
So tliat it wean me from the weary dream 
Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fling 
Forgetfulness around me — it shall seem 
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. 

He, who grown agi^d in this world of woe, 
Iu deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, 
So that no wonder waits him ; nor below 
Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, 
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife 
Of silent, sharp endurance : he can tell 



Wliy thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife 
With airy images, ami shapes which dwell 
Still unimpaired, though old, in the soul's haunted 
cell. 

'Tis to create, aud, iu creating, live 
A being more intense, that we endow - 
With form our fancy, gainiug as we give 
The life we image, even as I do now. 
What am I? Nothing; but not so art thou, 
Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth, 
Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
Mixed with thy spirit, blended with thy birth. 
And feeling still with thee iu my crushed feelings' 
dearth. 

Yet must I think less wildly : — I have thought 
Too loug and darkly, till my brain became, 
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, 
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame : 
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tnnie, 
My springs of life were poisoned. 'Tis too late ! 
Yet am I changed ; though still enough the same 
In strength to bear what time cannot abate. 
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing fate. 



SCENES BY LAKE LEMAN. 

From "Cqilde Harold," Canto III. 

Ye stars, which are the jioetry of heaven. 
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men aud empires, — 'tis to be forgiven. 
That, in our aspirations to be great. 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are 
A beauty aud a mystery, and create 
III us such love and reverence from afar, 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named them- 
selves a star. 

All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep, 
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ; 
And silent, as we stand iu thoughts too deep: — • 
All heaven and earth are still : from the high host 
Of stars to the lulled lake and mountain-coast, 
All is concentered iu a life intense, 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost. 
But hath a part of Ijeing, and a sense 
Of tliat which is of all Creator and defence. 

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
In solitude, where wo are least alone ; 



396 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEniCJX POETRY. 



A triitb, which through our being theu doth melt, 
Ami purifies from self: it is a tone, 
The soul and source of music, which makes known 
Eterual harmony, and sheds a charm, 
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone, 
Binding all things with beauty; — 'twould disarm 
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to 
harm. 

Not vainly did the early Persian make 
His altar the high places and the peak 
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take 
A fit and nu walled temple, there to seek 
The spirit, in whose honor shriues are weak, 
Upreared of human hands. Come, and compare 
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, 
With nature's realms of worship, earth and air. 
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy jirayer. 

The sky is changed! — and such a change! Oh 

night, 
And storm, aud darkness, ye are wondrous strong. 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along. 
From iieak to peak, the rattling crags among 
Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue, 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud. 
Back to the joyous Aliis, who call to her aloud I 

And this is iu the night : — most glorious night ! 
Tliou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be 
A sharer iu thy fierce and fur delight, — - 
A portion of the tempest aud of thee I 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! 
And now again 'tis black, — and now the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth. 
As if lliey did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birtli. 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye ! 
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
To make these felt aud feeling, well may be 
Things that have made mo watchful; the far roll 
Of your departing voices is the knoll 
Of what iu me is sleepless, — If I rest. 
But where of ye, oh tempests! is the goal? 
Are ye like those witliin the human breast? 
Or do ye find at leugth, like eagles, some high nest? 

Could I embody and unbosom now 

That which is most within me, — could I wreak 

My thoughts upon expression, aud thus throw 



Soul, heart, mind, jiassions, feelings, strong nr 

weak. 
All that I would have sought, aud all I seek, 
Bear, know, feel, aud yet breathe — into one word, 
Aud that one word were Lightning,! would speal; : 
But as it is, I live and die unheard, 
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a 

sword. 



WATERLOO. 

From "Ciiilde Harold," Canto III. 

There was a sound of revelry by uight. 
And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
Her beauty and her chiv.ilry, aud bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men : 
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when 
JIusic arose with its voluptuous swell. 
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, 
Aud all went merry as .a marriage-bell ; 
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising 
knell! 

Did yo not hear it ? No ; 'twas but the wind. 
Or the ear rattling o'er the stony street. 
On with the dance ! let joy be uuconfined ! 
No sleep till morn when Youth and Pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet — 
But hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
Aud nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
Arm! arm! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar I 

Within a windowed niche of that high hall 
Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain : he did hear 
That sound the first amid the festival. 
And caught its tone with deatli's prophetic ear ; 
And when they smiled because he deemed it near. 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Which stretelicd his father on a bloody bier, 
And roused the veugeance blood alone could quell ; 
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fi'll. 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro. 
Aud gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale which but an honr ago 
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness: 
And there were suddeu p.artiugs, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated : who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes. 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could 
rise ? 



LORD BYROX. 



397 



Aud tbere was moimtiiig in hot baste : the steed, 
The musteriug squailrou, aud the clattering car 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
Aud swiftly forming iu the ranks of war; 
And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar ; 
Aud near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morniug-star ; 
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, 
Or whispering, with white lips, "The foe! Tbey 
come, they come !" 

And wild aud high the "Cameron's gathering" 

rose ! 
The war-uoto of Lochiel, which Albyn's bills 
Have heard, and beard, too, have her Saxon foes — 
How iu the noon of nigbt that pibroch thrills. 
Savage aud shrill! But with tlie breath which fills 
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
"With the fierce native daring which Instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years ; 
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's 



Aud Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as tbey pass, 
Gricviug, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over the uureturning brave — alas ! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow, 
In its next verdure, when this flerj- mass 
Of living valor rolling on the foe, 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold 
and low. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life. 
Last eve iu Beauty's circle proudly gay ; 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife. 
The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day 
Battle's maguificently-stem array! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent, 
The earth is covered thick with other clay. 
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent. 
Eider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial 
blent! 



ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN. 

FbOM " CniLDE IlABOLD," CANTO IV. 

Oh ! that the Desert were my dwelling-place. 
With one fair Spirit for my minister, 
That I might all forget the human race, 
^> d, hating no one, love but only her! 
Ye Elements! — iu whose ennobling stir 



I feel myself exalted — cau ye uot 
Accord me such a being ? Do I err 

In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? 
Tb'jugh with them to converse can rarely be our lot. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods ; 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore; 
There is society, where none intrudes, 
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar : 
I love not Man the less, but Nature more, 
From these our interview.s, iu which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, 
To miugle with the Universe, aud feel 
What I cau ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean! — roll! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee iu vain ; 
Jlan marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore : — upon the watery i>lain 
Tlie wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
He sinks into thj' depths with bubbling groan, 
Without agrave, uuknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. 

His steps are not upon thy paths — thy fields 

Are uot a spoil for him — thou dost arise. 

And shake him from thee ; the vile strength be 

wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despi.se, 
Siiurniug him from thy bosom to the skies. 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
Aud howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
Aud dashest him again to earth; there let him lay.' 

Tlie armaments which thunder-strike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, biddiug nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals. 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; 
Tliese are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
Tliey melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's jiride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 

Thy shores ai'e empires, changed in all save thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ? 
Tliy waters wasted them while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 

' It will be remarked that lay is here used angrnmmatically ; 
bnt Byrou was in want (if a rhyme. In the second line pre- 
ceding, he nses the verb lies correctly. 



398 



CYCLOPJSDIA OF BRITISH JXD AMERICAX FOETRY. 



The strauger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou, 
Uiicbaugeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rullest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, wlierc the Almigbty's form 
Glasses itself iu tempests ; in all time, 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the pole, or iu the torrid clime 
Darli-beaving; — boundless, endless and sublime — 
The image of Eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible : even from out thy slime 
The monsters of tbe deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, 
alone. 

And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to bo 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
I wantoned with thy breakers — they to mo 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made tliem a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear. 
For I was as it were a child of thee. 
And trusted to thy billows far and uear, 
Aud laid my baud upou thy mano — as I do here. 



EVENING. 

From *'Don Jcan," Canto III. 

Ave Maria ! bless(?d be the hour ! 

The tinu', the clime, the spot, where I so oft 
Have felt that moment in its fullest jiower 

Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, 
While swung the deep bell iu the distant tower. 

Or the faint dying day-hymu stole aloft, 
.\nd not a breath crept through the rosy air, 
Aud yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with prayer. 

.Vve JIarial 'tis the hour of prayer! 

Ave Maria! 'tis the honr of love! 
Ave Maria! may our spirits dare 

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above! 
Ave Maria! oh that face so fair! 

Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove — 
What though 'tis but a pictured image strike — 
That painting is no idol, 'tis too like. 

* * # 3* jf 

Sweet honr of twilight! — iu the solitude 
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 

Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, 

Rooted where once the Adrian wave flowed o'er, 



To where the last Cesarean fortress stood. 
Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio's lore 
And Dryden's Ijiy made haunted ground to me, — 
How have I loved the twilight hour aud thee ! 

The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, 

Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, 

Were the sole echoes, save my steed's aud mine, 
Aud vesper-bell's that rose the boughs along : 

The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line. 

His hell-dogs, aud their chase, aud the fair throng, 

Which learned from this example not to fly 

From a true lover, shadowed my mind's eye. 

Oh Hesperus! thou bringest all good things — 
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer. 

To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, 
The welcome stall to the o'er-lahored steer ; 

Whate'er of peace about our hearth-stouo clings, 
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear. 

Are gathered rouud us by thy look of rest ; 

Tiiou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. 

Soft hour! which wakes the wish aud melts tlie 
heart 

Of those who sail the seas, on the first day 
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart : 

Or tills with love the pilgrim on his way, 
As the far bell of vesper makes him start, 

Seeming to weep the dying day's decay : 
Is this a fancy which our reasou scorns ? 
Ah! surclv nothing dies but something mourns! 



THE ISLES OF GREECE. 
From " Don Juan," Canto III. 

Tlie isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece ! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung,- 
Wliere grew the arts of war and ])cace, — 

Where Delos rose aud Phoebus sprung! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet ; 
But all e.\cept their sun is set. 

The Scian and the Teian nuise, 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute. 

Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
Their place of birth alone is mute 

To sounds which echo farther west 

Thau your sires' " Islands of the Blessed." 

The mountains look on Marathon, 
Aud Marathon looks on the sea; 



LORD BTl.'OX. 



399 



Ami musing tliere au hour alone, 

I (liennied that Greece uiigUt still be free ; 
For, standing ou the. Persians' grave, 
I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sat ou the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-boni Salamis ; 

And ships by thousands lay below, 
And men in nations: — all were his! 

He counted them at break of day — 

And when the sun set, where were they ? 

Aud where are they ? — and where art thou, 
My country ? Ou thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

Aud must thy lyre, so long divine, 

Degenerate iuto hands like mine ? 

'Tis something, iu the dearth of fame, 
Though linked among a fettered race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 

For what is left the poet here 1 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

Must we but weep o'er days more blessed ? 

JIust we but blush ?— Our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grant but tliree. 
To make a new Theruiopyla>. 

What, silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah ! uo ; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 

And answer, "Let one living head. 
But one arise, — we come ; we come !" 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain — in vain : strike other chords ; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

Aud shed the blood of Scio's viue ! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answers each bold bacchanal ! 

You have the Pyrrliio dance as yet. 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 

Of two such lessous, why forget 
The uohler aud the manlier one ? 

You have the letters Cadnuis gave — 

Think ye he meaut them for a slave ? 



Fill high the bowl with Samiau wine! 

We will uot think of themes like these ! 
It made Auacreou's song divine ; 

He served — but served Pol.ycrates — 
A tyrant ; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

! - 

Tlie tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest frieud, 
Tliat tyraut was Miltiades ! 

Oh, that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samiau wine! 

On Suli's rock and Parga's shore 
Exists the remnaut of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
Tlio Heracleidan blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
They have a king who buys and sells. 

In native swords, aud native ranks. 
The only hope of courage dwells ; 

But Turkish force aiul Latiu fraud 

Would break your shield, however broad. 

Fill high the bowl with Samiau wine! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 

But, gazing on each glowing maid, 
Jly own the burning tear-drop laves. 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 
Wliere notliing save the waves aud I 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
There, swau-like, let me sing aud die : 

A laud of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cuj) of Samiau wine! 



FROM THE "ODE ON VENICE." 

The name of Commonwealth is past and gone. 

O'er the three fi-actions of tlie groaning globe; 
Venice is crushed, and Holland deigns to owu 

A sceptre, and endures the purple robe : 
If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone 
His chaiuless mountains, 'tis but for a time, 
For Tyr.anny of late is cunning grown, 
Atul iu its owu good season tramples down 



400 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BlilTISU AXD AilEEICAX POETBT. 



The sparkles of our asbes. One great clime, 

Whose vigotous offspring by dividing ocean 

Are kept apart and nnrsed in the devotion 

Of Freedom, \vhich their fatliers fought for, and 

Bequeathed — a heritage of heart and hand. 

And proud distinction from each other land, 

Whoso sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, 

As if his senseless sceptre were a wand, 

Full of the magic of exiJloded science — 

Still one great clime, in full and free defiance. 

Yet rears her crest, uuconquered and sublime, 

Above the far Atlantic! — She has taught 

Her Esan-brethreu that the haughty flag. 

The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, 

May strike to those whose red right hands have 

bought 
Rights cheaiily earned with blood. — Still, still forever 
Better, though each man's life-blood were a river, 
That it should flow, and overflow, than creep 
Through thousand lazy channels in our veins. 
Dammed like tlic dull canal with locks and chains. 
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep. 
Three paces, and then faltering: — better be 
Where the extinguished Spartans still are free. 
In their proud charnel of Thermopyla>, 
Than stagnate in our marsh, — or o'er the deep 
Fly, and one current to the ocean add. 
One spirit to the souls our fathers had, 
One freeman n\ore, America, to thee! 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 

She walks in beauty, lilco the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 

TIius mellowed to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less. 
Had half-impaired the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress. 
Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow. 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A lieart whose love is innocent! 



'OX THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY- 
SIXTH YEAR." 

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved. 
Since others it hath ceased to move ; 
I'ct, though I caunot be beloved. 

Still let me love ! 

My days are in the yellow leaf; 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief 
Are mine alone ! 

The fire that on my bosom preys 

Is lone as some volcanic isle ; 
No torch is kindled at its blaze, — 
A funeral pile ! 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 

The exalted portion of the pain 
And power of love, I cannot share. 
But wear the chain. 

But 'tis not thus — and 'tis not here — 

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor noir 
Where glory decks the hero's bier. 
Or binds his brow. 

The sword, the banner, and the field, 
Glory and Greece, around me see ! 
The Spartan, borne upon his shield. 
Was not nuirc free. 

Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake !) 

Awake, my spirit ! Think through xchom 
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, 
And then strike home ! 

Tread those reviving passions down. 

Unworthy manhood ! unto thee 
ludiftereut should tho smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If thou regrett'st thy yonth, u-hij live' 

The land of honorable death 
Is here : — up to the field, and give 
Away thy breath ! 

Seek out — less often sought than found — 

A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 
Then look around, and choose thy ground. 

And take thy rest. 
Misjoloughi, January 22(1, 1S24. 



LOUD BTROy. 



401 



THE DREAM. 

I. 

Our life is twofold: Sleep hatli its own workl, 

A bdiiiulary between tlie things misnamed 

Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world, 

And a wide realm of wild reality, 

And dreams in their development have breath, 

And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 

They leave a weight upon onr waiving thoughts. 

They take a weight from oft" our waking toils, 

They do divide our being ; they become 

A portion of ourselves as of our time, 

And look like heralds of eternity: 

They pass like spirits of the past, — they speak 

Like sibyls of the future ; they have power — 

Tlie tyranny of pleasure and of ])ain ; 

They make ns what we were not — what they will. 

And shake us with the vision that's gone by, — 

The dread of vanished shadows. Are they so ? 

Is not the past all shadow? What are they? 

Creations of the mind? The mind can make 

Sa1)stance, and people planets of its own 

With beings brighter than have been, and give 

A breath to forms which can outlive all llesh. 

I would recall a vision which I dreamed. 

Perchance, iu sleep, — for in itself a thought, 

A slumbering thonght, is capable of years, 

And curdles a long lite into one honr. 



I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 
Green, and of mild declivity, — the last. 
As 'twere the cape, of a long ridge of such. 
Save that there was no sea to lave its base. 
But a most living landscape, and the wave 
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
Arising from such rustic roofs ; the hill 
Was crowned with a peculiar diadem 
Of trees in circular array, so fixed. 
Not by the sport of nature, but of man : 
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
Gazing ; the oue on all that was beneath — 
Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her : 
And both were young, and one was beautiful ; 
And both were young, yet not alike in youth. 
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge. 
The maid was on the eve of womanhood; — 
Tlie boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
Had far outgrown his years; and, to his eye. 
There was but one beloved face on earth — 
26 



And that was shining on him : he h.nl looked 

Upon it till it conld not jiass aw ay : 

He had no breath, no being, but in hers: 

She was bis voice ; — he did not speak to her, 

But trembled on her words: she was his sight; 

For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers. 

Which colored all bis objects: — he haJl -ceased 

To live within himself; slie was his life, — 

The ocean to the river of his thoughts 

Which terminated all : upon a tone, 

A touch, of hers, his blood would ebl( and How. 

And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 

Unknowing of its cause of agony. 

But she iu these fond feelings had no share: 

Her sighs were not for him ! to her be was 

Even as a brother, — but no more : 'twas nnich ; 

For brotherless she was, save iu the name 

Her infant friendship had bestowed on him, — 

Herself the solitary scion left 

Of a time-honored race. It was a name 

Which pleased liim, and yet pleased him not, — and 

why ? 
Time taught him a deep answer — when she loveil 
Another ! even now she loved another ; 
And on the smumit of that hill she stood 
Looking afar, if yet her lover's steed 
Kept pace with her expectancy and flew. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
There was an ancient mansion, and before 
Its walls there was a steed caparisoned : 
Within an antique oratory stood 
Tho boy of whom I spake ; — lie was alone, 
And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon 
He sat him down, and seized a pen, and traced 
Words which I could not guess of; then ke leaiiei 
His bowed head on his hands, and shook, as 'twere. 
With a convulsion, — then arose again, 
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
What he had written; but he shed no tears: 
And lie did calm himself, and fix his brow 
Into a kind of quiet. As he paused, 
The lady of his love re-entered there ; 
She was serene and smiling then, — and yet 
She knew she was bj- him beloved ! she knew — 
For quickly comes such knowledge — that his liea 
Was darkened with her shadow ; and she saw- 
That he was wretched, — but she saw not all. 
He rose, and, with a cold and gentle grasp. 
He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 
A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced, — and then it faded as it came : 



402 



CrCLOPJEDIA OF BHITISB AXD AilEEICAS FOETEY. 



He (Iroppecl the hand he hehl, and with slow steps 
Retired, — but uot as bidding her adieu ; 
For they did part with mutual smiles : he passed 
From out the massy gate of tl)at old hall, 
And, mounting ou his steed, he went his way, 
And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more ! 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The hoy was sjiruug to raauhood : in the wilds 
Of fiery climes he made himself a home, 
And his soul drauk their sunbeams : he was girt 
With strange and dusky aspects ; ho was nut 
Himself like what he bad been : on the sea 
And on the shore he was a wanderer! 
There was a mass of many images 
Crowded like waves upon me; but ho was 
A part of all, — and iu the last he lay 
Reposing from the noontide sultriness. 
Couched among fallen columns, iu the shade 
Of ruined walls that had survived the names 
Of those who reared them : by his sleeping side 
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
Were fastened near a fountain ; and a man. 
Clad iu a flowing garb, did watch the while. 
While many of his tribe slumbered around ; 
And they were canopied by the blue sky, 
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful. 
That God alono was to be seen in heaven. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The lady of his love was wed with one 

Who did not love her better : iu her home, 

A thousand leagues from his, — her native home. 

She dwelt begirt with growing infancy. 

Daughters and sons of beauty, — but behold ! 

Upon her face there was the tint of grief. 

The settled shadow of au inward strife. 

And an unquiet drooping of the eye, 

As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 

What could her grief be ?— she had all she loved ; 

And ho who had so loved her was not there 

To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish. 

Or ill-repressed affliction, her i>ure thoughts. 

What could her grief be ? — she had loved him not, 

Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved ; 

Nor could he bo a part of that which preyed 

Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The wanderer was returned. I saw him stand 



Before an altar with a gentle bride: 

Her l;ice was fair, — but was uot that which made 

The starlight of his boyhood ! As he stood 

Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 

The self-same aspect and the quivering shock 

That iu the antique or.atory shook 

His bosom in its solitude; and then. 

As in that hour, a moment o'er his face 

The tablet of unutterable thoughts 

Was traced, — and then it faded as it came ; 

And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 

The iitting vows, — but heard not his own words ; 

And all things reeled around him ! he could see 

Not that which was, uor that which should have 

been ; 
But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall. 
And the remembered chambers, and the place. 
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, — 
All things pertaining to that place and hour. 
And her who was his destiny, came back, 
And thrust themselves between him and the light: 
What business had they there at such a time ? 



A change came o'er the sjjirit of my dream. 
The lady of his love, — oh ! she was changed 
As by the sickness of the soul : her mind 
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes,- 
They had not their own lustre, but the look 
Which is uot of the earth : she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her tliougiits 
Were combinations of disjoiuted things ; 
And forms — impalpable and uuperceived 
Of others' sight — familiar were to hers : 
And this the world calls frenzy ! but the wise 
Have a far deeper nmdness, and the glance 
Of melancholy is a fearful gift : 
What is it but the telescope of truth ! 
Which strips the distance of its fantasies, 
And brings life. near iu utter nakedness, 
Making the cold reality too real ! 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The wanderer was alone, as heretofore ; 
The beings that surrounded him were gone. 
Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 
For blight and desolation, — compassed romid 
With hatred and contention : pain was mixed 
In all which was served up to him, until, 
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days. 
Ho fed on poisons, and they had no power, — 
But were a kiud of nutriment : ho lived 



LOr.D BTROX. 



403 



Tlii-ough that wUicli bail been death to niaiiy men, 

And made him friends of mountains : with tlie stars 

And the qnick spirit of the universe 

He held his dialogues ; and they did teach 

To him the magic of their mysteries ; 

To him the book of night was opened wide, 

And voices from the deep abyss revealed 

A marvel and a secret : — Be it so. 



My dream was past ; it had no farther change. 

It was of a strange order that the doonr 

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 

Almost like a realitj' — the one 

To end in madness — both iu misery. 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold. 
And his cohorts were gleaming iu purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on 

the sea. 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green. 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath 

blown, 
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 

For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in tlie face of the foe as he passed ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew 
still. 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there rolled not the breath of his 

pride ; 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale. 
With the dew ou his brow and the rust on his mail; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone. 
The lances uulifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud iu their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal, 
And the might of the Gentile, uusmote by the sword. 
Hath melted like snow iu the glance of the Lord! 



WHEN WE TWO PARTED. 

When we two parted 

Iu silence and tears, 
Half broken-hearted 

To sever for years. 
Pale grew thy cheek, and doid, 

Colder thy kiss : 
Truly, that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 

Sank chill ou my brow — 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken, 

And light is thy fame ; 
I hear thy name spoken, 

And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine ear ; 
A shudder comes o'er me^ 

Why wert thou so dear ? 
They know not I knew thee, 

Who knew thee too well : — • 
Long, long shall I rue thee, 

Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we niet — 

In silence I grieve 
That thy heart could forget. 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years, 
How should I greet thee ? — 

With silence and tears. 



MODERN CRITICS. 

Fno3i "English Bards and Scotch Keviewers." 

A man must serve his time to every trade 
Save censure — critics all are ready-made. 
Take hackneyed jokes from Miller, got by rote, 
With just enough of learning to misquote; 
A mind well skilled to find or forge a fault ; 
A turn for punning, — call it Attic salt; 
To Jeffrey go ; be silent and discreet, 
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet. 
Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a lucky hit; 
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit ; 
Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest. 
And stand a c/itie, hated yet caressed. 



404 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BEITISU AND AMERICAN rOETRT. 



MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART. 

Maid of Athcus, ere we part, 
Give, oh give me back my Iieart ! 
Or, since that has left my hreast, 
Keep it now, and talce the rest ! 
Hear my vow before I go — 
Xutq fxov aat; c'lyaTrut, 

By those tresses uncoufined. 
Wooed by each JEgeau wind ; 
By those lids whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 
Zw;j fiov aat^ dyatrw. 

By that lip I long to taste ; 
By that zone-eucircled waist ; 
By all the token-flowers that tell 
What words can never speak so well ; 
By love's alternate joy and woe, 
Zwij fiov cf((; ciynrrui. 

Maid of Athens! I am gone : 
Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 
Though I fly to Istambol, 
Athens holds my heart and soul : 
Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 
Zw»; jiov (TOQ dyaTTui. 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 

My boat is on the .shove. 

And my bark is on tlie sea ; 

Bnt, before I go, Tom Moore, 
Here's a double health to thee ! 

Hero's a sigh to those TTho love mo, 
And a smile to those who hate ; 

And, whatever sky's above mo. 
Here's a heart for everj- fate. 

Though the ocean roar around me, 
Yet it still shall bear mo on ; 

Though a desert should surround me. 
It hath springs tiiat may be won. 

Were't the last drop in the well. 
As I gasped upon the brink. 

Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

"Tis to thee that I would driuk. 



With that water as this wine. 

The libation I would pour 
Would be — peace with thine and mine. 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 



SOXNET ON CHILLON. 

Eternal spirit of the chainless mind ! 
Brightest in dungeons. Liberty ! thou art; 
For there thy habitation is the heart — 
The heart which love of thee aloue can bind; 
And when thy sous to fetters are consigned — 
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom. 
Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
And Freedom's fame tiuds wings on every wind. 
Chillou ! thy jn'ison is a holy place, 
And thy sad floor au altar — for 'twas trod, 
tlntil his very steps have left .a trace 
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
By Bonniv.ard! — May none those marks eflacc! 
For they ap^ical from tyranny to God. 



WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFERING 
CLAY. 

When coldness wraps this suflering clay. 

Ah, whither strays the immortal mind f 
It cannot die, it cannot stay. 

But leaves its darkened dust behind. 
Then, unembodied, doth it trace 

By steps each planet's heavenly way? 
Or till at oute the realms of space, 

A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 

Eternal, boundless, nndecayed, 

A thought unseeu, bnt seeing all. 
All, all in earth, or skies disidaycd. 

Shall it survey, shall it recall : 
Each fainter trace that mcnuiry holds, 

So darkly of departed years, 
In one broad glance the soul beholds, 

And all, that was, at once appears. 

Before creation peopled earth. 

Its eye .shall roll throngli chaos back ; 
And where the farthest heaven had birth. 

The spirit trace its i-ising track, 
And where the fnturo mars or makes, 

Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
While sun is quenched or system breaks, 

Fixed in its own eternity. 



LORD BYROy.—IlWHARD HARRIS BAREAM. 



405 



Above, or love, liopc, hate, or fear, 

It lives all jiassiouless and pure ; 
All age shall fleet like earthly year; 

Its years as momeuts shall emliire. 
Away, away, witliout a wing, 

O'er all, through all, its tlioughts shall fly ; 
A nameless and eternal thing 

Forgettinfr what it was to die. 



FROM "THE PROPHECY OF DANTE." 

CANTO IV. 

Many are poets who have never penned 
Their inspiration, and perchance the best : 
Tliey felt, and loved, and died, but would not lend 

Their thoughts to meauer beings ; they compressed 
Tlie god within them, and rejoined the stars 
Uulaurelled upon earth, but far more blessed 

Than those who are degraded by the jars 
Of passion, and their frailties linked to fame, 
Conquerors of high renown, but full of scars. 

Many are poets, but without tlie name ; 
For what is poesy but to create 
From overfeeling good or ill ; and aim 

At an external life beyond our fate, 

And be the new Prometheus of new men, 
Bestowing fire from heaven, and tlien, too lato, 

Finding tlic pleasure given repaid with pain, 
And vultures to the heart of the bestower, 
Who, having lavished his high gift in vain, 

Lies chained to his lone rock by the sea-shore! 
So be it ; we can bear. — But thns all they 
Wliosc intellect is an o'crmasteriug power. 

Which still recoils from its encumberiug clay, 
Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er 
The forms whieh their creations may essay. 

Are bards ; the kindled marble's bust may wear 
More poesy npon its speaking brow 
Thau auglit less than the Homeric page may bear; 

One noble strolce with a ■uhole life may glow, 
Or deify the canvas till it sliine 
With beauty bo surpassing all below, 

That they who kneel to idols so divine 

Break no commandment, for high heaven is there 
Transfused, transtigurated : and the line 

Of poesy which peoples but the air 

With thought and beings of our thought reflected, 
Can do no more : then let the artist share 

The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected 
Faints o'er tlie labor unapproved — Alas ! 
Despair and genius are too oft connected. 



ilicljart Ciavvis Bavljam. 

Barham (1788-184.5) was a native of London. He stud- 
icd for the ministry, and became a minor canon of St. 
Paul's, and rector of St. Augustine and St. Faith's, Lon- 
don. He wrote, for BeiUla/s Miscdlany, tlie "Ingoldsby 
Legends," which came out in iinnibers, and were subse- 
quently collected in three serial voluracL'It was the 
great literary success of his life. Siuee the days of But- 
ler's "Hudibras," the drollery that can be invested in 
rhymes has rarely been so amply or felicitously excm- 
plitied. A Life of Barham, by his sou, appeared in 1870. 



THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS. 

The Jackdaw sat oii the Cardinal's chair, 
Bishop and abbot and prior were tliere ; 

Mauj' a monk and many a friar. 

Many a knight and many a squire, 
With a great many more of lesser degree, — 
In sooth, a goodly company ; 
And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee. 

Never, I ween. 

Was a prouder seen, 
Read of in books or dreamed of in dreams. 
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims ! 

In and out, 

Through the motley rout, 
The little Jackdaw kept hoppiug about ; 

Here and there. 

Like a dog in a fair. 

Over comfits and cates, 

And dislies and plates, 
Cowl and cope and rochet and pall. 
Mitre and crosier, ho hopped npon all. 

With a saucy air 

Ho perched on the chair 
Wliere in state the great Lord Cardinal sat. 
In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat ; 

And he peered iu the face 

Of his Lordship's grace, 
With a satisfied look, as if to say, 
" We two are the greatest folks here to-day !" 

And the priests ■with awe, 

As such freaks they saw. 
Said, "The devil must be in that little Jackdaw." 

The feast was over, the board was cleared, 
The flawus and the custards had all disappeared. 
And sis little singing-boys, — dear little souls ! — 
In nice clean faces and nice white stoles, 

Came, in order due, 

Two by two, 



406 



Cl'CLOF^DIA OF LIUTISn A^D JMErUCAX I'OETRY. 



Marching that graud refectorj- through! 
A nice little hoy held a golden ewer, 
Embossed aud lilled with water as jMire 
As any that flows between Eheiras aud Naiiiur, 
AVhich a nice little boy stood ready to catch 
In a fine golden hand-basin made to match. 
Two nice little boys, rather more grown, 
I'oured laveiulcr-watcr aud eau-de-cologne ; 
And a nice little boy had a nice cako of soap 
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope! 

Oae little boy more 

A napkin boro 
Of the bed-white diaper fringed with pink, 
And a cardinal's hat marked iu permanent ink. 

The great Lord Cardinal turus at the sight 
Of these nice little boys dressed all iu white ; 

From his linger he draws 

His costly turquoise ; 
And not tliiukiug at all aljout little Jackdaws, 

Deposits it straight 

By the side of his plate, 
AVliile the nice little boys on his Emiueuce wait ; 
Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing, 
That little Jackdaw hops oft' with the ring! 

There's a cry aud a shout, 

And a deuce of a rout, 
Aud nobody seems to kuow wliat he's about. 
Hat the monks have their pockets all turned inside 
out ; 

The friars are kneeling, 

Aud hunting and feeling 
Tlic carpet, the floor, aud the walls, aud the ceiling. 

The Cardinal drew 

Off each phim-colored shoe, 
Aud left his red stockings exposed to the view ; 

He peeps, aud he feels 

In tho toes and the heels. 
They turn up tho dishes, — they turn up the plates, — 
They take up the jioker, aud poke out the grates ; 

They turn up the rugs. 

They examine the mugs; 

But no ! — no such thing — 

They can't find the riso I 
And the Abbot declared that " when nobody twig- 
ged it. 
Some rascal or other liad popped in and prigged it!" 

The Cardinal I'ose with a dignilied look, 

He called for his candle, his bell, aud his book ! 

In holy anger and pious grief 

He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! 



Ho cursed him at board, he cursed him iu bed ; 
From the sole of his foot to the crowu of his head ; 
He cursed him iu sleeping, that every night 
He should dream of tbe devil, aud wake in a fright. 
He cursed him in eating, he cursed him iu drinking ; 
He cursed him in coughing, iu sneezing, iu winking; 
He cursed him iu sitting, in standing, in lying; 
He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying; 
Ho cursed him living, he cursed him dying! — 
Never was heard such a terrible curse I 

But what gave rise 

To no little surprise. 
Nobody seemed one jienny the worse ! 

The day was gone, 

The night came on, 
The monks and the friars they searched till dawn ; 

When tho sacristan saw, 

Ou crumpled claw. 
Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw! 

No longer gay, 

As ou yesterdaj- ; 
His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way : 
His pinions drooped, he could hardly stand, 
His liead was as bald as the paha of your hand; 

His eye so dim. 

So wasted each limb, 
Tliat, heedless of grammar, they all cried, " That's 

him! 
That's tho scamp that has done this scandalous 

thing. 
That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's 

RING !" 

Tlie poor little Jackdaw, 

When the monks he saw, 
Feebly gave vent to tlio ghost of a caw ; 
Aud turned his bald head as much as to say, 
" Pray bo so good as to walk this way !" 

Slower and slower 

He limpejl ou before, 
Till they came to the back of the belfry door. 

Where the first thing they saw, 

'Jlid the sticks aud the straw, 
Was the ring in tho nest of tliat little Jackdaw ! 

Tlien the great Lord Cardinal called for his book. 
Aud olf that terrible curse he took ; 

The mute expression 

Served in lieu of confession, 
Aud, being thus coupled with full restitution. 
The Jackdaw got plenary absol-ution ! 

Wlieu those words were heard 

That poor little bird 



lUCHARD HARRIS IlJRHAM.—TnOilAS PRIXGLE. 



407 



Was so cliaiiged in a moment, 't^-as really absurd : 

Ho grew sleek aud fat ; 

III addition to that, 
A tliick crop of feathers came, thick as a mat ; 

His tail Tvaggled more 

Than ever before ; 
I'.nt no longer it wagged with an inipiulcnt air, 
No longer lie perched on the Curdiual's chair. 

He hopped now about 

With a gait qnite devout ; 
I At matins, at vespers, he never was out ; 
I And, so far from any more pilfering deeds. 

He always seemed telling the Confessor's beads. 

If any one lied, or if any one swore, 

Or slumbered in prayer-time aud hajiiiencd to snore, 

That good Jackdaw 

Would give a great " Caw !" 
As much as to say, '• Dou't do so any more !" 
While many remarked, as bis manners they saw, 
Tiiat they " never had kuown such a pious Jack- 
daw !" 

He long lived the pride 

Of that country-side. 
And at last iu the odor of sanctity died; 

When, as words were too faiut 

His merits to paint. 
The Conclave determiued to make him a Saint. 
And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know. 
It's the custom at Rome new names to bestow; 
So they canonized him by the name of Jem Crow! 



SONG. 



'Tis sweet to think the pure ethereal being. 
Whose mortal form reposes with the dead. 

Still hovers round unseen, yet not unseeing, 
Benignly smiling o'er the mourner's bed ! 

She comes in dreams, a thing of light and lightness ; 

I hear her voice iu still small accents tell 
Of realms of bliss and never-fading brightness, 

Where those who loved on earth together dwell. 

All. yet awhile, blessed shade, thy flight delaying. 
The kindred soul with mystic converse cheer; 

To her rapt gaze, iu visions bland, displaying 
The unearthly glories of thy happier sphere ! 

Yet, yet remain ! till freed like thee, delighted. 
She spurns the thraldom of encumbering clay; 

Then, as on earth, iu tenderest love united. 
Together seek the realms of endless day ! 



aII)oma5 |Jvingle. 



Prinffle (1788-1834) was a native of Roxburglishire, 
S'joll.ind. He was the iiuthor of "Scenes of Teviotdale, 
Ephemerides, and other Poems," all sliowing fine feel- 
ing and a cultivated taste. In 1820 he emigiated to tlie 
Cape of Good Hope with his father and several broth- 
ers ; but from himencss, caixscd by an liccident when 
young, Thomas was ill tittcd for a life of hardship. He 
returned to England, and got a living by his pen. He 
edited a literary annual, entitled "Friendsliip's Offer- 
ing," and wrote a series of "African SUetches," con- 
taining an interesting person.al narrative. His poem, 
"Afar in the Desert," was much admired by Coleridge. 
It was repeatedly altci'cd. Pringle's "Poetical Works," 
with a memoir by Leitch Ritchie, appeared in 1839. 



AFAR IN THE DESERT. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride. 
With the silent bush-boy alone by my side: 
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, 
And, sick of the Present, I cling to the Past; 
When the ej-e is suffused with regretful tears, 
From the fond recollections of former years ; 
And shadows of things that have long since fled 
Flit over the brain like the ghosts of the dead ; 
And my native land, whose magical name 
Thrills to my heart like electric flame; 
The home of my childhood ; the hauuts of my inime; 
All the passions and scenes of that raptui'ons time 
When the feelings were young, aud the world was 

new; 
Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view; — 
All — all uow forsaken, forgotteu, foregone ! 
x\iid I, a lone exile, remembered of none ; 
My high aims abandoned, my good acts undone. 
Aweary of all that is under the sun, — 
With that sadness of heart which no stranger may 

scan, 
I fly to the desert, afar from man ! 

Afar in the desert I love to ride. 
With the silent bush-boy alone by my side : 
When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, 
With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife — 
Tlio proud man's frown, and the base man's fear ; 
The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear, — 
And malice, and me.auness, and falsehood, and folly. 
Dispose nie to musing and dark melancholy ; 
When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high. 
And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh: 
Oh, then there is freedom, and joy, aud pride, 
Afar iu the desert alone to ride ! 



403 



CYCLOI'J^DIA OF BHITISH AXD AMEEICAX FOETUY. 



There is i:iptiuo to vault on the champing steed, 
And to boiuid away with the eagle's speed, 
With the death-fi'anght firelock in my hand — 
The only law of the desert land. 

Alar in the desert I love to ride, 

With the silent bnsli-boy alone by my side ; 

Away, away from the dwellings of men, 

r5y the wild deer's hannt, by the buffalo's glen ; 

By valleys remote, where the Oribi plays. 

Where the gnn, the gazelle, and the harttbeest graze. 

And the kiidii and eland unluinted recline 

By the skirts of gray forests o'erhnng with wild vine ; 

Where the clephaut browses at peace in his wood, 

And the river-horse gambols uuscared in the llood, 

And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will 

In the feu where the wild-ass is drinking his till. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride, 
With the silent bush-boy alone by my side ; 
O'er the brown Karroo, where the bleating cry 
!)f the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively; 
And the timorous qnagga's shrill whistling ueigh 
Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray; 
Where the zebra wautouly tosses his maue, 
With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain ; 
And the lleet-footed ostrich over the waste 
.Speeds like a horseman who travels iu haste, 
Hieing away to the home of her rest, 
Where she and her mate Lave scooped their nest, 
Tar hid from the pitiless plunderer's view 
In the pathless depths of the parched Karroo. 

.\far in the desert I love to ride, 

With the silent bush-boy alone by my side ; 

Away, away in the wilderness vast, 

Wliero the white man's foot hath never passed, 

.Vnd the quivered Coranna or Boeluuiii 

Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan: 

A region of emptiness, howling and drear. 

Which Man hath abandoned from famine and fear; 

Which the snake and the lizard iuhabit alone. 

With the twilight bat from the yawning stone; 

Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, 

.Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot ; 

And the bitter melou, for food and drink. 

Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink : 

A region of drought, where uo river glides, 

N'or rippling brook with osiered sides ; 

Wlicre sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount. 

Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, 

Appears to refresh the aching eye; 

liiit the barren earth, and the burning sky. 



And the blank horizon, round ami round. 
Spread — void of living sight or sound. 

And hero, while the night-wiuils round me sigh, 
And the st.-irs burn bright in the midnight sky, 
As I sit apart by the desert stone, 
Like Elijah at Horeb's Cave alone, 
"A still small voice" comes through the wild 
(Like a father consoling his fretful child), 
'Whi<di banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, 
Saying, "Man is distant, but God is near!" 



THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL. 

Our native land — our native vale — 

A long and last adieu I 
Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, 

And Cheviot's mountains blue. 

Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds. 
And streams renowned in song ! 

Farewell, ye blithesome braes and meads 
Onr hearts have loved so long! 

Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes, 
Where thyme and harebells grow — 

Farewell, ye hoary hainited liowcs, 
O'erhnng with birk and sloe! 

The battle-mound, the Border tower, 

Tliat Scotia's annals tell ; 
The martyr's grave, the lover's bower — 

To each, to all — farewell! 

Home of onr hearts I onr father's home! 

Land of the brave and free ! 
The sail is flapping on the foam 

That bears ns far from thee ! 

We seek a wild and distant shore, 

Beyond the Atlantic main; 
We leave thee to return no more, 

Or view thy cliffs again ! 

But may dishonor blight onr fame, 
And quench our household fires. 

When we, or ours, forget thy uame. 
Green island of our sires ! 

Onr native hand — onr native vale — 

A long and last adieu ! 
Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, 

And Scotland's mouutains blue! 



WILLIAM THOM.— JAMES ABRAHAM JIILLHOCSE. 



409 



lllilliam itljom. 



Among tlic une(liicatci\ poets Tliom (17S9-184S) de- 
serves an honorable mention. He was a native of Aber- 
deen, Seotland, and learned to read and write before lie 
was ten years old. His life thenceforth was one of la- 
bor and vicissitude. His ocuupatiou was first that of a 
weaver: he married, and took up that of'a peddler. In 
this he incurred penury and sutferinn', so that he often 
bad to find his lodgings in cold barns ; and on one of 
these occasions a child of bis own perished from starva- 
tion and exposure. In 1840 he removed to luverury, and 
while there began to write poetry, which attracted pub- 
lic attention. He was enabled to go to London, and in 
1SJ4 published "Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand- 
loom Weaver." The volume was well received; and, on 
a second visit to London, he was entertained at a public 
dinner. Returning to Seotland, be took up his abode in 
Dundee; and, after a period of poverty and distress, died 
there at the age of fifty-niuc. Some of bis poems are 
remarUablc for tenderness and grace, combined with 
strong religious convictions. 



THE MITHERLESS BAIRN. 

When a' itlier bairnics are linslicd to tlieir hame 
I'ly anuty, or cousin, or frccky grand-ilanic, 
Wlia Stan's last an' lanely, an' iiaeboily carin' ? 
'Tis tile puir doited loonie, the uiitlierlcss bairn! 

The mitberless liairn gangs to bis lane bed ; 
Xane covers Lis cauld back, or baps liis bare bead; 
His weo liaekit lieclies are bard as tbo airn, 
An' litbeless the lair o' tbc mitberless bairn. 

Ancatb bis cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, 
O' bauds that wont kindly to kame bis dark bair; 
But inoruiu' brings clutches, .a' reckless an' stern, 
That lo'e uae tlic locks o' the niitlierless bairn. 

Yon sister, that sang o'er bis saftly-rockcd bed. 
Now rests iu the mools wbere her niammio is laid; 
Tlie fatlicr toils sair their wee bannock to earn. 
An' kens luV tbo wrangs o' bis mitberless bairn. 

Her spirit, that passed in yon Lour o' his birth. 
Still watches bis wearisome wanderings on earth, 
Recording iu heaven the blessiugs they earn 
Wha conthilie deal wi' the mitberless bairn ! 

Oil, spealc him ua harshly: he trembles the while; 
He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile : 
In their dark liour o' anguish the heartless shall 

learn 
That God deals the blow for the mitberless bairn ! 



DREAMINGS OF THE BEREAVED. 

The morning breaks bonny o'er mountaiu an'stream, 
Au' troubles tlie hallowed breatli o' my dream ; 
The gowd light of morning is sweet to the e'e. 
But, ghost-gathering midniglit, thou'rt dearer to me ! 
The dull common world then sinks fronvniy sight, 
An' fairer creations arise to the uight ; 
When drowsy oppression has sleep-sealed my e'e, 
Then bright are the visions awakened to me! 

Oh, come, spirit-motlier ! discourse of the hours 
My young bosom beat .all its beating to yours, 
Wbeu beart-woveu wishes iu soft counsel fell 
On cars — how unheedful proved sorrow might tell! 
Tliat deathless afl'ection iiae trial could break ; 
When a' else forsook me, ye wouldiia forsake : 
Then come, O iny mother ! come often to me, 
xVn' soon au' forever I'll come unto thee ! 

An' tluMi, shrouded loveliness! soul-winning Jean, 
How cold was thy hand ou my bosom yestreen ! 
'Twas kind — for the lowe that your e'e kindled there 
Will burn, ay, au' buru till that breast beat nae mair. 
Our bairnies sleep round me: oh, bless ye their sleep! 
Your ain dark-e'ed Willie will wauken an' weep! 
But, blithe iu bis weepin', he'll tell me how you, 
His beaveu-hamed mauimie, was dautiu' bis brow. 

Tbo' dark be our dwalliu', our happin' tlio' bare, 
Au' night closes round us in canldness an' care, 
Aft'ectiou will warm lis — an' bright are the beams 
That halo our hame iu you dear laud o' dreams : 
Theu weel may I welcome the uigbt's deathy reigu, 
Wi' souls of the dearest I mingle me theu ; 
The gowd light of morning is lightless to me, 
But oh for the night wi' its ghost reveliie! 



JJaiiuG 3brtil)tam t"jilll)ousc. 

AMERICAN. 

Hillhousc (1789-1841) was aiiativc of New Haven, and 
a graduate of Y'ale, of the class of 1808. He passed three 
years in Boston, preparing for a mercantile career. The 
war cheeked his enterprises, and he betook himself to 
dramatic composition. After the peace he cng.aged in 
eommerce in New York. He visited England iu 1819; 
and Zaehary Macaulay, father of Lord Maeaulay, spoke 
of him as " the most aecomplisbed young uuin with 
whom he was acquainted." Withdrawing from busi- 
ness, he married, and removed to a country-seat near 
New Haven, where the remainder of his life was passed 
in elegant leisure. There he produced the drama of 



410 



CrCLOPMDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



"Hadad," published in 1S25. It is written witli consid- 
erable power, and shows great refinement of taste and 
purity of diction. In it the machinery of the supernat- 
ural is introduced. 



INTERVIEW OF HADAD AND TA5IAR. 

Feom " Hadad." 

The garden of Abs.\lo5i's Iwnsc on Mount Zinn, near 

the jMilaee overlooking the city. Taji.\r sitting hy a 

fountain. 

Tamar. How aromatic evening grows! The flowers 
And spicy shrubs exhale like onycha ; 
Spikenard and henna emulate in sweets. 
Blessed hour! which He, who fashioned it so fair, 
So softly glowing, so contemplative, 
Hath set, and sanctiiied to look on man. 
And lo ! the smoke of evening sacrifice 
Ascends from out the tabernacle. — Heaven 
Accept the expiation, and forgive 
This day's offences! — Ha! the wonted strain, 
Precursor of his coming! — Whence can this? 
It seems to flow fi'om some unearthly hand — 

Enter Hadau. 

Hadad. Does beauteous Tamar view in this clear 
fount 
Herself or heaven ? 

Tarn. Nay, Hadad, tell me whence 

Those sad, mysterious sounds. 

Had. What sounds, dear princess? 

Tarn. Surely, thou kuow'st ; and now I almost 
think 
Some spiritual creature waits on thee. 

Had. I heard no sounds hut such as evening sends 
Up from the city to these quiet shades — 
A blended murmur, sweetly harmonizing 
With flowing fountains, feathered minstrelsy. 
And voices from the hills. 

Tam. The sounds I mean 

Floated like mournful music round my head 
From unseen fingers. 

Had. When ? 

Tam. Now, as thou earnest. 

Had. 'Tis but thy fancy, wrought 
To ecstasy ; or else thy grandsire's harp 
Kesonnding from his tower at eveu-tide. 
I've lingered to enjoy its solemn tones 
Till the broad moon, that rose o'er Olivet, 
Stood listening in the zenith ; yea, have deemed 
Viols and heavenly voices answer him. 

Tam. But these — 

Had. Were we in Syria, I might say 

The Naiad of the fount, or some sweet nymph. 



The goddess of these shades, rejoiced iu thee, 
And gave thee salutations ; but I fear 
Jndah would call me infidel to Moses. 

Tam. How like my fancy! When these strains 
precede 
Thy steps, as oft they do, I love to think 
Some gentle l)eing who delights in us 
Is hovering near, and warns me of thy coming ; 
But they are dirge-like. 

Had. Youthful fanta-sy 

Attuned to sadness makes them seem so, lady; 
So evening's charming voices, welcomed ever 
As signs of rest and peace ; — the watchman's call. 
The closing gates, the Levite's mellow trump, 
Anuouucing the returning moon, the pipe 
Of swains, the bleat, the bark, the housing-bell. 
Send melancholy to a drooping soul. 

Tam. But how delicious are the pensive dreams 
That steal upon the fancy at their call ! 

Had. Delicious to behold the world at rest ! 
Meek labor wipes his brow, and intermits 
The curse to clasp the younglings of his cot ; 
Herdsmen and shepherds fold their flocks, — and 

hark ! 
What merry strains they send from Olivet! 
The jar of life is still; the city speaks 
In gentle mnrninrs ; voices chime with lutes 
Waked in the streets aud gardens ; loving pairs 
Eye the red west iu one another's arms ; 
And nature, breathing dew and fragrance, yields 
A glimpse of happiuess which He who formed 
Earth and the stars hath power to make eternal. 



lUill 



I am 



Knoj. 



Knox (1789-1S25) was a joung Scottish poet of consid- 
erable talent, who died iu Edinburgh, and was the author 
of "The Lonely Hearth," "Songs of Zion,""The Harp 
of Zion," etc. Sir Walter Scott thus mentions him in 
his diary: "Ilis father was a respectaljle yeoman, and 
he himself succeeding to good farms under the Duke of 
Buccleuch, became too soon his own master, and plunged 
into dissipation and ruin. Ilis talent then showed itself 
in a fine strain of pensive jjoetry." The piece wc quote 
was a favorite with Abraham Lincoln, President cf the 
United States. He often referred to it. There are sev- 
eral versions of the poem. We have given the most au- 
thentic. 



OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL 
BE PROUD? 

Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal be prond ? 
Like a swift-lleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, 



WILLIAM KXOX. — TriLLIJM GLEX. 



411 



A flash of the lightuing, a break of the ■^vave, 
He jiasses from life to his rest iii the grave. 

The leaves of the oak aiul tlie willow shall fade, 

Be scattered arouud, and together be laid ; 

Aud the youug and the old, and the low and the 

high 
Shall nionlder to dust, and together shall lie. 

The infant a mother attended and loved, 
The mother that infant's afl'eetiou who proved, 
The hushaud that mother and infant who blessed. 
Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest. 

The maid on whose check, on whose brow, in whoso 

eye 
Shone beauty and pleasure — her triumphs are by; 
Aud the memory of those that beloved her aud 

liraised 
Ave alike from the miuds of the living erased. 

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath horue; 
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn ; 
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, 
Are hidden aud lost in the depths of the grave. 

The jieasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap ; 
Tlje herdsman, who climbed with his goats to the 

steep ; 
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread, 
Have faded away like the grass that we, tread. 

The saint, who enjoyed the communion of heaven ; 
The sinner, who dared to remain unforgiveu ; 
Tlie wise aud the foolLsh, the guilty and just, 
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. 

So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed 
That wither away to let others succeed; 
So the multitude comes, even those wo behold, 
To repeat every tale that hath often been told. 

For we are the same that our fathers have been ; 
We see the same sights our fathers have seen ; 
We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun. 
And rnu the same course that our fathers have run. 

The thoughts we are thinking our tiithers 'would 

think ; 
From the death we are shrinking our fathers would 

shrink ; 
To the life wo are clinging they also would cling; 
But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. 



They loved, but the story we cannot nufold ; 
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold ; 
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may 

come ; 
They joyed, but the voice of their gladuess is dumb. 

They died — ay, they died! aud we, things that are 

now, 
Who walk on the turf tliat lies over their brow, 
Who make in their dwelling a transient abode. 
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road. 

Yea ! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain. 
Are mingled together like sunshine and rain ; 
Aud the smile aud the tear, the soug and the dirge 
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 

'Tis the twink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, 
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, 
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud ; 
Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 



Uliiliam (!?lcii. 



Among Scottish song-writers, Glen (1789-1836), a na- 
tive of Glasgow, acquired considerable popularity. He 
was well educated, aud bred to mcrc.iulile pursuits, re- 
siding for some time in the West Indies. But he was 
unfortunate in business, and Ins life, toward its close, 
was clouded by destitution and dependence. He died 
of consumption. In 1815 ho published "Poems, chiefly 
Lyric.ll." 

WAE'S ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE. 

A wee bird cam' to onr ha' door. 

He warbled sweet an' clearly, 
An' aye the owercome o' his sang 

Was, "Wae's me for Prince Charlie!" 
Oh ! whau I heard the bonnie soun'. 

The tears cam' drappiu' rarely; 
I took my bannet aff my head, 

For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie. 

Quoth I, "My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird. 

Is that a sang ye borrow ? 
Are these some words ye'vo learned by heart, 

Or a lilt' o' dule an' sorrow ?" 
" Oil no, no, no !" the wee bird sang, 

" I've flown sin' moruin' early. 
But sic a day o' wind and rain ! — 

Oh ! wae's me for Prince Charlie ! 

' A balliid or song ; to lilt, to sing. 



412 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BHITISH AXD AMEIIICAX POETRY. 



"On hills that are by right his aiu, 

He roves a lanely strauger ; 
On every side he's jiressed by waut — 

Ou every side is danger. 
Yestreen I met him in a gleu, 

My heart maist burstit fairly, 
For sadly changed indeed was he — ■ 

Oh ! wae's me for Prince Charlie ! 

" Dark night cam' ou, the tempest roared 

Loud o'er the hills an' valleys ; 
An' whare was't that your prince lay down, 

Whaso hame should been a palace f 
Ho rowed him in a Highland plaid. 

Which covered him but sparely, 
An' slept beneath a bush o' broom, — 

Oh ! wae's me for Prince Charlie I'' 

But now the bird saw some red-coats, 

An' he shook his wings wi' auger: 
" Oil ! this is no a land for me, 

I'll tarry here nae langer." 
He hovered ou the wing awhile, 

Ere he departed fairly ; 
But weel I mind the fareweel strain 

Was, "Wae's me for Prince Charlie!'' 



Uiiljarii tjciu'i) lUilbc. 

Wilde (17S9-lSi7), a unlive of Dublin, Ireland, came 
to Ameiica in 1797, ;uid settled in Georgia. He became 
attorney -general of lUat State, and represented it in Con- 
gress most of the time from 181.5 to 1835. He was a 
guniul, noble -licarted geutlcmiui, with decided literary 
tastes. We have pleasant recollections of our acquaint- 
ance witli him in Washington. 



SOXNET: TO THE MOCKING-BIRD. 

Winged mimic of the woods ! thou motley fool ! 
Who shall thy gay bulfoonery describe ? 
Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule 
Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe : 
Wit, sophist, sougster, Yorick of thy tribe. 
Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school; 
To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe. 
Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule ! 
For such thou art by day, — but all night long 
Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain. 
As if thou didst iu this thy moonlight song 
Like to the melancholy Jacques complain. 
Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong, 
And sighing for thy motley coat again. 



STANZAS. 

My life is like the summer rose 

That opens to the moruing sky. 
But ere the shades of evening close 

Is scattered ou the ground — to die ! 
Yet on the rose's humble bed 
The sweetest dews of night are shed. 
As if she wept the waste to see — 
But none shall weep a tear for lue ! 

My life is like the autumn leaf 

That trembles iu the moon's pale ray; 
Its hold is frail, its date is brief. 

Restless — and soon to pass away ! 
Yet ere that leaf shall fall aud fade 
The pareut tree will mourn its shade, 
The winds bewail the leafless tree — 
But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 

My life is like the prints which feet 
Have left ou Tampa's desert strand ; 

Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 
All trace will vanish from the sand ; 

Yet, as if grieving to etfaco 

All vestige of the human r.ice. 

On that lone shore loud moans the sea — 

But none, alas! shall nmuni for me! 



iiTllci'anticr tjill (Jrnci'ctt. 

AMERICAN. 

Everett (1790-1847) was a native of Boston, and a 
graduate of Harvard. He entered college at tlie age of 
twelve, and graduated the first iu his class. He studied 
law with John Quincy Adams, went with him as secre- 
tary of legation to Russia in 1800, served as Minister to 
Spain in 1839, and on his I'uturn liomc edited tlic Xorlh 
American Review. -,He was President of Jefl'crson College, 
Louisiana, in 1841. In 184C he went to Canton as United 
States Minister to the Cliincse Empire, and died there at 
the age of fifty-seven. He was a frequent eontriljutor 
to tlic BiKlon 3Iijii:ellam/, and in 1840 published t^vo vol- 
umes of "Critical and Miseullnneous Essays, with Poems. " 
He was a brotlier of Edward Everett and Jolni, botli of 
them writers of poetry. 



THE YOUNG AMERICAN. 

Scion of a mighty stock I 
Hands of iron — hearts of oak — ■ 
F(dlo\v witli unflinehing tread 
Where the uoble fathers led. 



ALEXAXDEU HILL EVERETT.^THOilAS DOVBLEDAT.—CHAllLES TTOLFE. 



413 



Craft and subtle treachery, 
Gallant youth ! are not for tliee ; 
Follow thou in wortl anil deeds 
WLero the God -nithin thee leads! 

Honesty with steady eye, 
Truth and pure simplicity, 
Love that gently winneth hearts, - 
Tbese shall be thy only aits : 

Prudent in the council train, 
Dauntless on the battle-plain, 
Ready at the country's need 
For her glorious cause to bleed ! 

Where the dews of night distil 
Upon Vernon's holy hill ; 
Where above it, gleaming far. 
Freedom lights her guiding star: 

Thither turn the steady eye, 
Flashing with a purpose high ; 
Thither, with devotiou meet. 
Often turn the pilgrim feet ! 

Let the noble motto be, 
God, — the Country — Liberty ! 
Planted on Religion's rock, 
Thou shalt stand iu every shock. 

Laugh at danger far or near! 
Spurn at baseness — spurn at fear! 
Still, with persevering might, 
Speak the truth, and do the right. 

So shall Peace, a cliarming guest. 
Dove-like iu thy bosom rest ; 
So shall Honor's steady blaze 
Beam upon thy closing days. 

Happy if celestial f:ivor 
Smile upon the high endeavor; 
Happy if it bo thy call 
In the holy cause to fall. 



Cljomas Doublcbaij. 

Doiibleday (1T90-18T0), a native of England, was the 
associate author of a little volume of verse published iu 
1818, and entitled " Sixty-five Sonnets : with Preliitory 
Remarks on the accordance of the Sonnet with the pow- 
ers of the English Language. Also a few Miscellaneous 



Poems:" the joint production of Doubleday and his 
cousin, William Greene. Donblcday afterward rose to 
eminence as a writer ou political, social, and fluancial 
subjects. 



THE WALLFLOWER. 

I will not praise the often-flattered rose, 
Or, virgin-like, with blushing charms half .seen, 
Or when, iu dazzling splendor, like a queen. 
All her magnificence of state she shows ; 
Xo, nor that nun-like lily which but blows 
Beneath the valley's cool and shady screen ; 
Nor yet the snuflower, that with warrior mieu 
Still ej'cs the orb of glory where it glows ; 
But thou, neglected wallflower! to my breast 
And Muse art dearest, — wildest, sweetest flower! 
To whom alone the privilege is given 
Proudly to root thyself above the rest. 
As Genius does, and from thy rocky tower 
Lend fragrauce to the purest brealli of heaven. 



ail)ttrle3 lUolfc. 



Wolfe (1791-1833) was a native of Dublin. On the 
death of his father, his mother removed to England, and 
placed Charles at Hyde Abbey School, iu Winchester, 
where he remained till 1808, when the family returned to 
Ireland. He then entered Trinity College, where he ac- 
quired distiiu-tion for scholarship and literary ability. 
In 1817 lie obtained a curacy iu Tyrone. His iucessMut 
attention to his parish duties undermined liis delicate 
constitution, and he died young of consumption. His 
lines on the "Burial of Sir John Moore" were pro- 
nounced bj' Byron " the most perfect ode in the lan- 
guage." But Wolfe's song, "Go, forget me," is hardly 
less deserving of praise. It is unsurpassed in delicacy 
of pathos, and has been wedded to appropriate music. 
His "Rcm.Tins" were published iu 1826. 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 

He was killed at Cornnaa, where he fell iu the arms of vic- 
tory, 180[>. With his dying hreath he faltered oat a mespaire to 
his mother. Sii- John Moore had often said that if he wei-e kill- 
ed iu battle, he wished to he buried where he fell. Tlie body 
was removed at midnight to the citadel of Coruuna. A gi-ave 
was dug for him ou tlie rampart there by a party of the !)th l{e<;- 
imeut, the aides-de-camp attending by turns. No coffin could 
he procured; and the officers of his staff wrapjied tlie IxkIv, 
dressed as it was, iu a military cloak and blankets. The inter- 
ment was hastened, for about eight in the morning some tiriug 
was heard. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note. 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 



414 



CYCLOPEDIA OF liBITISH AXD AilERlCAN I'DETRY. 



We buried him darkly, at dead of niglit, 
The sods with our bayouets turning ; 

By the struggliug moonbeam's misty light, 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; 

But ho lay, like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers wo said, 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow, 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead. 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed. 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow. 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his 
head, 
And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone. 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 

But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him ! 

But half of our hea%'y task was done 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 

And we heard the distant and random guu 
That the foe was sullenly tiriug. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone — 
But we loft him alone with his glory ! 



IF I HAD THOUGHT. 

If I had thought thou couldst have died, 

I might not weep for thee ; 
But I forgot, when by thy side. 

That thou couldst mortal be : 
It never through my mind had passed 

The time would e'er bo o'er. 
And I on thee should look my last, 

And thou shouldst smile no more ! 

And still upon that face I look, 
And think 'twill smile again ; 

And still the thought I will not brook 
That I must look in vain : 



Bnt, when I speak, thou dost not say 
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid ; 

And now I feel, as well I may, 
Sweet Marj-, thou art dead ! 

If thou wouldst stay even as thou art. 

All cold and all serene, 
I still might press tliy silent heart, 

And w here thy smiles have been : 
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, 

Tliou seemest still mine own ; 
But there! I lay thee in thy grave, 

And I am now alone. 

I do not think, where'er thou art, 

Thou hast forgotten me ; 
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart 

In thinking too of thee ; 
Yet there was round thee such a dawn 

Of light ne'er seen before. 
As fanej' never could have drawn. 

And never can restore. 



GO, FORGET ME. 

Go, forget me — why should sorrow 
O'er that brow a shadow fling? • 

Go, forget me — and to-morrow 
Brightly smile and sweetlj' sing. 

Smile — though I shall not be near theo ; 

Sing — though I shall never hear thee : 
May thy soul with pleasure shine 
Lasting as the gloom of mine. 

Like the snn, thy presence glowing, 
Clothes the meanest things in light ; 

And when thou, like him, art going, 
Loveliest objects fade in night. 

All things looked so bright about thee, 

That they nothing seem without thee ; 
By that pure and lucid mind 
Earthly things were too retiued. 

Go, thou vision, wildly gleaming, 

Softly on my soul that fell ; 
Go, for me no longer beaming — 

Hope and Beauty ! fare ye well ! 
Go, and all that once delighted 
Take, and leave me all benighted — 

Glory's burning, generous swell, 

Fancy, and the Poet's shell. 



CHAULES SPRAGUE. 



415 



€\)<X 



Vies xipvaguc. 

AMERICAN. 

Spraguc (lTai-18T0) was a native of Boston, Mass., and 
entered upon mercantile pursuits at an early age. In 
1825 lie became cashier of the Globe Bank, an office he 
hclil thirty-nine years. He then retired from active life. 
His literary tastes were developed early. He wrote prize 
odes for the opening of theatres, and delivered a poem, 
entitled "Curiosity," before the Phi Beta Kappa Soci- 
ety of Harvard College. An edition of his collected 
poems was published in 1876. Upright, generous, and 
independent, few poets have been more respected for 
moral worth and nobility of character. His son, Charles 
J. Spraguc (born 1833), seems to have inherited much of 
his father's genius and worth. 



THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS. 

Daring the church service, two little birds flew in and perched 
apou the coruices. 

Gay, guiltless pair, 
Wbat seeU yo from the fields of heaven 1 

Ye liave no need of prayer. 
Ye have no sius to he forgiven. 

Why perch ye here, 
Where mortals to their Maker heud ? 

Can your pure spirit.s fear 
The God ye never could otfeud ? 

Ye never knew 
The crimes for which we come to weep ; 

Penance is not for you, 
Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. 

To yoti 'tis given 
To wake sweet nature's untaught lays, 

Beneath the arch of heaven 
To chirp away a life of praise. 

Then spread each wing 
Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands, 

And join the choirs that slug 
In yon blue dome not reared with hands. 

Or, if ye stay 
To note the consecrated hour, 

Teach me the airy way, 
And let me try your envied power. 

Above the crowd, 
On upward wings could I but fly, 

I'd bathe in yon bright clond, 
And seek the stars that gem tlie sky. 



'Twere heaven indeed 
Through fields of trackless light to soar, 

Oil nature's charms to feed, 
And nature's own great God adore. 



THE FOURTH OF JULY.' 

To the sages who spoke, to the heroes who bled. 
To the day and the deed, strike the harp-strings 
of glory ! 
Let the song of the ransomed remember the deail. 
And the tongue of the eloquent hallow the story ! 
O'er the bones of the bold 
Be that story long told. 
And on Fame's golden tablets their triumphs 
enrolled 
Who on Freedom's green hills Freedom's banner 

unfurled. 
And the beacon-fire raised that gave light to the 
world ! 

They are gone — mighty men! — and they sleep in 
their fame : 
Shall we ever forget them ? Oh, never ! no, never I 
Let our sons learn from ns to embalm eath great 
name. 
And the anthem send down — "Independence for- 
ever !" 

Wake, wake, heart and tongue .' 
Keep the theme ever young ; 
Let their deeds through the long line of ages 
be sung 
Who on Freedom's green hills Freedom's banner 

unfurled. 
And the heacon-fire raised that gave light to the 
world ! 



SHAKSPEARE. 

FRO.M AN ODE RECITED AT THE SHAKSPEARE CELEBPA- 
TlUN IN BOSTON, MASS., IN 1823. 

Then Shakspeare rose ! — 
Across tlie trembling strings 
His daring hand he flings, 
And lo ! a new creation glows ! — 
There, clustering round, submissive to his will, 
Fate's vassal train his high commands fulfil. 

Madness, with his frightful scream ; 

Vengeance, leaning on his lance ; 
Avarice, with his blade and beam ; 

Hatred, blasting with a glance ; 



416 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEllIVJX POETRY. 



Remorse, that weeps ; and Kage, tliat; roars ; 
And Jealousy, that dotes, but dooms aud murders, 
yet adores. 

Jlirth, his face with sunbeams lit, 
Waking Laughter's merry swell, 

Arm-in-arm with fresh-eyed Wit, 
That waves his tiugling lash while Folly shakes 
his bell. 

Despair, that haunts the gurgling stream, 
Kissed by the virgin moon's cold beam, 
Where some lost maid wild chaplets wreathes, 
And, swau-like, there her own dirge breathes; 
Tlien, broken-hearted, sinks to rest 
Beneath the bubbling wave that shrouds her ma- 
niac breast. 

Young Love, with eye of tender gloom, 
Now drooping o'er the liallowed tomb 
W'hore his plighted victims lie. 
Where tliey met, but met to die; 
Aud now, when crimson buds are sleeping. 

Through the dewy arbor peeping. 
Where beauty's child, the frowning world forgot. 
To youth's devoted tale is listening, 
IJaptiue on her dark lash glistening, 
While fiirics leave their cowslip cells, and guard 
the happy spot. 

Tims ri.se the phantom throng. 
Obedient to their master's song. 
And lead in willing chain the wondering soul along! 



I SEE THEE STILL. 

I see thee still ! 
Remembrance, faithful to her trust. 
Calls tlu'o in beauty from the dust ; 
Thou coniest in the morning light, 
Thou'rt with rac through the gloomy night; 
Li dreams 1 meet thee as of old, 
Then thy soft arms my neck enfold. 
And thy sweet voice is in my car : 
In every scene to memory dear 

I see thco still .' 

I SCO thee still 
In every hallowed token round : 
This littlo ring thy finger bound, 



This lock of hair thy forehead shaded. 
This silken chain by thee was braided ; 
These llowers, all withered now, like thee, 
Sweet sister, thon didst cull for me ; 
Tliis book was thine — here didst thou read ; 
Tliis picture — ah yes! here indeed 
I see thee still ! 

I see thee si ill ! 
Here was thy summer noou's retreat, 
Here was thy favorite iiroside seat ; 
This was thy chamber — here, each day, 
I sat and watched thy sad decay ; 
Here, on this bed, thou last did.st lie — 
Here, ou this pillow, thou didst die! 
Dark hour! once more its woes unfold; 
As then I saw thee pale and cold, 

I see thee still ! 

I see thee still! 
Thou art not in the grave confined — 
Death cannot claim the immortal mind ; 
Let earth close o'er its sacred trust. 
But goodness dies not in the dust: 
Thee, O my sister! 'tis not thee. 
Beneath the cofifin's lid I see ; 
Thou to a fairer land art gone : 
Tliere, let me hope, my journey done. 

To see thee still! 



C)ciu}) tjavt lUilmau. 

Milman (1791-1868), the sou of an eminent plivsieian, 
was a native of London. At Oxford he distiugaislicd 
himself as a classical scholar, and took a prize for his 
poem on tlie ApoUo-Bclvidere. Having studied for tlie 
Clmrch,hc was made dean of St. Paul's in 1849. Ho tlrst 
appeared as an author in 1817, in Ins tragedy of" Fazio," 
produced at Drury Lane, February 5tli, 1818, and after- 
ward revived with great success by the acting of Fanny 
Kcmblc botli in England and tlie United States. Mibnau 
wrotoother dramatic pieces: "Sainor" (1818); "The Fall 
of Jerusalem" (1820); "Belshazzar" (1822); "Tlie Martyr 
ofAntiooh"(1822); and "Anne Bolcyu " (1826); also sev- 
eral minor poems. lie was the author of a " History of 
the Jews" and a "History of Christianity," both liii;hly 
esteemed works. As a poet be shows high culture and a 
reflued litcrar_v taste. As a man he was greatly beloved 
by a large circle of acquaintances, His histories gave rise 
to controversy. He was accused of treating the Bible as 
a philosophical inquirer would treat any profane work 
of antiquity — as having ascribed to natural causes events 
which the Scriptures declare to be miraculous, and as 
having, therefore, unwittingly contributed to subvert the 
bulwarks of the faith he was bound to defend. 



HENRY HART MILMAN. 



417 



THE APOLLO-BELVIDERE.' 

NEWDIGATE PRIZE POEM, 'WRITTEN DURING THE AU- 
THOR'S UNIVERSITY COURSE. 

Heard yo the arrow bnrtlo iu the sky ? 

Heartl ye the dragon-niouster's deatbfiil cry? 

In settled majesty of calm disdain, 

Proud of liis miglit, yet scornful of the slain, 

The heavenly Archer stands, — no human birth. 

No jierisliahle denizen of earth : 

Youth blooms immortal in his beardless face, 

A god iu strength, with more tliau godlike gi-ace ; 

AH, all divine — no struggling muscle glows, 

Through heaving vein no mantling life-blood flows, 

But animate with deity aloue, 

In deathless glory lives the breathing stone. 

Bright kindling with a conqueror's stern delight, 
His keen eye tracks the arrow's fateful flight ; 
Burns his indignant cheek with vengeful fire, 
Aud his lip quivers with insulting ire ; 
Firm fixed his tread, yet light, as when on high 
He walks the impalpable and pathless sky ; 
The rich luxuriance of his hair, confined 
In graceful ringlets, wantons on the wind, 
That lifts in sport his mantle's drooping fold. 
Frond to display that form of faultless mould. 
Mighty Ephesian !' with an eagle's flight 
Tliy proud soul mounted through the fields of light, 
Viewed the bright conclave of Heaven's blesseil 

abode, 
And the cold marble leaped to life a god ; 
Contagious awe through breatliless myriads ran, 
Aud nations bowed before the -work of man. 
For mild ho seemed, as iu Elysiau bowers. 
Wasting in careless ease the joyous hours ; 
Haughty, as bards have sung, with jirineely sway 
Curbing the fierce flame-breathiug steeds of day; 
Beauteous as vision seen in dreamy sleep. 
By holy maid on Delphi's haunted steep, 
'Jlid the dim twilight of the laurel grove, 
Too fair to ■worship, too divine to love. 

Yet on that form, iu wild, delirious trance, 
With more than reverence gazed the Maid of France. 
r>ay after day the love-sick dreamer stood 
With him alone, nor thought it solitude ; 
To cherish grief, her last, her dearest care. 
Her one fond hope, — to perish of despair. 
Oft as the shifting light her sight beguiled. 
Blushing she shrank, and thought the marble smiled ; 

' The Apollo is in the net of watchiug the nrrow with which 
lie slew the serpent Python. 
2 Abasias of Ephesus. 



Oft breathless listening heard, or seemed to bear, 
A voice of music melt upon her ear. 
Slowly she waned, and cold and senseless grown. 
Closed her dim eyes, herself benumbed to stone. 
Yet love in death a sickly strength supplied, 
Once more she gazed, then feebly smiled, and died.' 



STANZAS. 



MAY 22, 1837. 



Founded on an incident at the grave of Sophia Lockhart, 
daughter of Sir Walter Scott: — Mr. Milmau having read the 
service on the occasion. 

Over that solemn pageant mute and dark, 
Where iu the grave we laid to rest 
Heaven's latest, not least welcome guest, 

Wliat didst thou on the wing, thou jocuud lark ! 
Hovering in nnrebuk(5d glee. 
And carolling above that mournful company? 

Oh, thou light-loving aud melodious bird ! 
At every sad aud solemn fall 
Of mine own voice — each interval 
In the soul-elevating prayer, I heard 
Tliy quivering descant full and clear — 
Discord not uuharmonions to the ear. 

We laid her there — the Minstrel's darling child! 
Seemed it then meet that, borne away 
From the close city's dubious day. 
Her dirge should be thy native wood-note wild? 
Nursed upon Nature's lap, her sleep 
Should be where birds may sing and dewy flowers 
weep. 

Ascendest thou, air-wandering messenger. 
Above us slowly lingeriug yet, 
To bear our deep, our mute regret — 
To waft upon thy faithful wing to her 
The husband's fondest, last farewell — 
Love's fiual parting pang, the uuspoke, the un- 
speakable ? 

Or didst thou rather chide with thy blithe voice 
Our selfish grief, that would delay 
Her passage to a brighter day ; 

Bidding us mourn no longer, but rejoice 

That it hath heavenward flown, like thee — 
That spirit from this world of sin and sorrow free ? 



' The foregoin; 
Insanity. 



fact is related in the work of M. Pinel on 



418 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETIIT. 



I watched tbee lesseuing, lessening to the sight, 
Still faint and fainter winnowing 
The snushine with thy dwindling wing — ■ 
A sjicck, a movement in the ruffled light, 
Till thou wert melted in the sky. 
An undistinguished part of bright infinity. 

Meet emblem of that lightsome spirit thou ! 
That still, wherever it might come, 
Shed sunshine o'er that happy home ; 
Her task of kindliness and gladness now 
Absolved, with the element above 
Hath mingled, and become pure light, pure joy, 
pure love. 



THE LOVE OF GOD. 

TWO SONNETS. 
I. 

Love Thee ! — O Thou, the world's eternal Sire ! 

Whose jialace is the vast infinity. 

Time, space, height, depth, O God ! are full of 

Thee, 
And sun-eyed seraphs tremble and admire. 
Love Thee ! — but Thou art girt with vengeful fire. 
And mountains quake, and banded nations flee. 
And terror shakes the wide unfathomed sea. 
When the heaven's rock with thy tempestuous ire. 
O Thou ! too vast for thought to comprehend, 
That wast ere time, — shalt bo when time is o'er ; 
Ages and worlds begiu — grow old — and end. 
Systems and suns thy changeless throne before, 
Commence and close their cycles : — lost, I bend 
To earth my prostrate soul, and shudder and adore ! 



Love Thee! — oh, clad in human lowliness, 

— lu whom each heart its mortal kindred knows — 

Our flesh, our form, our tears, our pains, our woes, — 

A fellow-wanderer o'er earth's wilderness! 

Love Thee ! whose every word but breathes to 

bless ! 
Through Thee, from long-sealed lips, glad language 

flows ; 
The blind their eyes, that langh with light, unclose ; 
And babes, unchid. Thy garment's hem caress. 
— I see Thee, doomed by bitterest pangs to die. 
Up the sad hill, with willing footsteps, move. 
With scourge, and taunt, and wanton agony. 
While the cross nods, in hideous gloom, above, 
Though all— even there— bo radiant Deity! 
— Speechless I gaze, and my whole soul is Love ! 



£j)^ia Ijuntlj) Sigonnuji. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs. Siijoui'uey (1791-1805) was a native of Norwich, 
Conn. Slie was a most prolific writer of prose and 
verse, but excelled rather iu the foraicr. She filled a 
large space in American literature, and her writings all 
have a salutary moral tendency. Her maiden name was 
Lydia Howard Huntly. 



AUGUST 11: THE BLESSED RAIN. 

" Thon, O God, didst send a plentiful rain, wtiereby thon didst 
conflmi thine intieritance when it was wcaiy."— Psalm Ixviii. 9. 

I marked at morn the thirsty earth, 

By lingering drought oppressed. 
Like sick man iu his fever heat. 

With parching brow and breast ; 
But evening brought a cheering sound 

Of music o'er the pane — 
The voice of heavenly showers that said. 

Oh, blessed, blessed rain ! 

The pale and snffocating plants 

Tliat bowed themselves to die 
Imbibed the pure, reprieving drops. 

Sweet gift of a pitying sky; 
The fern and heath upon the rock. 

And the daisy on the plain. 
Each whispered to their new-born buds. 
Oh, blessdd, blessdd rain ! 

The herds that o'er the wasted flelds 

Roamed with dejected eye 
To find their verdant pasture brown. 

Their crystal brooklet dry, 
Rejoiced within the mantling pool 

To stand refreshed again. 
Each iufaut ripple leaping high 

To meet the blcssdd rain. 

The farmer sees his crisping corn, 

Whose tassels swept the ground. 
Uplift once more a stately head, 

With hopeful beauty crowned; 
While the idly lingering water-wheel, 

Where the miller ground his grain, 
Turns gayly round, with a dashing sound. 

At the touch of the blessed rain. 

Lord, if our drooping souls too long 
Should close their upward wing. 

And the adhesive dust of earth 
AH darkly round them cling, — 



LTD I A nUNTLY SIGOVENET.— THOMAS LYLE. 



41'J 



Send tbou such showers of qnicliuiiiu; 

That the augelic train 
Shall to onr grateful shout respond. 

Oh, blessed, blessi5d rain ! 



INDIAN NAMES. 

Yo say they all have p.assed away — 

That noble race and brave ; 
That their light canoes have vanished 

From off the crested wave ; 
That 'mid the forests where they roamed 

There rings no hunter's shout ; 
But their name is on your -waters — 

Ye may not wash it out. 

'Tis where Ontario's billow 

Like Ocean's surge is curled ; 
Where strong Niagara's thunders ■wake 

The echo of the world ; 
Where red Missouri Ijringeth 

Rich tribute from the West, 
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps 

On gi-een Virginia's breast. 

Ye say their cone-like cabins. 

That clustered o'er the vale, 
Have fled away like withered leaves 

Before the autumn's gale : 
But their memory liveth on yimv hills, 

Their baptism on your shore ; 
Your everlasting rivers speak 

Their dialect of yore. 

Old Massachusetts wears it 

Upon her lordly crown, 
And broad Ohio bears it 

Amid his young renown ; 
Connecticut hath wreathed it 

Where her quiet foliage waves. 
And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse 

Through all her ancient caves. 

Wachuset hides its lingering voice 

Within his rocky heart, 
And Alleghany gi-aves its tone 

Throughout his lofty chart ; 
Monaduook on his forehead hoar 

Doth seal the sacred trust ; 
Your mountains build their monument, 

Though ye destroy their dust. 



Ye call these red-browed brethren 

The insects of an hour. 
Crushed like the noteless worm amid 

The regions of tlieir jiower ; 
Ye drive them from their fathers' lands, 

Y'e break of faith the seal ; 
But can ye from the court of Hfeaf en 

Exclude their last appeal ? 

Ye see their unresisting tribes, 

With toilsome step and slow, 
On through the trackless desert pass, 

A caravan of woe : 
Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf? 

His sleepless vision dim ". 
Think ye the soul's blood maj- not cry 

From that far land to him ? 



(J^ljomas i.\}\ 



Lyle (1793-18.5'J) was a native of Paisley, Scotland. In 
ISIG he was admitted to practice as a surgeon. His fa- 
vorite study was botany. He loved to ramble along the 
banks of the Kelvin, some two miles north-west of Glas- 
gow, where he wrote his one famous song, founded on 
one of older d.ite, commencing, 

*'0h, the sheariDg's ii.ie for you, bouuie lassie, O !" 



KELVIN GROVE. 

Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, O ! 
Through its mazes let ns rove, bonnie lassie, O ! 

Where the rose ia all her pride 

Paints the hollow dingle-side, 
Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O I 

Let us wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O! 
To the cove beside the rill, bonuio lassie, O ! 

Where the glens rebound the call 

Of the roariug water's fall. 
Through the mountain's rocky hall, bouuie lassie, O ! 

Though I dare not call thee mine, bonnie lassie, ! 
As the smile of fortune's thine, bouuie lassie, O ! 

Yet, with fortune on my side, 

I could stay thy father's pride. 
And win thee for my bride, bouuie lassie, ! 

But the frowns of fortune lower, bouuie lassie, O ! 

On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, O ! 
Ere j-ou golden orb of day 
Wake the warblers on the spray, 

From this laud I must away, bouuie lassie, O ! 



4-20 



CYCLOPJLDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Tlicii farewell to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, O ! 

Ami adieu to all I love, boiiiiie lassie, O ! 
To the river Tviixling clear, 
To the fragrant-scented brere. 

Even to thee, of all most dear, Ijonuie lassie, O ! 

When upon a foreign shore, honnic lassie, O 1 
Should I fall 'mid battle's roar, bounio lassie, ! 

Then, Helen, shouldst thou hear 

Of thy lover on his bier, 
To his meuKiry slied a tear, bonnie lassie, O ! 



Ulilliam f). (liiinvoLi. 

AMERICAN. 

AVilliam, the Aither of the more distingnisbed Henry 
Timrod, was born on a plantation not far from Cliarlcs- 
ton, S. C, in 179'3. He was of German descent. AVhilc 
yet a boy, lie cliose the trade of a bookbinder, and be- 
came a slcilled meclianic, but afterward held an honora- 
ble position in the Cliarleston Custom-house. He hud 
rare conversational abilities, and was well versed in Eng- 
lish belles-lettres. In the Nullification Controversy of 
1833-1833, he espoused the cause of the Union with in- 
trepid zeal. In 1830 he went to St.Augustine as the cai> 
t;iin of a militia company, to repel the attacks of Indians. 
In this expedition he contnieted disease from exposure, 
and died in 1S3S. 



TO HARRY. 

Harry, my little blne-cycd boy, 
I love to hear thee playing near j 

There's music in thy shouts of joy 
To a fond father'.s ear. 

I love to see the lines of mirth 

Mantle thy cheek and forehead fair, 

As if all pleasures of the earth 
Had met to revel there : 

For, gazing on thee, do I sigh 

That these most happy hours will tlec, 
And thy full share of misery 

Must fall in life on thee ! 



My Harry, that flows not from guilt : 
Tliou canst not read my meaning now, — 
In after-times tliiui wilt. 

Tliou'lt read it when the church-yard clay 
fShall lie upon thy father's breast ; 

And he, though dead, will point the way 
Thou shalt bo always blessed. 



They'll tell thee this terrestrial ball, 
To man for his enjoyment given. 

Is but a state of sinful thrall 
To keep the soul from heaven. 

My boy! the verdure-crowndd hills, 

The vale where flowers innnmerous blow, 

TIio music of ten thousand rills 
■\Vill tell thee 'tis not so. 

God is no tyrant, ■who would spread 
Unnumbered dainties to the eyes. 

Yet teach the hungering child to dread 
Tliat touching them he dies ! 

No! all can do his creatures good 

He scatters round with hand profuse — 

The only precept understood, 
" Enjoy, but not abuse !" 



|Jcrcij I3nssl)e 6l)cllcg. 

Unsurpassed in genius among England's lyric poets, 
Shelley, the son of a baronet, was born at his father's 
seat, Field Place, near Horsham, in Sussex, August 4th, 
1793. When ten years of age, he was put to a public 
school — Sion House— where he was harshly treated both 
by te.aehers and school-fellows. At Eton his sensitive 
spirit was .again outraged by ill-usage under the fagging 
system then tolerated. Heuce he early conceived a bitter 
hatred for all forms of oppression, and resistance to estab- 
lished authority grew almost to a principle. In the ex- 
quisite introduction to his " Kevolt of Islam," addressed 
to his second wife, he refers to these early influences. 

At Oxford, Shelley studied hard, but irregularly, and 
spent much of his leisure in chemical experiments. In 
conjunction with a fellow-collegian, Mr. Hogg, he com- 
posed a small treatise, "The Necessity of Atheism;" 
and the result was that both the heterodox students 
were, in ISU, expelled from college. 

"At the age of , seventeen," says Mrs. Shelley, "fragile 
in health and frame, of the purest habits in morals, full 
of devoted generosity and universal kindness, resolved, 
at every personal sacrifice, to do right, burning with a 
desire for atfeetion and sympathy, he was treated as a 
reprobate, cast forth as a criminal." At eighteen he pro- 
duced his atheistical poem of "Queen Jlab," abounding 
in passages of great beauty, and showing a wonderl'uUy 
precocious intellect. At nineteen he made an imprudent 
marriage, for which he w.as cast olf by his fimily. After 
the birth of two children, he was separated from his wile, 
and went abroad. Sliortly after his return to England in 
181C, his wife committed suicide, which subjected Shelley 
to much obloquy and misrepresentation. He contracted 
a second marriage with the daui;liter of Godwin, author 
of "Caleb Williams," and in ISIS quitted England, never 
to return. 



PERCY BTSSHE SHELLEY. 



421 



Besides "Queen Mab," Shelley had written "Alastor; 
or, Tlie Spirit of Solitude," remarkable for beauty and 
pieturesqueness of diction and boldness of imagination ; 
also, " The Revolt of Islam." In ISllI appeared his trafj- 
cdy of "Tlie Cenci," full of passion and power. In Ita- 
ly he renewed liis acquaintance with Byron, who thought 
Shelley's philosophy "too spiritual and romantic." In 
1S31 Sliclley wrote his noble poem of " Adonais " on the 
death of Koats. The next year— 1832 — was the last of 
Shelley's own life. He had ended his lament for Keats 
with a foreboding — 

" What Adouais 13, why fear we to become ?" 

Indeed, there is somethiui;; startlingly prophetic of the 
very incidents of his own death in tlje concluding lines 
of this extraordinary poem : 

"The soft sky smiles; the low whid whispers uear. 
'Tis Adonais calls ; tth, hasten tliither ! 
No more let life divide what death can join together." 

"^ly spirit's bark is driven 
Far from tlie sliore, far from the trembling thi-oiig. 
Whose sails were never to the tempest given. 
The masi^y earth, the sphered skies arc riven ! 
I am borne darkly, fearfully afar ; 
While, burninj^ through the iuniost veil of heaven, 
The soul of Adonais, like a star. 
Beacons from the abode where the eternal are." 

The very character of the tempest in which Shelley went 
down in his sail-boat secins to be here prefigured. 

Shelley's favorite amusement had been boating and 
sailing; and, while returning one day— July 8th, 1833 — 
from Leghorn— whither he had gone to welcome Leigh 
Hunt to Italy— the boat in which he sailed, accompanied 
by Mr. Williams and a single seaman, went down in the 
Bay of Spczia, in a sudden thunder-storm, and all per- 
ished. A volume of Kcats's poetry was found open in 
Shelley's coat-pocket when his body was washed ashore. 
In accordance with his own desii-e, the body, when re- 
covered, was burnt on the beach, and the ashes were in- 
terred at Rome. 

Whatever liis speculative beliefs may have been, Shel- 
ley, in pursuing the ideals he did, showed that he was 
no atheist at heart. That ho believed intuitively and in- 
tensely in a conscious immortalitj-, is evident from one 
of his letters to Godwin, and from many passages in his 
poems. His belief in absolute goodness must have led 
him logically, at last, to belief in a Supreme Spirit of 
good ; but the early despotism he had encountered and 
striven against for the free opinions of his youth proba- 
bly had its effect in biassing his will against his own in- 
tuitional convictions. Tliat he would eventually have 
emerged into a state of mind far ditforent from that of 
his immature years, is more than probable. "Poetry," 
he says, "redeems from decay the visitations of the di- 
vinity in man." That thought could hai-dly have been 
uttered by one logically or emotionally an atheist. In- 
deed, liis is an atheism that may be subjected to endless 
confutation from his own best utterances. 

One of his recent biographers (Mr. J. A. Symonds) says 
of him : "He composed with all his faculties, mental, 
emotional, and physical, at tlie utmost strain, at a white- 
heat of intense fervor, striving to attain the truest and 



most passionate investiture for the thoughts which had 
inflamed his ever quick imagination. The result is that 
his finest work has more the stamp of something natural 
and elemental — the wind, the sea, the depth of air— than 
of a mere artistic product." 

The accuracy of this description is strikingly manifest 
in "Adonais." There is a tradition that no publisher 
would accept this poem, and he was at last obliged to 
publish it at his own expense in the old Itililin city of 
Pisa. The other day a stray single copy of this first 
edition of the "Adonais" was sold for S.50. 



THE CLOUD. 

I briug fresh showers for the thirsting flowers. 

From the seas and the streams ; 
I bear light shades for the leaves when laid 

lu their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 

The sweet buds every one, 
When rocked to rest 011 their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the siiu. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail. 

And whiten the green plains under; 
And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And langh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 

And their great pines groan aghast ; 
And all the night 'tis uiy iiillow white, 
• While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on tite towers of my shyey bowers, 

Lightning my pilot sits; 
lu a cavern under is fettereil the thunder, 

It struggles and Iiowls by fits ; 
Over eartli and ocean with geutle motion 

This iiilot is guiding me, 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In tlie depths of the imrple sea ; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills. 

Over tlie lakes and the plains, 
Wherever he dream, tinder luountain or stream, 

The Spirit ho loves remains; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, 

While he is dissolving in rains. 

The suugnine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 

And his burning plumes outspread, 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack 

When the morning-star shines dead. 
As on the jag of a mountain crag, 

Wliich an eartliqnake rocks and swings. 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the liglit of its golden wings. 



422 



CYCLOPjEDIA of BRITISH AND AMEBICAX POETRY. 



And wlicii sunset may breathe from the lit sea 
beneath 

Its ardors of rest and of love, 
And the criuisou pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above, 
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest 

As still as a brooding dove. 

TLat orbed maiden, with white fire laden, 

Whom mortals call the moon. 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 

By the midnight breezes strewn. 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet. 

Which only the angels hear, 
Jlay have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, 

Tiie stars peep behind her and peer ; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. 

Like a swarm of golden bees. 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent. 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the snn's throne with the burning zone. 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim. 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl ; 
From capo to cape, with a I>ridgo-like shape. 

Over a torrent se.n, 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, 

The mountains its cohimns be. 
The trinmphal arch through which I march 

With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
When the powers of the air are chained to my 
chair, 

Is the million-colored bow; 
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove. 

While the moist earth was laughing below. 

I am the daughter of eai'th and water. 

And the inirsling of the sky : 
I pa.ss through the pores of the ocean and .shores; 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when, with never a stain, 

The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex 
gleams, 

Build up the blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

Aud out of the caverns of rain. 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the 
tomb, 

I arise aud unbuild it again. 



STANZAS, 

WniTTEN IN' DEJECTION, NE.\i; X.\1>LES. 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear. 

The waves are dancing fast aud bright ; 
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 

The purple noon's transp.areut light ; 
The breath of the moist air is light 

Around its unexpauded buds ; 
Like many a voice of one delight. 

The winds, the birds, the ocean floods. 
The city's voice itself is soft, like solitude's. 

I see the deep's iintrampled floor 

With green and purple sea-weeds strown ; 
I see the waves upon the shore. 

Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown : 
I sit upon the sands alone ; 

The lightning of the noontide ocean 
Is flashing round me, and a tone 

Arises from its measured motion. 
How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. 

Alas ! I have uor hope nor health. 

Nor peace within nor calm arouud. 
Nor that content surpassing wealth 

The sage in meditation found, 
Aud walked with inward glory crowned, — 

Nor fame, nor power, uor love, nor leisure. 
Other I see whom these surround, — 

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; — 
To me that cup has been de.alt in another measure. 

Yet now despair itself is mild. 

Even as the winds aud waters are ; 
I could lie down like a tired child, 

Aud weep away the life of care 
Which I have borne, aud yet must bear. 

Till death, like sleep, might steal on me. 
And I might feel in the warm air 

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. 

Some might lament that I were cold. 

As I, when this sweet day is gone. 
Which my lust heart, too soon grown old. 

Insults with this untimely moan ; 
They might lament — for I am one 

Whom men love not — and yet regret. 
Unlike this day, which, when the sun 

Slinll on its stainless glory set, 
Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. 



PERCY BTSSHE SHELLEY. 



423 



THE FUGITIVES. 
I. 

Tho ■waters are flashing, 
The Tvhite hail is dashing, 
Tho ligiitnings are glancing, 
Tlie hoar-spray is dancing — 
Away! 

Tho whirlwind is rolling, 
Tho thunder is tolling, 
Tho forest is swinging. 
The minster hells ringing — 
Come away ! 

The Earth is like Ocean, 
Wreck-strewn and in motion : 
Bird, heast, man, and worm 
Have crept out of the storm- 
Come away ! 



"Our boat has one sail, 
And the helmsman is pale ; — • 
A bold pilot, I trow. 
Who should follow us now," — 
Shouted he — 

And she cried: "Ply tho oar! 
Put off gayly from shore !" — 
As she spoke, bolts of death, 
Mixed with hail, specked their path 
O'er the sea. 

And from isle, tower, and rock 
The blue beacon cloud broke ; 
And, though dumb in tho blast. 
The red cannon flashed fast 
From the lee. 

lu. 

"And fear'st thou, and fe.ar'st thou? 
And see'st thou, and hear'st thou ? 
And drive we not free 
O'er the terrible sea — 
I and thou ?" 

One boat-cloak did cover 
The loved and the lover — 
Their blood beats one measure. 
They murmur proud pleasure 
Soft and low ; — 



While around tho lashed Ocean, 
Like mountains in motion. 
Is withdrawn and uplifted, 
Suuk, shcittered, and shifted 
To and fro. 



In the court of the fortress, 
Beside the pale portress. 
Like a blood-hound well beaten. 
The bridegroom stands, eaten 
By shame ; 

On the topmost watch-turret. 
As a death-boding spirit. 
Stands the gray tyrant fother — 
To his voice the mad weather 
Seems tame; 

And with curses as wild 
As e'er clung to child. 
He devotes to the blast 
The best, loveliest, and last 
Of his name ! 



TO A SKYLARK. 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! 
(Bird thou never wert) 
That from heaven, or near it, 
Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher, 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire ; 

The blue deep thou wingest. 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever 
singest. 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun. 
O'er which clouds are brightening. 
Thou dost float and run, 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale jiurple even 

Melts around thy flight ; 
Like a star of heaven, 

In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight, 



4-24 



CYCLOr^DIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Keen as are tlie arrows 

Of that silver sphere, 
Whose intense lamp narrows 

In the white dawn clear, 
Until we hardly see, — wo feel that it is there. 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud, 
As, when night is hare. 
From one lonely cloud 
The raoon rains out licr beams, and heaven is 
overtlowed. 

What thou art, we know not : 

What is most like thee ? 
From rainbow clouds there How not 

Drops so bright to see 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unhidden, 
Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fear.s it heeded not: 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace tower, 
Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: 

Like a glowworm golden 

In a dell of dew. 
Scattering unbeholdeu 
Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from 
the view: 

Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves. 
By warm winds deflowered 
Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy- 
wingdd thieves. 

Sound of vernal sliowers 

On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awakened flowers — 

All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 

Toacli ns, sprite or bird. 

What sweet thoughts arc thine : 



I Lave never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 

Chorus Hymeneal, 

Or triumphal chant. 
Matched with thine, would be all 
But an empty vaunt — 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain ? 
What fields, or waves, or mountains ? 
What shapes of sky or plain ? 
What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of 
pain ! 

With tliy cle.ar keen joyance 

Languor cannot be ; 
Shadow of annoyance 

Never came near thee : 
Thou lovest, but never knew love's sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep. 

Thou of death nnist deem 
Things more true and deep 

Than wo mortals dream. 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ' 

We look before and after. 

And pine for what is not: 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught ; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest 
thought. 

Yet if Tve could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear ; 
If we were things born 

Not to .shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy wo ever should come near. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound, 
Better than all treasures 
That in books are found, 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! 

Teach me half the gladness 
That thy brain must know, 

Sucli harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow, 
Tho world should listen then, as I am listening now. 



PERCY BTSSHE SHELLEY. 



4i5 



ODE TO THE WEST WIND. 
I. 

O wild W>st Wiud, thou IjreatU of Aiitumu's being! 
Tliou, from wliose uuseeu presence tbe leaves tlead 
Are driven, like gliosis from an enchanter fleeing, 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and beetle red. 
Pestilence-stricken inultitndes ! O thou 
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 

The wiMg(;d seeds, where they lie cold and low. 
Each like a corpse withiu its grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
With living hues and odors iilalu and hill! 

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere ; 
Destroyer and preserver, — hear, oh hear ! 



Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's com- 
motion, 
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed. 
Shook from the tangled bonghs of heaven and ocean. 

Angels of raiu and lightning ! there are spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge. 
Like tbe bright hair uplifted from the head 

Of some fierce M;enad, even from the dim verge 

Of the horizon to tbe zenith's height, 

Tbe locks of tbe approaching storm. Thou dirge 



Of the dying year, to which this closing 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 
Vaulted with all thy congregated might 



uight 



Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere 

Black rain, and tire, and hail will burst ! oh, hear 



Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams 
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay 
Lulled by the coil of bis crystalline streams, 

Beside a pumice isle in Bai;e's bay. 

And saw in sleep oUl jialaces and towers 

Quivering within the wave's iutenser day, 



All overgrown with azure moss and flowers 

So sweet, tbe sense faints picturing them ! Thou 

For whose jiath the Atlantic's le'vel powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know • 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear. 
And tremble, and despoil themselves! oh, hear! 



If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear ; 

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee ; 

A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 

Tbe impulse of thy strength, only less free 
Than thou, O tincontrollable ! If even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven — 
As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed 
Scarce seemed a vision — I would ne'er have 
striven 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
Ob, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! 

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed 
One too like thee — tameless, and swift, and proud. 



Make mo thy lyre, even as the forest is : 
What if my leaves are falling like its own ? 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 

Will take from both -a deep autumnal tone, 
Sweet, though in sadness. Be thou, spirit tierce, 
My spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous one ! 

Drive my dead thoughts over tbe universe 
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth; 
And, by the incantation of this verse. 

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth 
Ashes and sparks, ujy word.s among mankind ! 
Be through my lips to unawakened earth 

The trumpet of a prophecy! O wind. 

If Winter comes, can Spring be far btbiud ? 



420 



CTCLOPjEDIA of BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



I ARISE FROM DREAMS OF THEE. 

I arise from dreams of thee, 

In tlie lirst sweet sleep of nigbt, 

When the winds are breathing low, 

And the stars are shining bright : 

I arise from dreams of thee ; 

And a spirit in my feet 

Has led me — who knows how ? — 

To thy chamber-window, sweet ! 

The wandering airs they faint 

On the dark, the silent stream ; 

The champak odors fail, 

Like sweet thoughts in a dream. 

The nightingale's complaint. 

It dies upon ber heart, 

As I must die on thine, 

beloved as thou art ! 

Oh, lift me from the grass! 

1 die, I faint, I fail. 

Let thy love in kisses rain 
On my lips and eyelids pale. 
Sly cheek is cold and white, alas ! 
My heart beats loud and fast. 
Oh, press it close to thine again, 
Where it will break at last. 



INVOCATION. 

Rarely, rarely comest thou. 

Spirit of Delight ! 
Wliciefore hast thou loft me now 

Many a day and night? 
Many a weary night and day 
'Tis since thou art fled away. 

How shall ever one like me 

Win tliee back again ? 
With the joyous and the free 

Thou wilt scoff at pain. 
Spirit false ! thou hast forgot 
All but those who need thee not. 

As a lizard with the shade 

Of a trembling leaf. 
Thou with sorrow art dismayed ; 

Even the sighs of grief 
Reproach thee that thou art not near, 
And reproach thou wilt not bear. 



Let me set my mournful ditty 

To a merry measure ; — 
Thou wilt never come for pity. 

Thou w ilt come for jileasure ; — 
Pity then will cut away 
Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. 

I love all that thou lovest. 

Spirit of Delight ! 
The fresh earth in new leaves dressed, 

And the starry night ; 
Autumn evening, and the morn 
When the golden mists are born. 

I love snow, and all the forms 

Of the radiant frost ; 
I love waves, and winds, and storms — 

Every thing almost 
Wliich is Nature's, and may be 
Untainted by man's misery. 

I love tranquil solitude. 

And such society 
As is quiet, wise, and good : 

Between thee aud me 
What difference ? but thou dost possess 
The things I seek, not love them less. 

I love Love — though ho h.as wings, 

Aud like light can llee ; 
Bnt above all other things. 

Spirit, I love thee — 
Tliou art love and life ! Oh, come. 
Make once more my heart thy home. 



GOOD-NIGHT. 

Good-night ? ah, no ; the hour is ill 
Wliich severs those it should unite ; 

Let us remain together still. 
Then it will bo (/oorf-night. 

How can I call the lone night good. 

Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight? 

Be it not said, though understood. 
Then it will be good-night. 

To hearts which near each other move. 
From evening close to morning light, 

The night is good, — because, my love, 
They never say good-night. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



427 



ONE WORD IS TOO OFTEN PROFANED. 

Oup word is too often iirofaiied 

For mo to profane it, 
One feeling too falsely disdained 

For thee to .disdain it ; 
One hope is too like despair 

For prudeueo to smother, 
And pity from thee more dear 

Thau that from another. 

I can give not what men call love, 

Bnt wilt thou accept not 
The worship the heart lifts above 

And the heavens reject not ? 
The desire of the moth for the star, 

Of the night for the morrow. 
The devotion to something afar 

From the sphere of onr sorrow. 



A LAMENT. 

O world ! O life ! O time ! 
On whose last steps I climb. 
Trembling at that where I had stood before : 
When will return the glory of your prime ? 
No more — oh, never more! 

Out of the day and night 

A joy has taken flight; 
Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar 
Move my faint heart with grief, bnt with delight 
No more — oh, uever more ! 



ON A FADED VIOLET. 

The color from the flower is gone. 

Which like thy sweet eyes smiled on me ; 

The odor from the flower is flown, 

Which breathed of thee, and only thee ! 

A withered, lifeless, vacant form, 
It lies on my abandoned breast. 

And mocks the heart which yet is warm 
With cold and silent rest. 

I weep — my tears re\'ive it not ; 

I sigh — it breathes no more on me ; 
Its mute and uncomplaining lot 

Is such as mine should be. 



ADONAIS : 

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS. 
I. 

I weep for Adonais — he is dead ! 
Oh, weep for Adonais ! though our jtejrs 
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head ! 
Aud thou, sad Hour, selected from all years 
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers. 
And teach them thine own sorrow ; say — with me 
Died Adonais! — till the Future dares 
Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be 
An echo and a light unto eternity ! 



Wlicre wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay, 
When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies 
In darkness ? where was lorn Urania 
When Adonais died ? With veil(5d eyes, 
'Mid listening Echoes, in her paradise 
She sat, while one, with soft enamored breath, 
Eekindled all the fading melodies, 
With which, like flowers that mock the corse 
beneath. 
He had adorned aud hid the coming bulk of death. 



Oh, weep for Adonais — he is dead! 
Wake, melancholy Mother, wake aud weep ! 
Yet wherefore ? Quench within their burning bed 
Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep, 
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep; 
For he is gone, where all things wise and fair 
Descend: — oh, dream not that the amorous Deep 
Will yet restore him to the vital air ; 
Death feeds on his mute voice, aud laughs at our 
despair. 

IV. 

Most musical of mourners, Weep again ! 
Lament anew, Urania ! — Ho died. 
Who was the sire of an immortal strain. 
Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride, 
The priest, the slave, aud the libertieide, 
Trampled and mocked with many a loathed rite 
Of lust and blood ; he went, nnterrified. 
Into the gulf of death; bnt his clear sprite 
Yet reigus o'er earth ; the third among the sons of 
light. 

V. 

Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! 

Not all to th.at bright station dared to climb ; 

And happier they their happiness who knew. 



428 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRT. 



Whose tapers yet buru tbrough that iiiglit of time 
111 which suns perished ; others more sublime, 
Struck by the euvious wrath of mau or god, 
Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime ; 
And some yet live, treading the thorny road. 
Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene 

abode. 

VI. 

But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has perished. 
The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew. 
Like a pale llower by some sad maiden cherished. 
And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew ; 
Most musical of monruers, weep anew ! 
Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last. 
The bloom, whose joetals nipped before they blew 
Died on tlie promise of the fruit, is waste ; 
The broken lily lies — the storm is overpast. 



To that high Capital, where kingly Death 
Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay, 
He came; and bought, with price of purest breath, 
A grave among the eternal. — Come away ! 
Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day 
Is yet his fitting charnel-roof ! while still 
He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay ; 
Awake him not ! surely he takes his fill 
Of deep aud liquid rest, forgetful of all ill. 



He will awake no more, oli, never more ! — 
Within the twilight chamber spreads apace 
Tlie shadow of wliite Deatli, and at the door 
Invisible Corruption waits to trace 
His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place ; 
The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe 
Soothe her palo rage, nor dares she to deface 
So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law 
Of change, shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain 
draw. 

IX. 

Oil, weep for Adonais ! — The quick dreams, 
The passiou-wingdd uniiisters of thought, 
Wlio were his ilocks, whom near the living streams 
Of his young spirit ho fed, and whom ho tauglit 
The love wliich was its music, wauder not, — • 
Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain, 
I5ut droop there, whence they sprang; aud innurn 

their lot 
Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet 

pain. 
They ne'er will gather strength, nor find a home 



And one with trembling hand clasps his cold head. 
And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries, 
'•Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead; 
See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes. 
Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies 
A tear some dream has loosened from his brain." 
Lost angel of a ruined paradise ! 
She knew not 'twas her own ; as with no stain 
She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain. 



One from a lucid urn of starry dew 
Washed his light limbs, as if embalming them ; 
Another clipped her prof».so locks, and threw 
The wreath upon him, like an anadem. 
Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem ; 
Another in her wilful grief would brc;ik 
Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem 
A greater loss with one which was more weak ; 
And dull the barbiSd fire against his frozen cheek. 



Another Splendor on his month alit. 

That montli, whence it was wont to draw the 

breath 
Wliich gave it strengtli to pierce the guarded wit. 
And pass into the iiantiug heart beneath 
With lightning and with music: the damp deatli 
Quenched its caress upon his icy lips ; 
Aud, as a dying meteor stains a wreath 
Of moonlight vapor, which the cold niglit clips, 
It flashed tlirough his pale limbs, and passed to its 
eclipse. 

XIII. 

And others came, — Desires and Adorations, 
Wiugi5d Persuasions and veiled Destinies, 
Splendors, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarna- 
tions 
Of hopes and fears, and twiliglit riiantasies; 
And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, 
And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam 
Of her own dying smile instead of eyes. 
Came in .slow pomp; — the moving pomp might 
seem 
Like iiageantry of mist on an autumn.il stream. 

XIV. 

All ho had loved, and moulded into tlionght, 
Prom shape, and hue, and odor, aud sweet sound, 
Lamented Adonais. Morning sought 
Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound. 



PERCY BTSSHE SHELLEY. 



429 



Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground, 
Dimmed the ai^rial eyes that kindle day ; 
Afar the melancholy thunder moaned, 
Pale Oceau in unquiet slumber lay, 
Aud the wild winds flew round, sobbing in their 
dismay. 

XV. 

Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, 
And feeds her grief with his remembered lay. 
And will no more reply to winds or fountains. 
Or amorous birds perched on the young green 

spray. 
Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closiug day; 
Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear 
Thau those for whose disdain she pined away 
Into a shadow of all sounds: — a drear 
Murmiu', between their songs, is all the woodmen 

hear. 

XVI. 

Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw 

down 
Her kiudliug buds, as if she Autumn were, 
Or they dead leaves ; since lier delight is flown, 
For ^Yhom should she have waked the sullen year? 
To Phcebus was not Hyacinth so dear, 
Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both 
Thou Adonai.s ; wan they stood and sere. 
Amid the drooping comrades of their youth, 
With dew all turned to tears; odor, to sighing ruth. 

XVII. 

Tl]y spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale 
Mourns not her mate with sucli melodious pain ; 
Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale 
Heaven, and could uotixish in the sun's domain 
Her mighty youth, with morning doth comi)lain. 
Soaring and screaming round her empty nest. 
As Albion wails for thee : the curse of Cain 
Light on his head wlio pierced thy innocent 

hreast. 
And scared the angel soul that was its earthly 

guest ! 

XVIII. 

Ah woe is me! Winter is come and gone, 
But grief returns with tlie revolving year; 
The airs and streams renew their joyous tone ; 
Tlio ants, the bees, the swallows reappear; 
Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Season's 

bier ; 
The aniorons birds now pair in every brake. 
And build their mossy homes in field and brere, 
'.ad the green lizard and the golden snake, 
'. .1 ,; unimprisonedflames, out of their trance awake. 



Through wood and stream, and field and hill and 

ocean, 
A quickening life from the Earth's heart has burst. 
As it has ever done, with change and motion, 
From the great morning of the world'Wheu first 
God dawned on Chaos ; in its stream iumiersed. 
The lamps of Heaven ilash with a softer light; 
All baser tilings pant with life's sacred thirst; 
Diffuse themselves; and spend in love's delight. 
The beauty and the joy of their rcuew(5d might. 



Tlie leprous corpse, touched by this spirit tender, 
Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath ; 
Like incarnations of the stars, when splendor 
Is changed to fragrance, they illnmine death. 
And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath ; 
Naught we know, dies. Shall tliat alone whicli 

knows 
Be as a sword consumed before the .sheath 
By sightless lightning? — the intense atom glows 
A momeut, then is quenched in a most cold repose ! 



Alas ! that all we loved of him should be. 
But for our grief, as if it had not been. 
And grief itself bo mortal ! Woe is me ! 
Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene 
Tlie actors or spectators ? Great and mean 
Meet massed in death, who lends what life must 

borrow. 
As long as skies are blue, and fields arc green. 
Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow. 
Month follow month with woe, and year wake year 

to sorrow. 

XXII. 

He will awake no more, oh, never more ! 
" Wake thou," cried Misery ; " childless Mother, rise 
Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart's core, 
A wound more fierce than his with tears and 

sighs." 
And all the Dreams that watched Urania's eyes. 
And all the Echoes whom their sister's song 
Had held in holy silence, cried: "Arise!" 
Swift as a thought by the snake Memory stung. 
From her ambrosial rest the fading Spleudor sprung. 

XXIII. 

She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs 
Out of the East, and follows wild and drear 
The goldeu Day, which, ou eternal wings, 



430 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BUITISU AND AMERICAS FOETBT. 



Even as a ghost abaiuloniug a bier, 
Has left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow ami fear 
So struck, so roused, so -oTapped Urauia ; 
So saddeued rouud her like au atmosphere 
Of stormy mist ; so swept her on her way, 
Eveu to the niouruful place where Adoiiais lay. 



Out of her secret paradise she sped, 

Through camps and cities, rough with stoue and 

steel. 
And human hearts, which to her aerie tread 
Yielding not, wouuded the invisible 
Palms of her tender feet where'er they fell : 
And barbdd tongues, and thoughts more sharp 

than they, 
Kent the soft Form they never could repel. 
Whoso sacred blood, like the young tears of May, 
Paved with eternal dowers that undeserving way. 



In the death-chamber for a moment Death, 
Shamed by the presence of that living Might, 
Blushed to annihilation, aud the breath 
Revisited those lips, and life's jiale light 
Flashed through those limbs, so late her dear 

delight. 
"Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless. 
As silent lightning leaves the starless night ! 
Leave me not !" cried Urania : her distress 
Roused Death : Death rose and smiled, aud met her 

vain caress. 

XXVI. 

" Stay yet awhile ! speak to me once again ; 
Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live ; 
And iu my heartless breast and burning brain 
That word, that kiss shall all thoughts else sur- 
vive. 
With food of saddest memory kept alive, 
Now thou art dead, as if it were a part 
Of thee, my Adonais ! I would give 
All that I am to be as thou now art ! 
But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence de- 
part ! 

XXVII. 

" O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert. 

Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men 

Too soon, aud with weak hands though mighty 

heart 
Dare the unpastured dragon iu his den ? 
Defenceless as thou wert, oh, where was then 
Wisdom the mirrored shield, or scorn the spear ? 
Or, hadst thou waited the full cycle, whei> 



Thy spirit should have filled its crescent sphere. 
The monsters of life's waste had fled from thee 
like deer. 

XXVIII. 

" The herded wolves, bold only to pursue ; 
The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the dead : 
The vultures, to the conqueror's banner true, 
Who feed where Desolation first has fed. 
And who.se wings rain contagion ; — how they fled, 
When, like Apollo, from his golden bow, 
The Pythian of the age one arrow sped 
And smiled! — The spoilers tempt uo second blow. 
The}" fawn on the proud feet that spurn them as 
they go. 

XXIX. 

" The sun comes forth, aud many reptiles spawn ; 
He sets, and each ephemeral insect then 
Is gathered into death without a dawn, 
And tbo immortal stars awake again ; 
So is it in the world of living men : 
A godlike mind soars forth, iu its delight 
Making earth bare aud veiling heaven, and when 
It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or shared its light 
Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit's awful night." 

XXX. 

Thus ceased she : aud the mountain shepherds 

came. 
Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent; 
The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame 
Over his living head like heaven is bent, 
An early but enduring monument. 
Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song 
In sorrow ; from her wilds lerue sent 
The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong. 
And love taught grief to fall like music from his 
tongue. 

XXXI. 

'Mid others of less note came one frail Form, 
A phantom among men ; companionless 
As the last cloud of an expiring storm 
Whose thunder is its knell : he, as I guess. 
Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness, 
Acta!on-like ; and now ho fled astray 
With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness ; 
And his own thoughts, along that rugged way, 
Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their 
prey. 

XXXII. 

A pard-liko Spirit, beautiful and swift — 
A Love in desolation masked, — a Power 
Girt round with weakness; — it can scarce uplift 
The weight of the superincumbent hour ; 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



4:)1 



It is a dyiug ];unp, a falling shower, 
A breaking billow; — even while we speak 
Is it not broken ? On tbe withering flower 
The killing sun smiles brightly; on a cheek 
The life can burn iu blood, even while the heart 
may break. 

XXXIII. 

His bead was bound with pansies overblown. 
And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue ; 
And a light spear, topped with a cypress cone. 
Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew 
Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew, 
Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart 
Shook the weak hand that grasped it ; of that crew 
He came the last, neglected and apart ; 
A herd-abandoned deer, struck by the hiuiter's dart. 

XXXIV. 

All stood aloof, and at his partial moan 
Smiled through their tears : well knew that geu- 

tle band 
Who in another's fate now wept his own. 
As in the accents of an unknown laud 
He sang uew sorrow. Sad Urania scanned 
The Stranger's mien, and mnrnuired, "Who art 

thou ?" 
He answered ijot, but, with a suddeu hand. 
Made bare his branded and eusanguined brow. 
Which was like Cain's or Christ's, — oh, that it 

should be so ! 

XXXV. 

What softer voice is hushed o'er the dead ? 
Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown ? 
What form leans sadly o'er the white death-bed, 
Iu mockery of monumental stone. 
The heavy heart heaving without a moan? 
If it be he who, gentlest of the wise. 
Taught, soothed, loved, honored the departed one ; 
Let me not vex with inharmonious sighs 
The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice. 



Our Adonais has drnuk poison — oh! 
What deaf and viperous murderer could crown 
Life's early cup with such a draught of woe f 
The nameless worm would now itself disown : 
It felt, yet conld escape the magic tone 
Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong. 
But what was howling in one breast alone, 
Silent with expectation of the song. 
Whose master's hand is cold, whoce silver lyre 
nustrung. 



Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame ! 
Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me. 
Thou noteless blot on a remembered name ! 
But be thyself, and know tliyself to be ! 
And ever at thy season be thou free 
To spill the venom when thy fangs o'erflow : 
Remorse and self-contempt shall cling to thee ; 
Hot shame shall burn upon thy secret brow. 
And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt — aa now. 



Nor let us weep that our delight is fled 
Far from these carrion-kites that scream below : 
He wakes or sleejis with the enduring dead ; 
Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now.— - 
Dust to the dust ! but the pure spirit shall flow 
Back to the burning fountain whence it came, 
A portion of the Eternal, which must glow 
Through time and change, unqueuchably the same, 
While thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of 
shame. 

XXXIX. 

Peace I peace ! he is not dead, he doth not sleep — 
He hath awakened from the dream of life — 
'Tis we who, lost iu stormy visions, keep 
With phantoms an unprofitable strife. 
And iu mad trance strike with onr spirit's knife 
Invulnerable nothings — we decay 
Like corpses in a charnel ; fear and grief 
Convulse us and consume us day by day. 
And cold hopes swarm like worms within our liv- 
ing clay. 

XL. 

He has ontsoared the shadow of onr night ; 
Envy and calumny, and hate and pain. 
And that unrest which meu miscall delight. 
Can touch him not and torture not again ; 
From the contagion of the world's slow stain 
He is secure, and now can never mourn 
A heart grown cold, a head grown gray iu vain : 
Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn. 
With sparkless ashes load an uulauieuted urn. 



He lives, he wakes — 'tis Death is dead, not he; 
Mourn not for Adonais. — Thou young Dawn, 
Turu all thy dew to splendor, for from thee 
The spirit tliou lanieutest is not gone ! 
Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan ! 
Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air, 
Wljich like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrown 



432 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BEITISB AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



O'er tlie aljandoneil caitb. now leave it bare 
Even to the joyous stars wbicli smile ou its despair! 



He is made one with Nature ; tbere is heard 
His voice in all her music, from the moan 
Of tbunder to the song of night's sweet bird ; 
He is ii presence to be felt and known 
In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, 
Spreading itself where'er that Power may move 
Which has withdrawn bis being to its own ; 
Which wields the world with never-wearied love. 
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above. 



He is a portion of the loveliness 
Which once he made more lovely : he doth bear 
His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress 
Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling 

there 
All new successions to the forms they wear ; 
Torturing the uinvilliug dross that checks its 

flight 
To its own likeness, as each mass may bear; 
And bursting in its beauty and its might 
From trees and beasts and men into the heaven's 

light. 

XLIV. 

The splendora of the firmament of time 
May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not; 
Like stars to their appointed height they climb; 
And death is a low mist which cannot blot 
The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought 
Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair, 
And love and life contend in it, for what 
Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there 
And move like winds of light ou dark and stormy 
air. 

XLV. 

The inheritors of unfulfilled renown 

Rose from their thrones built beyond mortal 

thought, 
Far iu the unapparent. Chatterton 
Eose pale, his solemn agony had not 
Yet fad<Hl from him ; Sidney, as he fought 
Aiul as he fill, and as he lived and loved, 
Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot. 
Arose ; and Luean, by bis deatli approved : 
Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reproved. 

XLVI. 

And m.iny more, -whose names on earth are dark. 
But whoso transmitted effluence cannot die 



So h)ng as fire outlives the parent spark. 
Rose, robed iu dazzling immortality. 
" Thou art become as one of us," they cry ; 
" It was for thee yon kiugless sphere has long 
Swung blind iu unasceuded majesty, 
Silent alone amid a heaven of song. • 
Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of onr 
throng!" 

XLVII. 

Who mourns for Adonais ? oh, come forth. 
Fond wretch ! and know thyself and him aright. 
Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous 

Earth ; 
As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light 
Beyond all worlds, until its spacious might 
Satiate the void circumference : then shrink 
Even to a point within onr day and night ; 
And keep thy heart light, lest it make thee sink 
When hope has kiudled hope, and lured thee to the 
brink. 

XLVIII. 

Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre. 

Oh, not of him, but of onr joy : 'tis naught 

That ages, empires, and religions there 

Lie buried in the r.avage they have wrought 

For such as he can lend, — they borrow not 

Glory from those who made the world their 

prey; 
And he is g.ithered to the kings of thought 
Who waged contention with their timc'.s decay. 
And of the piist are all that canuot pass away. 

XLIX. 

Go thou to Rome, — at once the paradise. 

The grave, the city, and the wilderness ; 

And where its wrecks like .shattered mountains 

rise. 
And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses, dress 
The bones of Desolation's nakedness. 
Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead 
Thy footsteps to a slope of green access. 
Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead, 
A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread. 



And gray walls moulder round, on which dull 

Time 
Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand ; 
And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime. 
Pavilioning the dust of him who planned 
This refuge for his memory, doth stand 
Like flame transformed to marble; and beneath, 
A field is spread, ou which a newer baud 



PERCY BTSSHE SHELLEY. 



433 



Have pitched iu Heaveu'a smile tlieir camp of 
death, 
Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished 
breath. 

LI. 

Here pause: these graves are all too yoiiug as yet 
To have outgrowu the sorrows which consigned 
Its charge to each ; and it' the seal is set, 
Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind, 
Break it not thon ! too surely shalt thou find 
Thine own well full, if thou retiiruest home. 
Of tears aud gall. From the world's bitter wind 
Seek shelter iu the shadow of the tomb. 
What Adonais is, why fear we to become ? 



The One remaijis, the many change and pass ; 
Heaven's light forever shines. Earth's shadows tly ; 
Life, like a dome of many-colored glass. 
Stains the white radiance of Eternity, 
Until Death tramples it to fi-agnients. — Die, 
If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost 

seek! 
Follow where all is fled! — Rome's azure sky. 
Flowers, ruius, statues, music, — words are weak 
■^he glory they transfuse wilh fitting truth to speak. 



Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my 

heart ? 
Tliy hopes are gone before : from all things here 
They have departed ; thou shonldst now depart ! 
A light is passed from the revolving year, 
And man, and woman ; and what still is dear 
Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither. 
The soft sky smiles, — the low wind whispers near: 
'Tis Adonais calls! oh, hasten thither. 
No more let Life divide what Death can join to- 
gether. 

LIV. 

That Light whose smiles kindle the universe. 
That Beauty iu which all things •work and move. 
That Beuedictiou which the eclipsing curse 
Of liirth can quench not, that sustaining Love 
Which through the web of being blindly wove 
By man and beast, aud earth and air and sea. 
Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of 
The fire for which all thirst, now beams on me. 
Consuming the last clouds of cold mortalitv. 



The breath whose might I have invoked iu song 

Descends on me; my spirit's bark is driven 

28 



Far from the shore, far from the trembling 

throng 
Whose sails were never to the tempest given ; 
The massy earth and spheriSd skies are riven : 
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar ; 
While, burning through the inmost veil of heaven, 
The soul of'Adonais, like a star, ; 
Beacons from the abode where the eternal are. 



INVOCATION TO NATURE. 

From "Alastor; oe, Tue SnniT of SoLiTrDE." 

Earth, ocean, air, belovM brotherhood ! 

If our great mother have imbued my soul 

With aught of natural piety to feel 

Your love, and recompense the boon with miue ; 

If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even. 

With sunset and its gorgeous ministers. 

And solemn midnight's tingling silentness ; 

If autumn's hollow sighs in the sere wood, 

Aud winter robing with pure snow and crowns 

Of starry ice the gray grass aud bare houghs ; 

If Spring's voluptuous pantings, when she breathes 

Her first sweet kisses, have been dear to me ; 

If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast 

I consciously have injured, but still loved 

And cherished these my kindred ; — then forgive 

This boast, beloved brethren, aud withdraw 

No portion of your wonted favor now ! 



SONNET. 

Ye hasten to the dead ! What seek ye there, 

Ye restless thoughts and busy purposes 

Of the idle braiu, which the world's livery wear? 

O thou quick heart which pautest to possess 

All that anticipation feigneth fair ! 

Thou vainly curious mind which wouldst guess 

Wlieuce thou didst come, and whither thou mayst 

go- 
And that which never yet was known wouldst 

know — 
Oh, whither hasten ye, that thus ye press 
With snch swift feet life's green and pleasant path. 
Seeking alike from happiness and woe 
A refuge in the cavern of gray death ? 
O heart, and mind, and thoughts I What thing do 

you 
Hope to inherit iu the grave below ? 



434 



CTCLOF^DIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN' POETRY. 



DEDICATION.' 

TO MARl' 



" There is do danger to a nijiii that knows 
What life and death is; there's not any hiw 
Exceeds his knowledge: neither is it lawful 
That he should stoop to any other law." 

Chapman. 

So now ray summer task is eudeil, Mary, 
Ami I return to thee, mine own bcart's home ; 
As to bis queen some 'victor knight of faery, 
Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome ; 
Nor thou disdain, that ere my fame hecome 
A star among the stars of mortal night, 
If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom. 
Its doubtful promi.se thus I would unite 
With thy beloved name, thou child of love and light. 

The toil which stole from thee so many an hour 
Is ended, — and the fruit is at thy feet ! 
No longer 'nhere the woods to frame a bower 
With interlaced branches mix and meet, 
Or where, 'with sound like many voices sweet. 
Water-falls leap among wild islands green. 
Which framed for my lone boat a lone retreat 
Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I be seen : 
But beside thee, where still my heart has ever been. 

Thoughts of great deeds were mine, dear friend, 

when first 
The clouds which wrap this world from youth 

did pass. 
I do remember well the hour which burst 
Jly spirit's sleep : a fresh JIay-dawn it was. 
When I walked forth upon the glittering grass. 
And wept I knew not why; until there ro.se, 
From the near school-room, voices that, alas! 
Were hut one echo from a world of woes, — 
The harsh and grating strife of tyrants and of foes. 

And then I clasped my hands and looked around — 
But none was near to mock my streaming eyes. 
Which poured their warm drops on the sunny 

ground : 
So without shame I spako : — "I will he wise, 
And just, and free, and mild, if in mo lies 
Such power ; for I gro'w weary to behold 
The selfish and the strong still tyrannize 
Without reproach or check." I then controlled 
3Iy tears, my heart grew calm, and I was meek 
and bold. 

' The dedication of Shelley's "Revolt of Islam" to his wife, 
the druijrhier of William Godwin, is one of the most tenderly 
beautiful poems in the language. 



And from that hour did I with earnest thought 
Heap knowledge from forbidden miues of lore ; 
Yet nothing that my tyrants knew or taught 
I cared to learn, but from that secret store 
Wrought linkf^d armor for my soul, before 
It might walk forth to war among mankind ; 
Thus power and hope were strengthened more 

aud more 
Within mc, till there came upon ray mind 
A sense of loneliness, a thirst with which I pined. 

Alas, that love should he a blight aud suare 
To those who seek all sympathies in one ! — 
Snch once I sought in vain ; then black despair, 
The shadow of a starless night, was thrown 
Over the world in which I moved alone : — 
Yet never found I one not fal.se to me, 
Hard hearts, and cold, like weights of icy stone 
Which crushed aud withered mine, that could 
not be 
Aught but a lifeless clog until revived by thee. 

Thou friend, whose pre.seuce on my wintrj- heart 
Fell like bright .spring upon some herbless plain, — 
How beautiful and calm, and free thou wert 
In thy young wisdom, when the mortal chain . 
Of Custom thou didst burst and rend in twain, 
And walked as free as light the clotuls among. 
Which many an envious slave then breathed in 

vain 
From his dim dungeon, and my spirit sprang 
To meet thee from the woes which h.ad begirt it long. 

No more alone through the world's wilderness, 
Although I trod the paths of high intent, 
I journeyed now : no more companionless, 
Where solitude is like despair, I went. — 
There is the wisdom of a stern content, 
When poverty can blight the just aud good, 
When infamy dares mock the innocent, 
And cherished friends turn with the multitude 
To trample : this was ours, and wo uushaken stood ! 

Now has descended a sercuer hour, 

And with inconstant fortune friends return : 

Though sufi'eriug leaves the knowledge ami thi/ 

power. 
Which says: — Let scorn bo not repaid with scorn. 
And from thy side two gentle babes are born 
To fill our home with smiles, and thus are we 
Most fortunate beneath life's beaming morn ; 
And these delights, and thou, have been to me 
The parents of the song I consecrate to thee. 



PERCY BTSSHE SHELLEY. 



4:55 



I3 it that uow my inexperienced fingers 
But strike the preluile to a loftier strain 1 
Or must the lyre on -which my spirit lingers 
Soou pause in silence, ne'er to sound again, 
TUougU it might shake the anarch Custom's reign, 
And charm the minds of men to Truth's own sway. 
Holier than was Ampbiou's ? I would fain 
Reply in hope — hut I am worn away. 
And Death and Love are yet contending for their prey. 

And what art thou ? I know, hut dare not speak : 
Time may interpret to his silent years. 
Yet in the paleness of thy thoughtful check. 
And in the light thine ample forehead wears. 
And in thy sweetest smiles, and in thy tears. 
And in thy gentle speech, a prophecy 
Is whisijered to subdue my foudest fears : 
And through thine eyes, even in thy soul I see 
A lamp of vestal fire burning internally. 

Tbey say that thou wert lovely from thy birth. 
Of glorious i^arents, thou aspiring child : 
I wonder not — for one then left this earth 
Whose life was like a setting planet mild, 
Which clothed thee in the radiance undefiled 
Of its dejiartiug glory; still her fame 
Shines on thee, through the tempests dark and wild 
Which shake these latter days ; and thou canst 
claim 
The shelter from thy sire of an immortal name. 

One voice came forth from many a mighty spirit, 
Which was the echo of three thousand years ; 
And the tumultuous world stood mute to hear it. 
As some lone man, who in a desert bears 
The music of bis home : — unwonted fears 
Fell on the pale oppressors of our race. 
And faith and custom and low-thoughted cares. 
Like thunder-stricken dragons, for a space 
Left the torn human heart, their food and dwell- 
ing-place. 

Truth's deathless voice pauses among mankind ! 
If there must be no response to my cry — 
If men must rise and stamp with fury blind 
On his jiure name who loves them, — thou and I, 
Sweet friend ! can look from our tranquillity 
Like lamps into the world's tempestuous night, — 
Two tranquil stars, while clouds are passing by, 
Which wrap them from the foundering seaman's 

sight, 
That burn from year to year with unextinguished 

light. 



HYJIN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY. 

The awful shadow of some unseen Power 
Floats, though unseen among us ; visiting 
This various world with as inconstant wing 

As summer winds that creep from flower to flower : 

Like moonbeams that behind some piny mountai;i 
shower, 
It visits with inconstant glance 
Each human heart and countenance ; 

Like hues and harmonies of evening, 
Like clouds iu starlight widely spread. 
Like memory of music fled. 
Like aught that for its grace may he 

Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery. 

Spirit of Beauty, that dost consecrate 

With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon 
Of human thought or form, where art thou gone ? 

Why dost thou pass away and leave our state. 

This dim, vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate ! 
Ask why the sunlight not forever 
Weaves rainbows o'er yon monntaiu river ; 

Why aught should fail and fade that once is shown ; 
Why fear and dream and death and birth 
Cast on the daylight of this earth 
Such gloom, why man hath such a scope 

For love and hate, despondency and hope 1 

No voice from some sublinier world hath ever 
To sage or poet these responses given ; 
Therefore the names of demon, ghost, and heaven. 

Remain the records of their vain endeavor : 

Frail spells, whose nttered charm might not avail 
to sever. 
From all we hear and all we see. 
Doubt, chance, and mutability. 

Thy light alone, like mist o'er mountains driven, 
Or music by the night wind sent 
Through strings of some still iustrument, 
Or moonlight on a midnight stream. 

Gives grace and truth to life's uuquiet dream. 

Love, Hope, and Self-esteem, like clouds, depart 
And come, for some uucertaiu moments lent. 
Man were immortal, and omnipotent, 

Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art, 

Keep with thy glorious train firm state within lii 
heart. 
Thou messenger of sympathies 
That wax and wane iu lovers' eyes ; 

Thou, that to human thought art nourishment, 



436 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEBICAN POETRY. 



Like darkness to a clyiug flauie ! 
Depart not as thy shadow came : 
Depart not, lest the grave should be, 
Like life and fear, a dark reality. 

While yet a hoy I sought for ghosts, aud sped 

Through many a listening chamber, cave, and ruin, 

And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing 
Hopes of high talk with the departed dead. 
1 called on jioisouous names with which our youth 
is fed : 

I -was not heard : I saw them not : 

When musing deeply ou the lot 
Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing 

All vital things that wake to briug 

News of birds and blossomiug, 

Suddeu, thy shadow fell on me : 
I shrieked, and clasped my hands in ecstasy ! 

I vowed tliat I would dedicate my powers 

To thee aud thine : have I not kept the vow * 
With beatiug heart aud streaming eyes, even now 

I call the i)hantoms of a thousand hours 

Each from his voiceless grave : they have in vi- 
sioned bowers 
Of studious zeal or love's delight 
Outwatched ■nith mo tlie envious night : 

They know that never joy illumed my brow, 
Unlinked with hope that thou wouldst free 
Tliis world from its dark slavery, 
That thou, O awful Loveliness, 

Wouldst give whate'er these words cannot express. 

The day becomes more solemn aud serene 

When noon is past : there is a harmony 

In autumn, aud a lustre iu its sky. 
Which through the summer is not heard or seen. 
As if it could not be, as if it had not been ! 

Thus let thy power, which like the truth 

Of nature on my passive youth 
Descended,. to my onwai'd life supply 

Its calm, to one who worships thee, 

Aud every form containing thee, 

AVhoui, .Si'inrr fair, thy spells did bind 
To fear himself, aud love all human kind. 



LINES TO A REVIEWER. 

Alas I good friend, what profit can you sec 
In hating such a hateless thing as me ? 
There is no sport iu hate wbero all the rage 
Is ou one side. In vaiu would vou assuage 



Your frowns upon au unresisting smile, 

In which not even contempt lurks, to beguile 

Your heart, by some faint sympathy of hate : 

Oh, conquer what you cannot satiate ! 

For to your passion I am for more coy 

Thau ever yet was coldest maid or boy 

In winter noon. Of your antipathy 

If I am the Narcissus, you are free 

To pine iuto a sound with hating nic. 



i?ol)n Kcble. 



Keble (1793-186G), the son of a Gloucestershire clergy- 
man, was educated at Oxford, where he took flrst-chiss 
honors. After discharging the duties of Professor of 
Poetry, he was preferred to the rectory of Ilurslcy, near 
Winchester, in 1S35, which he lield until his death. His 
"Christian Year" was piiblislicd in lS37,and had a mar- 
vellous success, having gone through some seventy edi- 
tions in England, and about as many iu the United States. 
His "Lyra Inuoccntium" appeared in 1847. Keble was 
one of the originators of the "Tractariun Movement," 
inculcating reverence for Catholic tradition, and belief 
in the divine prerogatives of the priesthood. 



MORNING. 

From "The Christian Year." 

Hues of the rich unfolding morn, 
Tliat, ere the glorious sun be born. 
By some soft touch invisible 
Around bis path are taught to swell ;— 

Thou rustling breeze, so fresh and gay, 
That daucest forth at opening day. 
And, brnshing by with joyous wing, 
Wakeuest each little leaf to sing ; — 

Y'o fragrant'clonds of dewy steam. 
By which deep grove and tangled stream 
Pay, for soft rains in season given. 
Their tribute to the genial heaven ; — 

Why waste your treasures of delight 
Upon our thankless, joyless sight, 
Who day by day to siu awalic. 
Seldom of heaven and you partake ? 

Oh ! timely happy, timely wise. 
Hearts that with rising morn arise ! 
Eyes that the beam celestial view 
Which evermore makes all things new! 



JOHN KEBLE. 



4:i7 



New every moniiiii; is the lovo 
Our wakening ami nprising prove ; 
Through sleep and darkuess safely brought, 
Restored to life, and power, and thought. 

New mercies, each returning day, 
Hover around iis while we pray ; 
New perils past, new sins forgiven, 
New thoughts of God, new hopes of heaven. 

If on our daily course our miud 
Be set to hallow all we find. 
New treasures still, of countless price, 
God will provide for sacrifice. 

Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be, 
As more of Heaveu in each wo see ; 
Some softening gleam of love and pra3'er 
Shall dawu ou eveiy cross and care. 

As for some dear familiar strain 
Untired we ask, and ask again, 
Ever, in its melodious store. 
Finding a spell unheard before ; 

Such is the bliss of sonls serene, 

When they have sworn, and steadfast mean, 

Counting the cost, in all t' es^iy 

Their God, in all themselves deny. 

Oh, could we learn tliat sacrifice ! 
Wliat lights would all around us rise! 
How would our hearts with wisdom talk 
Along life's dullest, dreariest walk ! 

We need not bid, for cloistered cell, 
Our neighbor aud our work farewell. 
Nor strive to wind ourselves too high 
For sinful man beneath the sky : 

The trivial round, the common task, 
Would furnish all we ought to ask — 
Room to deny ourselves, a road 
To bring us daily nearer God. 

Seek we no more : content with these, 
JLet xiresent rapture, comfort, ease. 
As Heaven shall bid them, come and go : — 
The secret this of rest below. 

Only, O Lord, in thy dear lovo 
Fit us for perfect rest above ; 



And help us, this aud every day. 
To live more ucarly as wo pray. 



EVENING. 

From "Tue Ciuiistian Yeah." 

'Tis goue, thaf bright and orbed blaze, 
Fast fading from our wistful gaze; 
Yon mantling cloud has hid from sight 
The last faint pulse of quivering light. 

In darkness and in weariness 
The traveller on his way must press, 
No gleam to watch ou tree or tower 
Whiling away the lonesome hour. 

Sun of my soul! thou Saviour dear! 
It is not uight if thou be near : 
Oh, may no earth-born cloud arise 
To hide thee from thy servant's eyes. 

When round thy wondrous works below 
My searching, rapturous glance I throw, 
Tracing out wi.sdom. power, aud love. 
In earth or sky, in stream or grove ; — 

Or, by the light thy words disclose, 
Watch Time's full river as it flows, 
Scanning thy gracious providence. 
Where not too deep for niort.al sen.se : — 

When with dear friends sweet talk I hold. 
And all the flowers of life unfold ; 
Let not my heart within me burn. 
Except in all I thee discern. 

When the soft dews of kindly sleejj 
My wearied eyelids gently steep, 
Be my last thought how sweet to rest 
Forever on my Saviour's breast! 

Abide with me from morn till eve, 
For without thee I canuot live: 
Abide with me when night is nigh. 
For without thee I dare not die. 

Thou Framer of the light and dark, 
Steer through the tempest thine owu ark : 
Amid the howling wintry sea 
We are in port if we have thee. 



CYCLOFJ£DIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEIilCAX POETRY. 



The rulers of this Christian laud, 
'Twist thee aud us ordaiued to stand — 
Guide then their course, O Lord, aright, 
Let all do all as iu thy sight. 

Oh! by thiuo own sad hnrdpu, borue 
So meekly np the hill of sconi. 
Teach thou thy priests tbeir daily cross 
To bear as thiue, nor count it loss! 

If some poor wandering child of thiue 
Have spurned to-day the voice divine, 
Now, Lord, the gracious work begin ; 
Let him no more lie down in siu. 

Watch by the sick : enrich the poor 
With blessings from thy boundless store : 
Be every mourner's sleep to-night 
Like iufauts' slumbers, jjure aud light. 

Come ne.tr and bless ns when ^ve wake, 
Kre through the world our w.iy we take ; 
Till in the ocean of thy love 
We lose ourselves in heaven above. 



ADDRESS TO POETS. 

Ye whose hearts are beating high 
With the pulse of i>oesy ; 
Heirs of more than royal race, 
Framed by Heaven's peculi.ir grace 
God's own work to do on earth 

(If the word be not too bold), 
Giving virtue a new birth, 

Aud a life that ne'er grows ohl — 

Sovereign masters of all hearts ! 
Know ye who hath set your parts ? 
Ho who gave you breath to sing, 
By whose strength ye sweep the string, 
He hath chosen you to lead 

His hosauuas here below; — • 
Mount, aud claim your glorious meed; 

Linger not with siu .and woe. 

But if ye should hold your peace. 
Deem not that the song would cease : — 
Angels round His glory-throuo ; 
Stars, his guiding baud that own ; 
Flowers, that grow beueath our feet ; 
Stones, in earth's dark womb that rest- 



High and low in choir shall meet, 
Ere his name shall be unblessed. 

Lord, by every minstrel tongue 
Be thy praise so duly suug 
That thiuo angels' harps may ne'er 
Fail to find tit echoing here ! 
We the while, of meaner birth, 

Who iu that diviuest spell 
Dare not hope to join on earth — 

Give us grace to listen well. 

But should thankless silence seal 
Lips that might half heaven reveal — ■ 
Should bards in idol-hymns profaue 
The sacred soul-euthralliug strain 
(As in this bad world below 

Noblest things find vilest using), 
Then thy power aud mercy show, 

Iu vile thiugs noble breath infusing. 

Then waken into sound divine 
The very pavement of thy shrine. 
Till we, like heaven's star-sprinkled floor. 
Faintly give back what we adore. 
Childlike though the voices be. 

And untunable the parts, 
Thou wilt own the minstrelsy. 

If it flow from childlike hearts. 



A THOUGHT. 

Proverbs xiv. 10. 

Why should wo faint and fear to live alone. 
Since all alone (so Heaven has willed) we die. 

Nor even the teuderest heart, and next our own, 
Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh ? 

Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe 
Our hermit spirits dwell, and range apart ; 

Our eyes see all around, in gloom or glow. 

Hues of their own, fresh borrowed fi'om the heart. 



3oI)n fjoivarb IJaiinc. 

AMERICAN. 

Payne (1793-1852), although the author and compiler 
of tlie successful drama of "Brutus," will be better 
known to posterity for liis charming song of "Home, 
Sweet Ilonic." It was originally written for liis ope- 
retta of " Clari, the Maid of Milau." Though it owes 
much of its popularity to the music to which it is fit- 



JOHN HOTVJRD rJYXE.—JOHX BOWHIXG. 



439 



ted, it has the true elements of genuine poetry — sim- 
plicity and fidelity to nature. Upwards of one liun- 
dred thousand copies, set to music, were sold in 1832. 
The publishers made two thousand guineas by it in two 
years. Payne was a native of the city of New York. In 
1S09 he appeared there as "Young Norval," at the Park 
Theatre. In 1813 he weut to England, where he became 
a successful playwright. In 1833 he returned to Ameri- 
ca, and was appointed United States Consul at Tunis, 
where he died. 



HOME, S'm:ET HOME ! 

'Mid pleasures and palaces though tvo may roam. 
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home ! 
A charm from the skies seems to hallow it there, 
Which, go throngh the world, you'll not meet with 
elsewhere. 

Home ! home, sweet home ! 

There's no place like home ! 

An exile from home, pleasure dazzles iu vain : 
Ah, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! 
The birds singing sweetly that came to my call — 
Give me them, and that peace of mind, dearer than all. 

Home ! home, sweet home ! 

There's no place like home ! 



3ol)n 33oiuring. 



Bowring (1792-1872) was a native of Exeter. In 1825 
he became editor of the \yestminslcr Review. He sat some 
time in Parliament, and in 1854 was knighted and made 
Governor of Hongkong. He was the literary executor 
of Jeremy Bentham. He wrote devotional poetry of 
merit, and made some excellent translations from the 
Russian, Polish, and other modern languages. 



ODE TO GOD. 

From the Russian of Gabriel Romanowitch Derzhaviv. 

O thou Eternal One ! whose presence bright 
All space doth occupy, all motion gtiide ; 

Unchanged through Time's all-devastating flight, 
Thou only God ; — there is no God beside ! 

Being above all beings! Mighty One! 

Whom none can comprehend, and none explore ; 

Wlio flll'st existence with thyself alone ; 
Embracing all — supporting — ruling o'er — 
Being, whom we call God — and know no more ! 

In its sublime research. Philosophy 

May measure out the ocean-deep, may count 

The sauds or the sun's rays ; but, God ! for theo 
There is no weight nor measure ; none can mount 



Up to thy mysteries ; Reason's brightest spark, 
Though kindled by thy light, in vain would try 

To trace thy counsels, infinite and dark ; 

And thought is lost ere thought can mount so high, 
E'eu like past moments iu eternity. 

Thou from primeval nothingness diddt call 
First chaos, then existeuce ; — Lord, on thee 

Eternity had its foundation ; all 

Sprang forth from thee, — of ligbt, joy, harmony. 

Sole origin ; all life, all beauty, thine. 
Thy word created all, and doth create ; 

Thy splendor fills all space witb rays divine. 
Thou art, and wert, and shalt be ! glorious, great. 
Life-giving, life-sustaining Potentate! 

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround, 
Upheld by thee, by thee inspired with breath ! 

Thou the beginning with the end hast bound, 
And beautifully mingled life and death. 

As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze. 
So suns are bom, so worlds spring forth, from thee ; 

And as the spaugles in the sunny rays 

Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry 
Of heaven's bright army glitters iu thy praise. 

A ndllion torches, lighted by thy hand. 

Wander unwearied through the blue abyss ; 
They own thy power, accomplish thy command. 

All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. 
What shall we call them ? Piles of crystal light, 

A glorious company of golden streams. 
Lamps of celestial ether, burning bright, 

Suns lighting systems, with their joyous beams? 

But thou to those art as the noon to night. 

Yes! as a drop of water in the sea. 
All this magnificence in thee is lost : 

What are ten thousand worlds compared to thee ? 
And what am I, then % Heaven's unnumbered host. 

Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed 
In all the glory of sublimest thought. 

Is but an atom in the balance, weighed 

Against thy greatness, — is a cipher brought 
Against infinity! — What am I, then? — Xaught ! 

Naught! But the etBuencc of thy light diviue. 
Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too: 

Yes, iu my spirit doth thy spirit shine, 
As shines the sunbeam iu a drop of dew. 

Naught ! But I live, and on Hope's pinions fly 
Eager toward thy presence ; for in thee 

I live, and breathe, and dwell, aspiring high. 



440 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BKITISH ASD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Eveu to the throue of tliy divinity. 

I am, O God ! and .siiicly tlion must be ! 

Thou art! directing, guiding all, thou art! 

Direct my understaudiug, then, to thee ; 
Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart ; 

Though but an atom 'mid immeusity, 
Still I am something fashioned by thy hand ; 

I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth, 
Ou the last verge of mortal being stand. 

Close to the realm where angels have their birth. 

Just on the boundary of the spirit laud ! 

The chain of bciug is complete iu me ; 

lu me is matter's last gradation lost ; 
And the next step is spirit— Deity ! 

I can command the lightning, and am dust ! 
A monarch and a slave ; a worm, a god ! 

Whence came I here, and how ? So marvellously 
Constructed and conceived? Unknown? This clod 

Lives surely tlu'ough some higher energy ; 

From out itself alone it could not be ! 

Creator, yes ! thy wisdom and thy word 
Created me. Thou source of life and good ! 

Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord! 

Thy light, thy love, iu their bright plenitude. 

Filled mo with au immortal soul, to spring 
O'er the abyss of death, and bade it wear 

The garments of eternal day, and wing 

Its heavenly flight, beyond this little sphere, 
E'en to its source — to thee — its Author there! 

O thought incfl'nble ! O vision blessed ! 

Though worthless our conceptions all of tliee, 
Yet shall thy shadowed image fill our breast. 

And waft its homage to thy Deity. 
God ! thus alono my lowlj' thoughts can soar ; 

Thus seek thy presence, Beiug wise and good ! — 
'Mid thy vast works, admire, obey, adore ; 

And wheu the tongue is eloquent uo more, 

The soul shall speak iu tears its gratitude. 



WISDOM AND WEALTH. 

From tue Russian of Kuemnitzer. 

1 once saw a poor fellow, keen and clever. 
Witty and wise; ho paid a man a visit. 
And no one noticed him, and no one ever 
Gave him a welcome. " Strange !" cried he ; " whence 
is it?" 
He walked on this side, then on that. 
He tried to introduce a social chat ; 



Now here, now there, in vain ho tried ; 
Some formally aud freezingly replied, 
And some said, by their silence, " Better stay at 
home." 

A rich man burst the door, 

As Croesus rich ; I'm snre 
He could not pride himself upon his wit; 
Aud as for wisdom, he had none of it ; 
He had what some think better — he had wealth. 

What a confusion ! all stand up erect — 
These crowd around to ask him of his health ; 

These bow in honest duty aud respect ; 
And these arrange a sofa or a chair ; 
And these conduct him there. 
"Allow me, sir, the honor;" then a how 
Down to the earth — is 't possible to show 
Meet gratitude for such kind condesceusiou ? 

The poor man hung his head, 

Aud to himself he said, 
" This is indeed beyond my comprehensiou :" 
Then looking round, one friendly face he found, 
And said, "Pray tell mo why is wealth preferred 
To wisdom?" ''That's a silly question, friend !" 
Replied the other. " H.ave you never heard, 

A man may lend his store 

Of gold or silver ore, 
But wisdom none can borrow, none can lend ?" 



TRUE COURAGE. 

Onward! throw all terrors off! 

Slight the scorner, — scoru the scoff. 

In the race, aud not the prize, 

Glory's true distinction lies. 

Triumph herds with meanest things, — 

Common robbers, vilest kings, 

'Mid the reckless multitude! 

But the generous, but the good. 

Stand in modesty alone, 

Still serenely struggling on. 

Planting peacefully the seeds 

Of bright hopes and better deeds. 

A[ark the slowly-moving plough : 
Is its day of victory now ? 
It defiles the emerald sod, 
'Whelms the flowers beneath the clod. 
Wait the swiftly-coming hours, — 
Fairer green and sweeter flowers, 
Richer fruits, will soon appear, 
Cornucopias of the year! 



SIB JOHN HERSCEEL.—HEW AINSLIE. 



441 



Siv iJoljii C)crGcljcl. 



Hcrschel, the celebrated astronomer, was born at 
Slough, near Windsor, in 1793, and studied at St. Julin's 
College, Cambridge. Ho died at Collingwood, Kent, in 
1871, aged seventy-nine. Profoundly versed as he was 
in the physical sciences, he was master of an elegant 
English style, and did not utterly neglect poetry. lu- 
telleetually, he was symmetrically developed. His ex- 
pedition to the Cape of Good Hope, and his residence 
there four years, at his own expense, for a purely scien- 
tific object, shows the extent of his devotion to science. 
On his return, lie was covered with honorary distinc- 
tions. In refcreuce to the notion that scientific study 
leads to a doubt of the immortality of the sonl, he de- 
clares that the efl'ect on every well -constituted mind 
must be the direct contrary. Of the hexameter stanzas 
we quote, the first was made in a dream in 1S41, and 
written down immediately on wakiug. 



THROW THYSELF ON THY GOD. 

Throw thy.self on thy God, 

Xor mock him with feeble denial; 

Sure of his love, and oh! 

Sure of bis mercy at last ; 

Bitter anil ilee]i tbongh the draught, 

Y'et slinu not tbo cnp of thj- trial, 

But in its healing effect, 

Smile at its bitterness jiast. 

Pray for that holier cnp 

While sweet with bitter lies blending, 

Tears in the cheerful eye, 

Smiles on the sorrowing check, 

Death expiring in life, 

When the long-drawn struggle is eudin 

Triumph and joy to the strong, 

Strength to the weary and weak. 



f)cu) ^iuslic. 

Ainslie (1792-1878) was a native of tlie parish ofDailly, 
Ayrshire. He was for a time the amanuensis of Dugald 
Stewart. In 1833, liaving married, he set sail for New 
York, tried farming, then bad some experience with Rob- 
ert Owen's community at New Harmony, lud., then tried 
the occupation of a brewer, then that of superintending 
the erection of mills and factories in the Western States. 
He finally (1837) settled in Louisville, Ky., where, his 
son getting into prosperous circumstances, the old man 
was enabled to devote himself to literary pursuits the 
rest of his life. His volume of " Scottish Songs, Ballads, 
aud Poems" was published by Redfleld, New York, in 
18.55. Ainslie was a poet from his youth, and in some 
of his productions exhibits much of the spirit of Burns. 



He lived to his eighty -sixth year, and his death was 
caused by a severe shock from falliug. 



SIGHINGS FOR THE SEA-SIDE. 

At the stent o' my string, 

When a fourth of the earth 
Lay 'tweon me and Scotland — 

Dear laud o' my birth, — 
Wi' the richest of valleys, 

And waters as bright 
As the sun in midsummer 

Illumes wi' his light, — 
And surrounded wi' a' 

That the heart or the head, 
The body or the uiou' 

O' mortal could need, — 
I ha'e paused in sic plenty, 

Aud stuck in my track, 
As a tug frao my tether 

Would uiak' me look back, — 
Look back to auld hills 

In their red heather bloom, 
To glens wi' their buruics, 

And hillocks o' broom, — 
To some loup iu our loch, 

Whar the wave gaes to sleep. 
Or the black craggy headlands 

That bulwark the deep ; — 
Wi' the sea lashing in 

Wi' the wind and the tide — 
Ay, 'twas then that I sickened, 

'Twas then that I cried : — 

O! gie me a sough o' tlie auld saut sea, 

A scent o' his brine again. 
To stiffen the wilt that this wilderness 

Has brought on this breast and brain. 

Let rao hear his roar on the rocky shore, 

His thud on the shelly sand ; 
For my spirit's bowed, and my heart is dowcd, 

Wi' the gloom o' this forest land. 

Your sweeping floods an' yonr waving woods 

Look brave in the suns o' June ; 
But the breath o' the swamp brews a sickly damp. 

And there's death iu the dark lagoon. 

Ay, gio mo the jaup o' the dear auld saut, 

A scent o' his brine again ! 
To stiffen the wilt that this wilderness 

Has laid on this bosom and brain. 



44-2 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AM E RICA X FOETRT. 



THE INGLE-SIDE. 

It's rare to see the niorniug lilccze,' 

Like a boufire frae the sea ; 
It's fair to see tbe bmuie'' kiss 

The lip o' the flowery lea ; 
All' fine it is on green hill-side, 

Where hums the hiuny bee ; 
But rarer, fairer, finer fair. 

Is the iugle-side to me. 

Glens may be gilt Tvi' gowans rare. 

The birds may fill the tree. 
An' hauglis' ha'e a' the scented ware 

That simmer's growth can gie ; 
But the cantie hearth, where cronies meet, 

An' the darling o' our e'e. 
That makes to us a warld complete, — 

Oh. the iucrle-side's for me! 



3ol)u blister. 



Auster (1793-1807) was a native of Charlevillc, Irc- 
laud, and became Kegius Professor of Civil Law in Trin- 
ity College, Dublin. He publislicd "Pocras, with Trans- 
lations from the German," in 1819. His masterly trans- 
lation of "Faustus," from the German of Goethe, ap- 
peared in 1835. He contributed largely to Blackwood's 
Magazine and the Dublin University Magazine. 



THE FAIRY CHILD. 

The womnn iu whose chariicter these lines are written sup- 
poses her child stolen by a fairy. I need not mention how 
prevalent the superstition was amonj^ the peasantry which at- 
tributed instances of sudden dealh to the agency of these 

spirits. 

The summer sun was sinking 

With a mild light, calm and mellow ; 
It shone ou my little boy's bonny cheeks, 

And his loose locks of yellow; 
The robin was singing sweetly. 

And his song was sad and tender ; 
-\.nd my little boy's eyes, while he heard the soug. 

Smiled with a sweet, soft splendor. 

My little boy lay ou my bosom. 

While his soul the song was quaffing; 

Tlie joy of his soul had tinged his cheek, 
And his heart and his eye were laughing. 



I DIaze. 



' Stream. 



5 Valleys. 



I sat alone in my cottage, 

The midnight needle plying ; 
I feared for my child, for the rush's light 

In the socket now Tvas dying ! 

There came a hand to my lonely latch. 

Like the wind at midnight moaning : 
I knelt to pray, but rose again, 

For I heard my little boy groaning ; 
I crossed my brow, and I crossed my breast. 

But that night my child departed — • 
They left a weakling in his stead. 

And I ara broken-hearted ! 

Oh, it cannot be my own sweet boy. 

For his eyes are dim and hollow; 
My little boy is gone — is gone. 

And his mother soon will follow! 
The dirge for the dead will be sung for me, 

And the mass he chanted meetly ; 
And I shall sleep with my little boy. 

In the moonlight church-yard sweetly. 



THE DAYS OF YOUTH. 

From the "Prelcde to Faustcs," 

Give me, oh give me back the days 

When I — I too — was young — 

And felt, as they uow feel, each coming hour 

New consciousness of power. 

Oh, happy, happy time, above all praise I 

Then thoughts ou thoughts and crowding fancies 

sprung. 
And found a language in unbidden lays — 
Unintermitted streams from fountains ever flowing. 
Tlien, as I wandered free. 
In every field for me 

Its tlionsand flowers were blowing! 
A veil through which I did not see, 
A thin veil o'er the world was thrown — 
In every bud a mystery, 
Magic in everything unknown : — 
The fields, the grove, the air was haunted, 
And all that age has disenchanted I 
Yes! give me — give me back the days of youth, 
Poor, yet how rich '. — my glad inheritance 
The inextiugnish.able love of truth, 
While life's realities were all romance — 
Give me, oh give youth's passions uncoiifined. 
The rush of joy that felt almost like pain, 
Its hate, its love, its own tunuiltnons mind ; — 
Give mo my youth again ! 



JOHN ANSTEE.—JOEN NEAL. 



443 



THE SOUL OF ELOQUENCE. 

Tbanslation from Goethe's " Facstus." 

How sliall we learn to sway the miuds of men 
By eloquence ? to rule them ? to persuade ? 
Do you seek genuine and wortliy fomc ? 
Reason and honest feeling want no arts 
Of utterance, ask no toil of elocution ! 

And when you speak in earnest, do you need 
A search for words ? Oh, these fine holiday phrases 
In which you rohe yonr ■worn-out commonplaces, — 
These scraps of paper which you crimp and curl, 
And twist into a thousand idle sliapes, — 
These filagree ornaments, — are good for nothing ! 
Cost time and pains, jilease few, impose on no one ; 
Are uurefreshing as the wind that whistles 
lu autumn 'mong the dry and wrinkled leaves. 

If feeling does not prompt, in vain you strive : 
If from the soul the langnago does not come. 
By its own impulse, to impel the hearts 
Of hearers with communicated power, — 
In vain you strive, in vain you study earnestly. 
Toil on forever, piece together fragments. 
Cook up your broken scraps of sentences. 
And blow, with puffing breath, a struggling light, 
Glimmering confusedly now, now cold in ashes — 
Startle the school-boys with your metaphors — 
And, if such food may suit your appetite, 
Win the vain wonder of applauding children ! 
But never hope to stir the hearts of men. 
And mould the souls of many into one. 
By words which come not native from the heart. 



iFoljn ^'cal 



Xeal (1793-1870) was a native of Portland, Maine. 
From his "Autobiography" (1869), written at the sug- 
gestion of tlie poet Longfellow, we learn that he was of 
Quaker descent, and could trace back bis ancestry to 
the time of George Fox, He bad a twin-sister, Rachel. 
"At the age of twelve," he says, "my education was 
completed. I never went to school another day." 
Thenceforth he was self-iusti-ucted. Quitting the re- 
tail shop where he had been placed as a boy, lie taught 
drawing and penmanship for awhile; then became a 
drj'-goods jobber successively in Boston, New York, and 
Baltimore, in the latter city going into partnership with 
the poet Picrpont. Failing in business (1S1.5), he stud- 
ied law ; then tried literature, publishing (1817) his novel 
of "Keep Cool," "Goldau, and other Poems," "Otho: 
a Tragedy," besides supplying editorial matter for the 
Baltimore Tdi'fjraph. He wrote with great rapidity, and 
liccame one of the most voluminous of American au- 
thors. His novels "Seventy-six" and "Logan" were 



republished in London. Of his poetry he himself says, 
"It is disfigured by extravagance, and overloaded with 
imagery;" and ho tells us that be got the sobriquet of 
"John O'Cataract" because of his impetuosity, his fiery 
temper, and his Irish name. 

In 1824 Neal went to England, became domiciled with 
Jeremy Bentbam, and wrote ior Blackimod' s 2Ingazine up 
to 1836, when he returned to Portland. Hfcrc he opened 
a law-oflice, but in 1838 started The Yankee, a weekly pa- 
per, which he edited a year or two with much vigor. Of 
his contributions to magazines and reviews, it may be 
said their name is legion. At one time, by way of vari- 
ety, he gave lessons in span-ing and fencing, for he was 
an accomplished athlete. When eighty-two years old, 
being in a horse-car with some old gentlemen, they were 
insulted by a robust, ruffianly fellow, whereupon Neal 
grappled him, and pitched him out of the car. A firm 
friend, and a somewhat tenacious enemy, Neal was re- 
membered as a warm-hearted, honorable man, and a de- 
lightful companion. 



GOLDAU. 

A small villajie of the same name in the valley of Goldau, 
Switzerland, was entirely destroyed, along with some adjoiuiiig 
villages, September 2d, 1S06, by a landslip of the Rossberg, 
which then took place, aud which also couverted this once 
beantifnl valley into a scene of desolation, covering it with 
enonnous rocks nud other debris. Upward of four hundred and 
lif.y human beiugs were killed, one hundred and eleven houses 
destroyed, and whole herds of c.nttle swei)t away. The portion 
uf the mountain that fell was about three miles long, a thou- 
sand feet broad, aud a hundred feel thick. 

Switzerland! my country! 'tis to thee 

1 strike luy harp iu agony : — 
My country ! nurse of Liberty ! 
Home of the gallant, great, and free, 
My sullen harp I strike to thee. 

Oh ! I have lost you all ! 
Parents, and home, and friends : 

Ye sleep beneath a mountain p.all, 
A mountain's plumage o'er you bends. 
The clift"-yew of funereal gloom. 
Is now the only mourning plume 
That nods above a people's tomb. 
Of the echoes that swim o'er thy bright Ijlue lake. 
And, deep in its caverns, their merry bells shake. 

And rei)eat the young huntsman's cry: — • 
That clatter and laugh when the goatherds take 
Their browsing flocks, at the morning's break. 
Far over the hills, — not one is awake 
In tlie swell of thy peaceable sky. 
They sit on that wave with a motionless wing, 
Aud their cymbals are mute ; aud the desert birds 

sing 
Their unanswered notes to the wave and the sky, 
Ouo startling and sudden, unchangeable cry — 
As they stoop their broad wiug, and go sluggishly by : 



444 



CYCLOr^DIA OF BlilTISH AXD AMEllICAX POETRY. 



For deep iu that blue-bosomed water is laid 

As iuuoceut, true, aud lovely a maid 

As ever iu cbeerfuluess carolled her song 

In the blithe mountain air as she bounded along. — 

The heaveus are all blue, aud the billow's bright 

verge 
Is frothily laved by a whispering surge, 
That heaves iucessaut, a trauquil dirge, 

To lull the pale forms that sleep below ; 

Forms that rock as the waters flow. 
That bright lake is still as a liquid sky, 
Aud when o'er its bosom the swift clouds fly, 
They pass like thoughts o'er a clear blue eye ! 
The fringe of thiu foam that their sepulchre binds. 
Is as light as a cloud that is borne by the wiuds; 
While over its bosom the dim vapors hover. 
And flutterless skims the snowy-winged plover : 
Swiftly passing away — like a haunted wing ; 
With a drooping plume, that may not fliug 
One sound of life, or a rustling note, 
O'cv that sleepless tomb, where my loved ones 

float. 
Oh! cool and fresh is that bright blue lake. 
While over its stillness no sounds awake ; 
No sights but those of the hill-top fountain 
That swims on the height of a cloud- wrapped 
mountain, 

The basin of the rainbow stream, 

The sunset gush, the moruiug gleam, 

The picture of the poet's dream. 

Laud of proud hearts, where freedom broods 
Amid her home of echoing woods. 
The mother of the mountain floods, — 

Dark, Goldau, is thy vale ! 

The spirits of Kigi shall wail 

On their cloud-bosomed deep, as they sail 
In mist where thy childreu are lying : 
As their thunders once paused iu their headlong 

descent, 
Aud delayed their discharge, while thy desert was 
rent 

With the cries of thy sons who were dying. 

No chariots of fire on the clouds careered ; 

No warrior-arm, with its falchion reared : 
No death-angel's trump o'er the ocean was blown ; 
No mantle of wrath o'er the beaveu was thrown ; 
No armies of light, with their banners of flame. 
Or neighing steeds, through the suuset came. 

Or leaping from space appeared ! 
No earthquakes reeled, no Thunderer stormed ; 
No fetterless dead o'er the bright sky swarmed ; 
No voices in heaven were heard ! 



But the hour when the sun iu his pride went down, 

While his parting hung rich o'er the world, — 
While abroad o'er the sky his flush mantle was 
blown. 
And his red-rushing streamers uufurled, — 
An everlasting hill was torn 
From its perpetual base, and borne. 
In gold aud crimson vapors dressed. 
To where a peoiile are at rest ! 
Slowly it came in its mountain wrath, 
And the forests vanished before its path ; 
And the rude cliffs bowed, and the waters fled, 
Aud the living were buried, while over their head 
They heard the full march of the foe as he sped, 
Aud the valley of life was the tomb of the dead ! 
The clouds were all bright ; no lightnings flew ; 
Aud over that valley no death-blast blew : 
No storm passed by on his cloudy wing ; 
No twang was heard from the sky-archer's string; 
But the dark old hill iu its strength came down. 
While the shedding of day on its summit was thrown, 
A glory all light, like a wind-wreathed crown ; 
While the tame bird flew to the vulture's nest, 
Aud the vulture forbore in that hour to molest. 

The monutain sepulchre of all I loved ! 
The village sank — and the monarch trees 
Leaned back from the encountering breeze. 
While this tremendous iiageant moved ! 
The mountain forsook his perpetual thi'oue. 
Came down from his rock, and his path is shown 
In barrenness and ruin, where 
The secret of his power lies bai-e : 
His rocks iu nakedness arise, 
His desolation mocks the skies ! 

Sweet vale, Goldau, farewell ! 

An Alpine monument may dwell 

Upon thy bosom, O my home ! 
The mountain, thy pall aud thj- prison, may keeji 

thee, 
I shall see thee no more, but till death I will weep 

thee ; 
Of thy blue lake will dream, wherever I roam, 
And wish myself wrapped iu its peaceful foam. 



tjcnvj) Jratuis i!i)tc. 

Lyto (1T93-1847) was a native of Ednam, Scotland, 
where the poet Tliomson was born. He entered Trinity 
College, Dublin, and carried off on three occasions the 
prize for English poetry. He studied for the ministry, 
and, after some changes, settled as a clergyman at Brix- 
ham, Devonsliirc. Here he ial)ored successfully for tweu- 



EEXUT FEAXCIS LYTE.— NATHANIEL LANGDON FKOTHINGHAM. 



445 



ty years, aud composed most of his Iiymns. His health 
failing, he went to Nice, where he died. His noble hymn, 
"Abide with Me," was written in 1847, in view of his 
approaching departure from earth. It was the last, as 
it was the best, of his productions. 



HYMN: "ABIDE WITH ME." 

Abide ■u'ith me! fast falls the cvcu-tide ; 
The darkness deepens ; Lord, -with mo abide ! 
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, 
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me ! 

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day; 
Earth's joys grow dim; its glories pass away; 
Change and decay iu all around I see ; 

thou, who changest not, abide with me! 

Not a brief glance I beg, a imssiug word ; 
But as thou dwell'st ■\Tith thy disciples, Lord, 
Familiar, condescending, iiatient, free. 
Come, not to sojourn, but abide, with me! 

Come not in terrors as the King of kings ; 
But kind and good, with healing iu thy wings ; 
Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea ; 
Come, Frieud of siuuers, thus abide with me ! 

Thou on my head in early youth didst smile ; 
And, though rebellious and perverse meanwhile. 
Thou hast not left me, oft as I left thee. 
On to the close, O" Lord, abide with me ! 

1 need thy presence every passing hour : 

Wliat but thy grace can foil the tempter's power? 
Who like thyself my guide and stay can be ? 
Through cloud aud sunshine, oh, abide with me ! 

I fear no foe, with thee at hand to bless : 
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness : 
Where is Death's sting ? where, Grave, thy victory ? 
I triumph still, if thou abide with mc ? 

Hold, then, thy cro.ss before my closing eyes! 
Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies! 
Heaven's morning breaks, aud Earth's vain shadows 

flee ; 
In life and death, O Lord, abide with me! 



FROM LINES ON "EVENING." 

Sweet evening hour! sweet evening hour! 
That calms the air, and shuts the flower ; 



That brings the wild bird to her nest, 
The infant to its mother's breast. 

Sweet hour! that bids the laborer cease, 
That gives the weary team release. 
That leads them home, aud crowns them there 
With rest and shelter, food and care.' 

Oh season of soft sounds and hues, 
Of twilight walks among the dews, 
Of feelings calm, and converse sweet, 
Aud thoughts too shadowy to repeat! 

Yes, lovely hour ! thou art the time 
When feelings flow, aud wishes climb ; 
When timid souls begin to dare, 
Aud God receives and answers prayer. 

Then, as the earth recedes from sight. 
Heaven .seems to ope her fields of light, 
And call the fettered soul above 
From sin aud grief, to peace and love. 

Who has not felt that Evening's hour 
Draws forth devotion's tenderest iiowev; 
That guardian spirits round us stand, 
Aud God himself seems most at hand ? 

Sweet hour ! for heavenly musing made — 
When Isaac walked, and Daniel prayed; 
When Abram's oifering God did owu, 
Aud Jesus loved to be alone ! 



^atl)anicl Caugiion Jrotljingljam. 

AMERICAN. 

A native of Boston, and a graduate of Harvard, Froth- 
ingham (1793-1870) studied for the ministr.v, and was set- 
tled over a parish in Boston several years. He publislied 
some execUent translations from the German, and made 
several visits to Europe. The latter part of his life he 
became blind ; and he pathetically alludes, in tlie poem 
we quote, to the fact that tlie blind, when they dream, 
have no sense of their deprivation. His son, Octavius 
Brooks Frothingham (born in Boston, 1833), is a clergy- 
man of the liberal school, aud tlie author of some ap- 
proved hymns. 



THE SIGHT OF THE BLIND. 

"I always see iu dreams," she said, 
"Nor then believe that I am blind." 
That simple thought a shadowy pleasure shed 
Within my mind. 



44G 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



In a like doom, the nights afford 
A like display of mercy done : 
How oft I've dreamed of sight as full restored ! 
Not ouce as gone. 

Restored as with .a flash ! I gaze 
Ou open books with letters plain ; 
And scenes and faces of the dearer days 
Are bright again. 

O sleep ! in i)ity thou art made 
A double boon to snch as we : 
Beneath closed lids and folds of deepest shade 
We think we see. 

O rrovidenco ! when all is dark 
Around our steps aud o'er thy will, 
The mercy-seat that hides the covenaut-.ark 
H.1S angels still. 

Thou who art light ! illume the page 
Within ; renew these respites sweet, 
Aud show, beyond the films aud wear of age. 
Both walk and seat. 



O GOTT, DU FROMMEK GOTT ! 
From the Gebman of Johann Heehman, 1630. 

O God, thou faithful God! 

Thou well-spring of all blessing ! 
In whom wo all exist, 

From whom we're all jiossessiug ; — 
Give mo a body sound; 

And in it, builded well, 
Let an unblemished soul 

And a good conscience dwell. 

Aflord me will and strength 

To do the work assigned me, 
Whereto, in my true place. 

Thy law may call and find me. 
Let it bo timely done. 

With eager re.idiness; 
And what is done in thee 

Have ever good success. 

Help mo to sjieak but that 

Wliich I can stand maintaining. 

And banish from my lips 

Tlie word that's coarse and staining ; 

And when the duty comes 
To speak with earnest stress. 



Then grant the needed force 
Unmixed with bitterness. 

Wlien trouble shall break in, 

Let me not turn dcspairer ; 
But give a steadfast heart, 

Aud make me a cross-bearer. 
When help aud comfort fail. 

Send to my side the Frieud, 
Who, closer than a brother, 

Shall w.ateh the sorrow's end. 



lUilliam illacjiun. 

Maginu (1703-1S43), the "Odoherty" of B!ackwooiVs 
Maqazim; from 181!) to 183S, was a native of Corlc. lie 
received tlic degree of LL.D. in his twenty-fourth year. 
There was much scholarly wit and satirical power in 
his writings ; but his literary career was irregular, and 
his intemperate habits mnde it a failure. Ho was otten 
arrested, and lodged in jail. He was one of the chief 
supporters of Fmser's Magazine (1830), and for a time 
co-editor of the Standard newspaper. In 1838 he com- 
menced a series of Homeric ballads in IHackwood' s Maga- 
zine. He was also distinguished as a Shakspeariau critic. 



THE IRISHMAN. 
I. 
There was a l.ady lived at Leith, 

A lady very stylish, man ; 
And yet, in spite of all her teeth, 
She fell in love with an Irishman — 
A nasty, uglj' Irishman — 
A wild, tremendous Irishman — 
A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, 
roaring Irishman ! 

II. 

Ilis face was noways beautiful, 

For with small-pox 'twas scarred across ; 
And the shoulders of the ugly dog 
Were almost double a yard across. 
Oh, the lump of an Irishman — 
The whiskey-devouring Irishman — 
The gre.at he-rogue, with his wonderful brogue — 
the fighting, rioting Irishman ! 



One of his eyes was bottle-green. 

And the other eye was out, mj' dear ; 

And the calves of his wicked-looking legs 
Were more than two feet about, my dear ! 



WILLI Ail MAGIXN.— FELICIA HEMANS. 



447 



Oh, tbe great big Iiisbnian — 
The rattling, hattliug Irisbmau — 
The stamping, ramiiiug, swaggering, staggerini; 
leathering swash of an Irishman ! 



He took so much of Lundy-foot 

Tliat he used to snort and snuffle, ; 
And in shape and size the fellow's neck 
Was as broad as the neck of a buifalo. 
Oh, the horrible Irishman — 
The thundering, blundering Irishman — 
The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, 
hashing Irishman ! 



His name was a terrible name indeed. 

Being Timothy Thady Mulligan ; 
And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch. 
He'd not rest till ho fillod it full again. 
The boozing, bruising Ii'ishman — 
The 'toxicated Irisliman — 
The whiskey, friskj-, rummy, gummy, brandy, no 
dandy Irishman ! 



This was the lad the lady loved, 

Like all the girls of quality ; 
And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith, 
Just by the way of jollity. 
Oh, the leathering Irishman — 
The barbarous, savage Irishman — 
The hearts of the maids and the gentlemen's heads 
were bothered, I'm sure, \>y this Irishman. 



JcUtia tjcmans. 



Felicia Dorothea Browne was the maiden name of Mrs. 
Hemans. She was born in Liverpool, September 25th, 
179.3, and died May 16th, 1835, aged forty-one. Her fa- 
ther, who was a merchant, havinu; experienced some re- 
verses in business, removed his family to Wales. In 1813 
she married Captain Hemans, hut the union was not a 
happy one: hi 1818 he went to Italy, and they never met 
atjain. Mrs. Hemans remained in Wales, her time being 
fully occupied by her poetical labors and the education 
of her five boys. Ill health, however, pressed upon her. 
and she prematurely experienced decay of the springs of 
life. She died at the house other brother, Major Browne, 
in Dublin. She had begun to publish her poetry as early 
as her liftecntli year. She wrote several long poems of 
merit, and " The Vespers of Palermo," a tr.inedy ; but it 
is in her short lyrical pieces that she is liappiest. Some 
of these compare not unfavorably with the best in the 



language. It has been the fashion among youthful crit- 
ics of late to undervalue her productions ; but not a few 
of these have a charm, a tenderness, and a spirit which 
must make them long dear to the hearts of the many. 
Over the grave where her mortal remains were deposited 
were inscribed these lines, from one of her own poems : 

"Calm on the bosom of thy God, 

Fair spirit, rest thee uow ! ' " 

Eveu while with us thy footsteps trod, 
His seal was on thy brow. 

*'Dnst to its narrow honse beneath ! 
Stall to its place on high ! 
They that have seen thy look in death 
Wo more may fear to die." 

The complete works of Mrs. Hemans, with a memoir by 
her sister, were published in sis volumes. 



THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 

They grew in beauty side by side, 

They filled one homo with glee; 
Their graves are severed far and wide 

By mount, and stream, and sea. 
The same fond mother beut at night 

O'er each fair sleeping brow ; 
She had each folded flower in sight — 

Where are those dreamers uow ? 

One 'mid the forests of the West, 

By ii dark stream is laid ; 
The Indian knows his place of rest, 

Far in the cedar shade, 
Tlie sea, the blue lone sea, hath one — 

He lies where jjearls lie deep ; 
He was the loved of all, yet none 

O'er his low bed may weep. 

One sleeps where southern vines are dressed 

Above the noble slain ; 
He wrapped his colors round his breast 

On a blood-red field of Spain. 
And one — o'er Ler the myrtle showers 

Its leaves, by .soft winds fanned ; 
She faded 'mid Italian flowers. 

The last of that bright band. 

And, parted thus, they rest who played 

Beneath the same green tree, 
Whose voices mingled as they prayed 

Around one parent-knee ! 
The}' that with smiles lit np the hall, 

And cheered with song the hearth, — 
Alas for love, if thou wert all, 

And naught beyond, O Earth ! 



448 



CYCLOPMDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAX POETRY. 



THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 

The breaking waves dasbed high 

On a steru and rock-bound coast, 
And the woods against a stormy sky 

Tlieir giant braucUes tossed ; 
And tlie heavy night hung dark 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

Ou the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror conies, 

The}", the trne-heartcd, came ; — 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums. 

And the trnnipet that sings of fame; — 
Not as the Hying come — 

In silence and in fear ; — 
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amid the storm they sang. 

Till the stars heard, and the sea ; 
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 

To the anthem of the free. 
The ocean-eagle soared 

From bis nest by the white wave's foam. 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared : — 

Such was their welcome home. 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amid that pilgrim band : 
Why had tbcy come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood's land ? 
There was woman's fearless eye. 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high. 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought Ihey thus afar? 
Bright jewels of the mine ? 

The wealth of seas ? the spoils of war 1 — 
No — 'twas a faith's p\ire shrine. 

Yes, call that holy ground, 

Which first their brave feet trod ! 

They have left unstained what there they found- 
Freedom to worship God ! 



That past the reach of human sight 
As a swift breeze hath flown ? 

And the stars answered me : " We roll 
In light and iiower ou high ; 

But of the never-dying soul 
Ask that which caunot die." 

Oh, mauy-toued aud cliaiuless wind. 

Thou art a wanderer free ; 
Tell me if thou its place canst find 

Far over mount and sea. 
Aud the wind murmured in reply: 

" The blue deep I have crossed, 
Aud met its barks aud billows higli. 

But not what thou hast lost." 

Vc clouds, that gorgeously repose 

Around the setting sun, 
Answer : have ye a home for those 

Whose earthly race is run ? 
The bright clouds answered: "We depart, 

We vanish from the sky ; 
Ask what is deathless in thy lieart 

For that which cannot die." 

Speak, then, thou voice of God within. 

Thou of the deep, low tone ! 
Answer me through life's restless din — 

Where is the spirit flown ? 
And the voice answered : " Be thou still ! 

Enough to know is given : 
Clouds, winds, and stars their part fulfil ; 

Thine is to trust in Heaven." 



THE HOME OF THE SPIRIT. 

Answer mo, burning stars of night : 
Where is the spirit gone 



CASABIANCA. 

Casjvbiauca, thirteen years old, son to the Admiral of Ihc Ori- 
ent^ remained at his jiost (in the battle of the Nile) after the 
ship had t.aken fire and all the guns had been abandoned ; and 
perished in the esptesiou of the vessel, when the flames had 
reached the powder. 

The boy stood ou the burning deck. 
Whence all but him had fled ; 

The flame that lit the battle's wreck 
Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm, — 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A in'oud, though childlike, form. 

The flames rolled on — ho would not go 
Without his father's word ; 



FELICIA EEMAX^S. 



449 



TLat father, faint iu ileatli below, 
His voice uo louger heard. 

He called aloud : — " Say, father, say 

If yet iny task is doue !" 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

"Speak, father !" oucc again he cried, 

" If I may yet he gouo !" 
Anil but the booming shots replied. 

And fast the ilames rolled on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath, 

And iu his waving hair. 
And looked from that lone post of death 

In still yet brave despair ; 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

"My father, must I stay?" 
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud. 

The wreathing tires uiadc way. 

They wrapped the ship in splendor wild, 

Tbey caught the flag on high, 
And streamed above the gallant child 

Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thnuder-sound — 

The boy — oil, where was he ? 
Ask of the winds that far around 

With fragments strewed the sea! — 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
TUat well had borne their part — 

But tlie noblest thing tliat perished there 
Was that young faithful heart! 



SONNET ON GEASJUERE. 

Wordsworth said to Mrs. Heniftiis : "1 would not give np the 
mists'that spiritualize our monutaius for all the blue skies of 
Ital}'." !?he seems to have shared iu his admiration of the 
sceuery about Grasmcre. 

vale and lake, within your mountain urn. 
Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep! 
Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return. 
Coloring the tender shadow of my sleep 
With light Elysian ; — for the hues that steep 
Your shores in melting lustre seem to float 
On golden clouds from spirit-lands remote, 
Isles of the blessed; — and in our memory keep 
29 



Their place with holiest Iiarmouies. Fair scene. 
Most loved by evening and her dewy star! 
Oh! ne'er may man, with touch nnliallowed, jar 
The perfect music of the charm serene ! 
Still, still unchanged, m.ay one sweet region wear 
Smiles that subdue the soul to love and tears and 



THE MESSENGER-BIRD. 

Some of the Brazilians pay veueration to a bird that sings 
monrufully in the uight-time. They say it is a messenger 
which their friends and relations have sent, and that it brings 
them news from the other world. — See Pioart's Ccremomes ami 
lieliijious Customs. 

Thon art come from the spirits' land, tliou bird; 

TUou art come from the spirits' land ! 
Through the dark pine-groves let thy voice be heard. 

And tell of the shadowy baud ! 

We Icnow that the bowers are green and fair 
In the liglit of that summer shore ; 

And we know th.at the friends we have lost are there. 
They are there — .and they weep no more ! 

And we know they have quenched their fever's thirst 
From the Fountain of Youth ere now. 

For there must the stream in its freshness burst 
Wliieh noue may find below ! 

And we know that they will not be lured to earth 
From the land of deathless flowers, 

By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth, 
Though their hearts were ouce with ours ; 

Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze, 

And bent with us the bow, 
And heard tlie tales of our fathers' days 

Which are told to others now ! 

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain, 

Can those who have loved forget ? 
We call, and they answer not again : 

Do they love — do they love us yet ? 

Doth the warrior think of his brother there. 

And the father of his child ? 
And the chief of those that were wont to share 

His wandering through the wild ? 

We call them far through the silent night, 
And they speak not from cave or hill : 

We know, thon bird, that tlieir land is bright ; 
But say, do they love there still? 



450 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BKITISB AND AMEIilCAX POETRY. 



LEAVE ME NOT YET. 

Leave me not yet — tliroiigb rosy skies from far, 
But now tbo song-birds to tlicir nest I'eturn ; 

The quivering image of the first jiale star 
On the dim lake yet scarce begins to burn : 
Leave me not yet ! 

Not yet ! — oh, hark ! low tones from hidden streams. 
Piercing the shivery leaves, e'en now arise ; 

Their voices mingle not with daylight dreams, 
They are of vesper hymns and harmonies ; 
Leave me not yet ! 

My thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear 
love ! 
By day shut np in their own still recess, 
They wait for dews on earth, for stars above. 
Then to breathe out their soul of tenderuess : 
Leave me not vet ! 



EVENING SONG OF THE TYEOLESE 
PEASANTS. 

Come to the sunset tree ! 

The day is past and gone ; 
The woodman's axe lies free, 

And the reaper's work is done. 

The twilight star to heaven, 

Aud the summer dew to flowers. 

And rest to us is given 

By the cool soft evening hours. 

Sweet is the hour of rest ! 

Pleasant the wind's low sigh, 
Aud the gleaming of the west. 

And tlie turf whereon we lie. 

Wlieu the burden and the heat 

Of labor's task are o'er, 
Aud kindly voices greet. 

The tired one at his door. 

Come to the sunset tree ! 

The day is past aud gone ; 
The woodman's axe lies free. 

And tlie reajier's work is done. 

Yes; tuneful is the sound 

That dwells in whispering boughs ; 



Welcome the freshness round, 

And the gale that fans our brows. 

But rest more sweet and still 
Than ever nightfall gave, 

Our longing hearts shall fill 

In the world beyond the grave. 

There shall no tempest blow. 
No scorching noontide heat ; 

There shall be no more snow, 
No weary wandering feet. 

Aud we lift our trusting eyes. 
From the hills our fathers trod. 

To the quiet of the skies. 
To the Sabbath of our God. 

Come to the sunset tree ! 

The day is past and gone ; 
The woodman's axe lies free, 

And the reaper's work is done ! 



HYMN OF THE MOUNTAINEERS. 

For the strength of the hills we bless thee. 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 
Thou hast made thy children mighty 

By the touch of the mountain so<l. 
Thou hast fixed our ark of refuge 

Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God '. 

Wo are watchers of a beacon 

Whose light must never die ; 
We are guardians of an altar 

'Mid the silence of the sky: 
The rocks yield founts of courage, 

Struck forth as by thy rod — 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

For the dark, resounding caverns, 

Where thy still small voice is heard; 
For the strong pines of the forest. 

That by thy breath are stirred ; 
For the storms on whose free pinions 

Thy Spirit walks abroad — 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 



FELICIA HEMANS.—MnS. SAIIA3 A VSTIX. 



451 



The royal eagle dartetli 

Ou his quarry from the heights ; 
Aud the stag that knows no master, 

Seeks there his wild delights ; 
But we for thy communion 

Have sought the mountain sod — 
For the strength of the hills we liless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

The banner of the chieftain 

Far, far below us waves ; 
The war-horse of the spearman 

Cannot reach our lofty caves ; 
Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold 

Of Freedom's last abode : 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

For the shadow of thy presence 

Ronud our camp of rock outspread ; 
For the stern defiles of battle, 

Bearing record of onr dead ; 
For the snows, and for the torrents ; 

For the free heart's burial-sod — 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 



THE GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE. 

A Greek islander, being taken to the Vale of Tempe, and 
cnlled upon to ndmire its benutifnl scenery, replied, "Yes, all 
is fair; but tlie sea— where is the sea?" 

Where is the sea ? — I languish here — 

Where is my own blue sea ? 
With all its barks in fleet career, 

Aud flags aud breezes free I 

I miss that voice of waves — the first 

That woke my childish glee ; 
The measured chime — the thnudering burst — 

Where is my own blue sea f 

Oh ! rich your myrtles' breath may rise, 

Soft, soft your ■s^ inds may be ; 
Yet my sick heart within me dies — 

Where is my own blue sea ? 

I hear the shepherd's mountain flute, 

I hear the whispering tree ; 
The echoes of my soul are mnte — 

Where is mv own blue sea ? 



SUNDAY IN EXGLAXD. 

The following admirable sonnet, ijrtidnced by Mrs. Ilemans 
only abont three weeks before her death, was dictated to her 
brother. Major Browne, April 2Gth, 1S35. 

How many blessed groups this hour ^ro- bending 
Through England's primrose meadow-paths their 

way 
Toward spire aud tower, 'mid shadowy elms ascend- 
ing, 
Whence the sweet chimes iiroclaim the hallowed 

day; 
The halls, from old heroic ages gray. 
Pour their fair children forth ; and hamlets low, 
With whose thick orchard blooms the soft winds 

play, 
Seud out their inmates in a happy flow, 
Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread 
With them those pathways, — to the feverish bed 
Of sickness bound ; yet, O my God ! I bless 
Thy mercy, that \Yith Sabbath peace hath filled 
My chastened heart, aud all its throbbings stilled 
To oue deep calm of lowliest thankfulness. 



illvs. Soral) iTlustin. 

Mrs. Austin (1793-1867), daughter of William Taylor, 
of Norwich, England, was noted for her cletraut transla- 
tious from the German. She translated "The Story with- 
out an End," wrote "Characteristics of Goethe" (1833), 
etc. She was the friend of John Neal.who gives some 
account of her in his "Autobiography." Her daughter. 
Lady Duff Gordon, who died iu 18G'J, was also distin- 
guished as a translator. 



THE PASSAGE. 

From the German of Uhland. 

JIauy a year is iu its grave 
Since I crossed this restless wave ; 
And the evening, fair as ever, 
Shines on ruin, rock, and river. 

Then in this same boat beside 
Sat two comrades, trite aud tried ; 
Oue with all a father's truth. 
One with all the fire of youth. 

One on earth in silence wrought, 
And his grave in silence sought ; 
But the younger, brighter form 
Passed in battle and in storm. 



452 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF ElilTlSU AXD AiIEniCA}f POETRY. 



So Tvbeue'er I turn iniue eye 

Back iipou the days gone by, 

Saikleuing tliouglits of friends come o'er me, 

Friends ■who closed their course before me. 

Yet what binds ns friend to friend, 
Bnt that soul with sonl eau blend ? 
Sonl-lilio were those days of yore — 
Let us walli iu sonl once more ! 

Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee! — 

Take, I give it willingly — 

For, invisible to thee, 

Spirits twain have crossed with me. 



loljn (Elorc. 



Clare (1793-1S64) was a native of Hclpstone, Eng'.nnd. 
His parents were peasants — his father a helpless cripple 
end a pauper. John got some educ.ition by his own 
extra work as a ploughboy. At thirteen he hoarded up 
a shilling to buy a copy of Thomson's "Seasons." In 
1820 he published " Poems descriptive of Rural Life and 
Scenery, by John Clare, a Northaniptonsliire Peasant." 
The work was kindly received, and soon he was in pos- 
session of a little fortune. But his pirospcrity did not 
last. His discretion was not equal to his fortitude. He 
speculated iu farming, wasted his little hoard, sank into 
nervous despondency and despaii', and was finally placed 
in a lunatic asylum. He remained here about four years, 
and then effected bis escape. He was retaken, and wor- 
ried out twenty years more of his unfortunate life in 
confinement. He was a faithful painter of rustic scenes, 
and keenly sensitive to the beauties of nature. The last 
words of poor Clare, as be closed his mortal eyes for- 
ever, were, " I want to go home !" 



ON AN INFANT KILLED BY LIGHTNING. 

As fearless as a clieruVs rest. 

Now safe above the cloud, 
A babe lay on its mother's breast 

When thunders roared aloud : 
It started not to hear the crash, 

But lield its little hand 
Up, at tlie lightning's fearful flash. 

To catch the burning brand. 

The tender mother stayed her breath 

In more than grief awhile, 
To think the thing that brought its death 

Slionhl cause her babe to smile. 
Ay, it did smile a heavenly smile 

To sec the lightning play ; 



Well might she shriek when it turned pale, 
And yet It smiled iu clay ! 

O woman ! the dread storm was given 

To bo to each a friend ; 
It took thy infant pure to heaven. 

Left tliee impure, to mend. 
Thus Providence will oft appear 

From God's own mouth to preach : 
Ah ! would we were as prone to hear 

As Mercy is to teach ! 



THE THRUSH'S NEST: A SONNET.' 

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn-bush 
That overhung a mole-hill, large and round, 
I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush 
Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound 
With joy — and oft, an unintrudiug guest, 
I watched her secret toils from day to day; 
How true she warped the moss to form her nest, 
And modelled it within with wood and clay. 
And by-aud-by, like heath-bells gilt with dew. 
There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers, 
Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue : 
And there I witnessed, iu the summer lionrs, 
A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly. 
Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky. 



SPRING FLOWERS. 

Bowing adorers of the gale. 
Ye cowslips delicately pale. 

Upraise your loaded stems. 
Unfold your cups in splendor ; speak ! 
Who decked yoti with that ruddy streak, 

And gilt, your golden gems 1 

Violets, sweet tenants of tlie shade, 
In purple's richest pride arrayed, 

Your errand here fulfil ! 
Go, bid tlie artist's simple stain 
Your lustre imitate, in vain. 

And match your Maker's skill. 



1 Montgomery says of this sonnet : " Here we have in niiniji- 
turc the history and sico^raphy of a thrush's nest, so simply aud 
naturally set forth, that one might think such strains 

' No more difficile 
Thau for a blackbird 'tis to whistle.' 

But let the heartless critic who despises thorn try his own hand 
either at a hird's-uest or a sonnet like this." 



JOHN CLARE.— JOHN GIBSON LOCKBJUT. 



453 



Daisies, yc flowprs of lowly bii'tli, 
Kiiibroidurers of the carpet eartb, 

That stud tlio velvet sod ; 
Open to spring's refreshing air, — 
111 sweetest smiling bloom declare 

Yonr Maker and my God! 



LINES IN A LUCID INTERVAL. 

For twenty-two ye.ars Chtrc was the inmate of a huiatic asy- 
lum; and during that time not one of all his great or little 
friends (m- patrons ever visited him. He expresses his feelings 
at the neglect, in the following lines, written, it would seem, in 
a lucid interval. 

I am ! yet what I am w Iio cares, Or knows ? 

My friends forsake me like .1 memory lost. 
I am the self-consumer of my woes, 

They rise aud vanish, au oljlivious host, 
Shadows of life, whoso very soul is lost. 
And yet I am — I live — though 1 am tossed 

Into the nothingness of scorn anil noise. 
Into the living sea of waking dream. 

Where there is neither sense of life nor joj's, 
But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem 

And all that's dear. Evcu those I loved the best 

Are strange — nay, they are stranger than the rest. 

I long for scenes where man has never trod. 
For scenes where woman never smiled or wept; 

Tliere to abide with my creator, God, 

And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept 

Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie, 

The grass below ; above, the vaulted skj-. 



iJol)u (JMbsoii £oclil]avt. 

Loclihart (17'cH-1854), the son of a Gl.isgow minister, 
and tlie son-in-law and biograplier of Sir W'alter Scott, 
was born in the county of Lanark, Scotland, and was ed- 
ucated at Glasgow and Oxford. After a brief trial of the 
law, he devoted himself to literary pursuits ; wrote " Va- 
lerius," "Reginald Dalton," "Adam Blair," and other 
novels; also, some very spirited versions of Spanish bal- 
lads. He, moreover, contributed to JSlackivood's Mnrja- 
zine, aud edited the Quarierhj lieview from 1826 to 1853. 
Ill healtli and private calamities and bereavements d.trk- 
ened his latter days. His "Life of Scott" is one of tlie 
most interesting biographies in the language, hardly sur- 
passed by Boswell's "Life of Johnson." As a poet, be 
was versatile, and might have excelled had he made poe- 
try his exclusive tield. His "Captain Patou's Lament," 
published in Blackwood's Marjazine in 1819, is au admirable 
specimen of the humorous in elegy. Captain Paton was 
a well-kuown character in Glasgow, who died in 1807. 



CAPTAIN PATON'S LAMENT. 

Touch once more a sober measure. 

And let jiuuch aud tears be shed. 
For a prince of good old fellows. 

That, alack-a-day! is dead ; 
For a prince of worthy fellows, 

And a pretty man also, 
That has left the Saltmarket 

In sorrow, grief, aud woe. 
Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Patou 
no mo'e ! 

His waistcoat, coat, and breeches 

Were all cut off the same web, 
Of a beautiful snuff-color. 

Of a modest geuty drab ; 
The blue stripe in his stocking 

Eonud his ueat, slim leg did go, 
Aud his ruffles of the cambric fine. 

They were whiter thau the snow. 
Oh ! we ne'er .shall see the like of Captain Patou 
no nio'e ! 

His hair was curled in order. 

At the rising of the sun, 
In comelj' rows and buckles smart 

That about his ears did run ; 
And before there was a toupee. 

That some inches up did grow ; 
And behind there was a long queue. 

That did o'er his sluuilders flow. 
Oh ! we ne'er .shall see the like of Captain Patou 
no mo'e ! 

And whenever we foregathered, 

He took off his wee three-cockit. 
And he proffered you his snuffbox, 

Wliich he drew from his side-pocket ; 
Antl on Burdett or Bonaparte 

He wouhl make a, remark or so, 
And then along the plainstones 

Like a provost ho would go. 
Oh ! wo ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton 
no mo'e ! 

In dirty days he picked well 

His footsteps with his rattan : 
Oh, you ne'er could .see the least speck 

On the shoes of Captain Paton. 
And on entering the coffee-room 

About two, all men did know 



454 



CYCLOPEDIA OF SlilTISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Tliey ■nonltl see liiiu, with his Courier, 
111 the niiddk> of the row. 
Oh ! wo ne'er shall see the like of Captaiu Patou 
no mo'e ! 

Now and then npon a Sunday 

He iuvited me to diue 
On a herring and a mutton-chop, 

Which his maid dressed very fiue. 
There was also a little Malmsey, 

And a bottle of Bordeaux, 
Whicli between me and the captain 

Passed nimbly to and fro. 
Oil ! I ne'er shall take potluck with Captain Tuton 
uo mo'e ! 

Or, if a Ijoul was mentioned, 

The captaiu he would ring. 
And bid Nelly run to the Westport, 

And a stoup of water bring: 
Tlien would he mix the genuine stuff, 

As they made it long ago, 
With limes that on his property 

111 Trinidad did grow. 
Oh ! we ne'er shall taste the like of Captain Paton's 
punch no mo'e ! 

And then all the time he would discourse 

So sensible and courteous, 
Perhaps talking of the last sermon 

He had heard from Dr. Porteous ; 
Of some, little bit of scandal 

About Mrs. So-and-So, 
Wliieh ho scarce could credit, having heard 

The coil but not the 2>i'o ■' 
Oil ! we shall ne'er see the like of Captain Paten 
no mo'e ! 

Or, when tlie candles were brought fortli. 

And the night was fairly setting in, 
Ho would tell sonio fine old stories 

About Mindon-field or Dettiugen ; 
How he fouglit with a French major, 

And despatched him at a blow. 
While his blood ran out like water 

On the soft grass below! 
Oh ! wo ne'er shall hear the like from Captain Patou 



But at last the captain sickened, 
And grew worse from day to day ; 

And all missed him in the coffee-room, 
From which now he stayed away ; 



On Sabbaths, too, the Wynd kirk 

Made a melancholy show, 
All for wanting of the presence 
Of our venerable beau ! 
Ob ! wc ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton 
uo mo'e ! 

And, in spite of all that Clcghoru 

And Corkindale could do, 
It was plain, from twenty symptoms. 

That death was in his view ; 
So the captain made his test'meut. 

And submitted to his foe ; 
And we laid him by the Ram's-horn kirk — 

'Tis the way we all must go ! 
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton 



Join all in chorus, jolly boys, 

And let punch and tears be shed, 
For this prince of good old fellows, 

That, alack-a-day ! is dead : 
For this jirince of worthy fellows — 

And a jirctty man also — 
Tliat has left the Saltmarkct 

In sorrow, grief, and woe ! 
For it ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton uo 
mo'e ! 



BEYOND. 

When youthful faith hath fled, 

Of loving take thy leave ; 
Be constant to the dead, — 

The dead cannot deceive. 

Sweet, modest flowers of spring, 
How fleet your balmy day ! 

And mail's brief year can bring 
No secondary May, — 

No earthly burst again 
Of gladness out of gloom ; 

Fond hope and vision wane 
Ungrateful to the tomb. 

But 'tis an old belief 

That on some solemn shore. 

Beyond the sphere of grief. 

Dear friends shall meet once more, 

Beyond the sphere of time, 
And sin, aud fate's control, 



JOHN GIBSON LOCEHJIiT. 



455 



Serene in endless prime 
Of body and of soul. 

That creed I fain wonld keep, 
That hope I'll not forego ; 

Eternal be the sleep, 
Unless to wakeu so ! 



LAMENTATION FOR CELIN. 

From "Lockdaht's Spanish Ballads." 

At the gate of old Granada, 

When all its bolts are barred^ 
At twilight, at the Vega Gate — 

There is a trampling heard ; 
There is a trampling heard, 

As of horses treading slow, 
And a weejiing voice of women. 

And a heavy sound of woe. 
■' What tower is fallen ? what star is set ? 

What chief come these bewailing ?" 
'• A tower is fallen ! a star is set ! 

Alas, alas for Celiu !" 

Three times they knock, three times they cry. 

Anil wide the doors they throw ; 
Dejectedly they enter, 

And rnonrnfuUy they go ! 
In gloomy lines they mustering stand 

Beneath the hollow porch, 
Each horseman gi'aspiug in his hand 

A black and flaming toich. 
Wet is each eye as they go by, 

And all around is wailing ; 
For all have heard the niiseiy — 

"Alas, alas for C'elin !" 

Him yesterday a Moor did slay 

Of Bencerraje's Iilood : 
'Twas at the solemn jousting ; 

Around the nobles stood ; 
The nobles of the laud were by, 

And ladies bright and fiiir 
Looked from their latticed windows, 

The haughty sight to share. 
But now the nobles all lament, 

The ladies are bewailing ; 
For he was Granada's darling knight — 

'•Alas, alas for C'elin!" 

Before him ride his vassals, 
In order, two by two, 



With ashes on their turbans spread, 

Most pitiful to view; 
Behind him his four sisters, — 

Each wrapped in sable veil, — 
Between the tambour's dismal strokes. 

Take up the doleful tale : 
When stops the mutHed drum, ye hear 

Their brotherless bewailing ; 
And all the people, far and near, 

Cry, " Alas, alas for Celin !" 

Oh! lovely lies he on his bier, 

Above the purple pall, 
The flower of all Granada's youth, 

The loveliest of them all ; 
His dark, dark eye is closed, 

His rosy lip is pale, 
The crust of blood lies black and dim 

Upon his burnished mail ; 
And evermore the hoarse tambour 

Breaks in upon their wailing : 
Its sound is like no earthly sound — 

'•Alas, alas for Celin !" 

The Moorish maid at the lattice stands. 

The Moor stands at his door ; 
One maid is wringing of her hands. 

And one is weeping sore. 
Down to the dust men bow their heads. 

And ashes black they strew 
Upon their broidered garments 

Of crimson, green, and blue. 
Before each gate the bier stands still ; 

Then bursts the loud bewailing, 
From door and lattice, high and low, — 

"Alas, alas for C'elin!" 

An old, old woman cometh fortli, 

When she hears the people cry ; 
Her hair is white as silver. 

Like horn her glazed eye : 
'Twas she that nursed him at her breast, 

That nursed him long ago ; 
She knows not whom they all lament. 

But soon she well sh.all know ! 
With one deep shriek she through doth break, 

W^heu her ears receive their wailing : 
"Let me kiss my Celin ere I die! — 

Alas, alas for Celin !"' 

' Lockhart's tr.inelntions of ancient Spfinish ballnds, publisli- 
ed in liis 2Tlli year, are admirable specimens of highly skilful 
literary work. Some of Ihem are much superior to the origiuals 
iu the spirit and music of the versilicatiou, while the proper 
simplicity of the ballad form is always faithfully preserved. 



4oG 



CTCLUPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAX POETRY. 



i?oinc5 Sljtriban Hnoiulcs. 

Dramatist, poet, teacher, actor, and clergyman, Knowlcs 
(17SH-1S62) was a native of Cork, Ireland. Going to Lon- 
don, he made the acquaintance of Hazlitt, of whom he 
speaks as his "mental sire." Knowles produced the 
successful plaj-s of "William Tell," "Virginius," " Tlie 
Hunchback," "The Wife," etc. The success of "The 
Hunchback" in America led to the author's own visit; 
and he appeared on tlic stage in the principal cities of 
the United States in the part of Master Walter. He did 
not succeed either as an actor or lecturer, his Irish 
brogue often marring the effect of his elocution. We 
knew him well, having met him in Boston, Washington, 
and Philadelphia. From the latter city he sent us, while 
we were editing the Boston Atlas, Uie poem entitled "The 
Actor's Craft," wliich we first published, and have here 
quoted. Few copies of it, we believe, are in existence. 
How lar his views in regard to the stiige were modified 
when he returned to England and became a Baptist min- 
ister, we cannot say. His literary and dramatic merits 
are unquestionable. See the poem by Cliarlcs Lamb on 
his " Yirgiuius," in which Macready had a great success. 



FROM THE LAST ACT OF "VIRGINIUS." 
-Scene — Bouse of VinGixius. Present, Viugixius, 

NUMITORIUS, SeRVIA. 

Enter IciLius. 

Tiryinius. Come, come, make ready. Brotlier, yon 
mid lie 
Go ou before : I'll bring her after yon. 

Icilius. Ha ! 

\iimitoriiis. My leilins, what a sight is there ! 
Virginins' reason is a wreck, so stri|>ped, 
Si) broken by the ■wave and wind, you scarce 
Would know it wa.s the gallant bark you saw 
Riding so late in safety. 

Icil. {taking ViRGiNius'.s liand). Father, father ! 
Tliat ait no more a father ! 

Virij. Ha! what wet 

Is this upon my hand f a tear, boy ? Fie ! 
For shame ! Is that the weapon you •nould guard 
Your bride w ith ? First assay what steel can do. 

Xnm. Not a tear has blessed his eye since her 
death ! No wonder ! 
Tlie fever of his brain, that now bnrii.s ont. 
Has drunk the source of sorrow's torrent.s diy. 

/ci7. You would not have it otherwise ? 'Twas fit 
Tlie bolt that struck the sole remaining branch, 
And blasted it, should set the trunk on fire! 

.Yhhi. If wo could make him wi'cp — ■ 

Icil. I have that will make him, 
If aught will do it. 'Tis her urn. 'Twas that 
Which first drew tivars from me. I'll fetch it. But 
I cannot think you wi.se to wake a man 



Who's at the mercy of a tempest. Better 
Y'ou sutler him to sleep it through. [_Exit IciLics. 
Virg. Gather your friends together : tell them of 
Dentatus' murder. Screw the chord of rage 
To the topmost pitch. (Lauglts.) Mine own is not 

mine own I 
That's strange enough. Why docs he not dispute 
My right to my own flesh, and tell my heart 
Its blood is not its own ? He might as well. 
But I want my child. 

Enter Li'cics. 

Lucius. Justice will be defeated! 

Virg. Who says that 1 

He lies in the faec of the gods ! Slie is immntablo. 
Immaculate, and immortal. And, thongli all 
The guilty globe should blaze, she will spring up 
Through the fire, and soar above the crackling pile, 
With not a downy feather ruffled by 
Its fierceness ! 

Xum. He is not himself. What new 

Oppression comes to tell ns to our teeth 
We only mocked ourselves to think the days 
Of thraldom past ? 

Luc. The friends of Appins 

Beset the people with solicitations. 
The fickle crowd, tli.at change with every change, 
Begin to doubt and soften. Every moment 
That's lost, a friend is lost. Appear among 
Yonr friends, or lose them. 

Xum. Lucius, yon 

Remain and watch Virginins. 

lEiit.follou-ed Itij till lint Luciu.s and Servia. 

Virg. You remember, — 

Don't you, nurse ? 

Serria. What, Virginins? 

Virg. That she nursed 

Tlie cliild herself. Inquire among yonr gossips 
Which of them saw it; and, witli such of them 
As can avouch the fact, without delay 
Repair to the Forum. Will she come or not ? 
I'll call myself! Slie will not dare— 
Oh, when did my Virginia dare? Virginia! — 
Is it a voice, or nothing, answers me ? 
I hear a voice so fine there's nothing lives 
'Twixt it and silence. Such a slender one 
I've heard wlun I have talked with her in fancy! 
A pliantom sound! Aha! she is not here. 
They told me she was here — they have deceived me — 
And Appins was not made to give her up, 
But keeps her, and cft'ects his wicked purpose. 
While I stand talking here, and ask you if 
My daughter is my daughter! Though a legion 



JJMES SHERIDAN ENOWLES. 



457 



Si'iitrieil tliat brotlu'l, wliicli be calls his iialace, 
I'tl tear ber from bim! 

Luc. Holil, Virgiuius! Stay! 

Apiiiiis is now lu prison ! 

Virg. Witb my daugbtcr? 

He has secnretl ber there ? Ha ! has he so ? 
Gay office for a dungeon ! Hold nie not, 
Or I will dasb you down, and spoil you for 
My keeper. My Virginia, struggle with him ! 
Appal him witb thy shrieks. Ne'er faint, ne'er faint — 
I am coming to thee ! I am coming to thee ! 

[/iHs/ics out, followed T»j Lucius and Sekvia. 



TELL AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 

Fbom "William Jell." 

Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again ! 

I bold to you the bauds you tirst beheld. 

To show tbej' still are free ! Metbiuks I hear 

A spirit in your echoes answer me, 

And hid your tenant welcome to bis home 

Again ! O sacred forms, bow proud yon look ! 

How high you lift your heads into the sky! 

How huge you are ! how mighty and bow free ! 

How do you look, for all your bared brows, 

More gorgeously majestical than kings 

Whose loaded coronets exhaust the mine! 

Ye ai'o the things that tower, that shine, whose smile 

Makes glad, whose fiown is terrible; whose forms, 

Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear 

Of awe divine ; whose subject never kneels 

In mockery, because it is yonr boast 

To keep him free ! Ye guards of liberty, 

I'm with you once again ! — I call to yon 

With all my voice ! I hold my hands to you, 

To show they still are free ! I rush to you 

As though I could embrace you ! 



THE ACTOR'S CRAFT. 

LINES ON A MINISTER (NOT AN AMERICAN) WHO PREACH- 
ED IN PHILADELPHIA, ON FEBRUARY 8, 1835, A SERMON 
UNCHARITABLY CONDEMNATORY OF THE STAGE. 

Unmerciful! whoso office teacheth mercy! 
Why damnest thou the Actor's craft ? Is be 
To starve because thou think'-st thyself elected 
To preach the meek and lowly Saviour's peace? 
"^'o, let him seek a fairer calling ."' Heaven 
Appointed bim to his, as thee to thine ! 
He hath bis usefulness. The tongue wherewith 
Thou didst revile him, b.ad been barbarous 
Except for him ! He lixed the standard of it 



That gave it uniformity and power, 

And euphony and grace ; and — more than that — 

To thouglits that glow and shiue with Heaven's 

own fire, 
He gave revealment unto millions 
That else bad lived in darkness to Heaven's gilt! 
Would by his art thou more hadst profited. 
Thou ample, comfortable piece of flesh ! 
Thy heart is no ascetic. Seat so soft 
As tby plump cheek, I warrant, never yet 
Sat self-deuial ou. " Thoit dost not ply 
The hanquct .'" Never mind ! Thou dost not lack 
The feast for that : the bloating fare to which 
The Churchman's vanity and lust of power 
Sit seemiug-meekly down. — Why didst thou preach ? 
Hadst thou forgot the coxcomb clerical ? 
If not, why didst thou play bim to the life ? 

I'll do thee justice, .ay, in commendation. 
Well as disparagement, for I am naught — 
Not, "if not critical" — but honest! Tbon 
Didst read, methought, the service, like the tongue 
That gave God's revelation unto man ; — 
Simply, adoringly, confiding in 

Strength greater than thine own. I knelt in soul. 
Anon, I said to one who sat beside me, 
" We'll hear a preacher now." What didst tbou 

preach ? 
Thyself!! The little worm that God did make, 
And not the Maker! How I pitied thee! 
From first to last, dlsplay ! as tbongh the place. 
The cause, the calling, the assembly, all 
Were secondary to a lump of clay. 
Thy elocution, too — Theatkical ! ! ! 
But foreign to the Actor's proper art. 
Thy gesture measured to the word, not fitted ; — 
Tby modulation, running mouutains high, 
"Then ducking low again as hell's from heaven!" 

Sufficient of the rant ! Improve before 
Thou mount'st the steps of charity again ; 
And know her h.andmaids are humility, 
Forbearance, and philanthropy to all! 
And further, know the Stage a iireacber too — 
Albeit a less authenticated one — 
Whose moral, if occasionally wrong. 
Is honest in the main ! — Another word, — 
Act not the daniner of another's creed, 
Nor call the Arian, Universalist, 
Socinian, Unitarian, Catholic, 
All lutidel ! — "Judge not, lest ye he judged," 
A text in point for thee! My creed is yours. 
But by that creed I never will condemn — 
Myself a creature weak and fallible — 
A man for faith some shade diverse from mine. 



458 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF UIHTISII AXD AMEBIC AX I'OETRY. 



(Caroline ©ilman. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs. Oilman, daugbtei' of Samuel Howard, a ship- 
wriiclit, was bom in Boston, Mass., in 1794. She married 
Dr. Samuel Gilman, a graduate of Harvard College, and 
a Unitarian eleriryman, who was born iu Gloucester in 
1791. He settled in Charleston, S. C, in 1819, and re- 
mained there till his death in 1858. Mrs. Gilman began 
to write and publish before her eighteenth year, and was 
the author of several volumes in prose and verse, show- 
ing much literary diligence and versatility. Her " Verses 
of a Lifetime" (Boston, 184S) is her principal collection. 
She was residing with a widowed daughter at Tiverton, 
R. I., as late as 1880. Dr. Oilman was the poet of his 
class at college, and the author of pieces much admired 
iu their day. 



FROM "THE PLANTATION." 

Farewell awhile the city's hum 

Where busy footsteps fall ; 
Anil welcome to my weary eye 

The planter's friemlly ball ! 

Here let me rise at early dawn, 
And list the mock-bird's lay, 

That, warbling near our lowland bome, 
Sits ou the waving spray ; — 

Then tread tbo shading avenue 

Beneath the cedar's gloom, 
Or gum-tree, with its flickered shade, 

Or chinrinapen's perfume. 

Tlie myrtle-tree, the orange wild. 

The cypress' flexile bongh. 
The holly, with its polished leaves, 

Are all before me now. 

There, toweriug with imperial pride. 

The rich magnolia stands ; 
And here, in softer loveliness, 

The white-bloomed bay expands. 

The long gray moss hangs gracefully, 

Idly I twine its wreaths. 
Or stop to catch the fragrant air 

The frecpient blossom breathes. 

Life wakes around — the red-bird darts 

Like flame from tree to tree ; 
Thi; whippoorwill complaius alone, 

The robin whistles free. 



The frightened hare scuds by my path, 
And seeks the thicket nigh ; 

The sqniiTel climbs the hickory bough, 
Thence peeps with careful eye. 

The humming-bird, with bu.sy wing. 

In rainbow beauty moves, 
Above the trumpet-blossom floats, 

And sips tlie tube he loves. 

Triumphant to yon withered pine 

The soaring eagle flies, 
There builds her eyrie 'mid the clouds. 

And man and Heaven defies. 



ANNIE IN THE GRAVE YAED. 

She bounded o'er the graves 

With a buoyaut step of mirth : 
She bounded o'er the graves, 
Where the weeping-willow waves, — 
Like a creature not of earth. 

Her hair was blown aside. 

And her eyes were glittering bright ; 
Her hair w,as blown aside, 
And her little hands spread wide 

With an innocent delight. 

She spelled the lettered word 

That registers the dead ; 
She spelled the lettered word, 
And her busy thoughts were stirred 

With pleasure as she read. 

She stopped and culled a leaf 

Left fluttering ou a rose ; 
She stopped and culled a leaf, 
Sweet monument of grief, 

That in our church-yard growa. 

She culled it with a smile — 
'Twas ne.ar lier sister's mound ; 

She culled it with a smile, 

Aud jilayed with it a while, 
Then scattered it around. 

I <lid not chill her heart. 
Nor turu its gush to tears : 

I did not chill her heart — 

Oh, bitter drops will start 
Full soon in coming years ! 



HEXIIY WARE.— EDWARD EVERETT. 



459 



t)cunj llUtrc. 



Ware (1794-1843), the fifth child and eldest son of a 
clergyman of the same name, was a native of Hingham, 
Mass. He became pastor of the Second Church in Bos- 
ton in 1S16, and remained there thirteen years, when the 
state of his health compelled him to resign, and accept a 
situation as Professor of Pulpit Eloquence in Harvard 
College. A memoir of his life, in two volumes, by his 
brother, John Ware, M.D., appeared in 1846. A selection 
from his writings (1840) by the Rev. Chandler Robbins, 
in four volumes 12mo, was .also published. 



A THANKSGIVING SONG. 

Come, uncles and cousins; come, nieces and aunts; 
Come, nephews and brothers — no woit'ls and no 

can'ts ; 
Put business, and shopping, and scbool-books away : 
The year Las rolled round — it is Thanksgiving-day. 

Come lionie from tbe college, yc riiiglet-liaired youth. 
Come home from your factories, Ann, Kate, and Eutli ; 
From tlie anvil, the counter, the farm, come aw:i\ ; 
Home, homo with you all — it is Thanksgiving-day. 

The table is spread, and the dinner is dressed; 
The cooks and the mothers iiave all doue their best ; 
No Caliph of Bagdad e'er saw such display, 
Or dreamed of a treat like our Thanksgiviug-day. 

Pies, puddings, and custards ; pig.s, oysters, nnd 

uuts — 
Come forward and seize them, without ifs and iuts; 
Bring none of your slim little appetites here — 
Thanksgiviug-day comes only once iu a year. 

Thrice welcome the day in its annual round! 
What treasures of love in its bosom are found! 
New England's high holidaj-, ancient and dear, — 
'Twould be twice as welcome, if twice in a year. 

Now children revisit the darling old place, 
And brother and sister, long jiarted, embrace ; 
Tlie family circle's united once more, 
And the same voices shout at the old cottage door. 

The grandfather smiles ou the innocent mirth. 
And blesses the Power that has guarded his hearth ; 
He remembers no trouble, he feels no decay, 
But thinks his whole life has been Thanksgiving- 
day. 



Then praise for the pa.st and the present we sing. 
And, trustful, await what the future may bring ; 
Let doubt and reiiiuing be b.anished away, 
And the whole of our lives he a Thanksgiving-day. 



RESURRECTION OF CHRIST. 

Lift your glad voices in triumph ou high. 
For Jesus hath risen, and man canuot die ; 

Vain were the terrors that gathered around him. 

And short the dominion of death and the grave ; 

He burst from the fetters of darkuess that bound 
him, 

Resplendent in glory to live and to save : 
Loud was the chorus of angels ou higli, — 
"The Saviour hath risen, and mau canuot die." 

Glory to God, in full anthems of joy ! 

The being he gave us death canuot destroy ! 
Sad were the life we must part with to-morrow, 
If tears ■were our birthright, and death were our end ; 
But Jesus hath cheered the dark valley of sorrow, 
And bade us, immortal, to heaven ascend ; 

Lift, tlien, your voices iu triumph ou high, 

For Jesus hath risen, and mau shall not die. 



Ctrinarb Crcrctt. 

AMERICAN. 

Everett (1794-1865) was a native of Dorchester, Mass. 
Entering Harvard College at the age of thirteen, he was 
graduated with highest honors. He was appointed tutor 
in Greek, and spent four years in Europe qualifying him- 
self. In all the various offices of Governor of Massachu- 
setts, Member of Congress, United States Sen.ator, Presi- 
dent of Harvard University, Minister to England, and iu 
several other well-known positions, he served with emi- 
nent fidelity. Little known as a poet, he was the author 
of one piece, at least, that entitles him to a place in the 
list. 



ALARIC THE VISIGOTH. 

When I am dead, no pageant train 
Shall waste their .sorrows at my bier, 

Nor worthless jiomp of homage vain 
Staiu it with hypocritic tear ; 

For I will die as I did live, 

Nor take the boon I cannot give. 

Ye shall not raise a marble bust 
Upon the spot where I repose ; 



460 



CTCLOPJSDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Ye sLall not fawn before my dust, 
111 hollow circumstance of woes ; 
Nor sculptured clay, with lying breath, 
Insult the clay that moulds beneath. 

Ye shall not pile, with servile toil, 
Your monuments upon my breast, 

Nor yet within the common soil 

Lay down the wreck of power to rest ; 

■\Vliere man can boast that he has trod 

Ou him that was " the scourge of God." 

But ye the mouutain stream shall turn. 
And lay its secret channel bare. 

And hollow, for your sovereign's urn, 
A resting-iilaco forever there : 

Then bid its everlasting springs 

Flow back upon the Kiug of kings ; 

And never be the secret said, 

Until the deep give up its dead. 

My gold and silver yo shall fling 

Biick to the clods, that gave them birth- 

Tho captured crowns of many a kiug. 
The ransom of a conquered earth ; 

For e'en though dead will I control 

The trophies of the Capitol. 

But when beneath the niountaiu tide 
Ye've laid your monarch down to rot, 

Ye shall not rear upon its side 

Pillar or mound to mark the spot : 

For long enough the world has shook 

Beneath the terrors of my look; 

And now that I have run my race, 

The astonished realms shall rest a space. 

My course was like a river deep, 

And from the Northern hills I burst. 

Across the world in wrath to sweep. 
And where I went the spot was cursed. 

Nor blade of grass again was seen 

AVhere Alaric and his hosts had been. 

See how their haughty barriers fail 
Beneath the terror of the Goth ! 

TluMr iron-breasted legions quail 
Before my ruthless sabaoth. 

And low the queen of empires kneels, 

And grovels at my chariot-wheels. 

Not for myself did I ascend 

111 judgment my triumphal car; 



'Twas God alone ou high did send 

The avenging Scythian to the war, 
To shake abroad, with iron hand, 
The appointed scourge of his conimnnd. 

Witli iron hand that scourge I reared 
O'er guilty king and guilty realm ; 
Destruction was the ship I steered. 

And Vengeance sat upon the helm, 
Wlicu, launched in fury on the flood, 
I ploughed my way through seas of blood. 
And in the stream their hearts had spilt 
Washed out the long arrears of guilt. 

Across the everlasting Alp 

I poured the torrent of my powers. 
And feeble Ca'sars shrieked for help 

In vain within their seven-hilled towers. 
I quenched in blood the brightest gem 
That glittered in their diadem ; 
And struck a darker, deeper dye 
In the purple of their majesty; 
And bade my Northern banners shine 
Ujion the conquered Palatine. 

My course is run, my errand done — 
I go to Hiui from whom I came ; 

But never yet shall set the sun 
Of glory that adorns my name ; 

And Roman hearts shall long bo sick. 

When men shall think of Alaric. 

My course is run, my errand done; 

But darker ministers of fate. 
Impatient, round the eternal throne. 

And in the caves of Vengeance, wait ; 
And soon mankind shall blench away 
Before the name of Attila. 



Carlos lUilcox. 

AMERICAN. 

Wilcox (1794-1827), the son of a fiirmcr, was a nntivc 
of Newport, N. H. He entered Middlebury College, anil 
afterwiiril studied tlieology at Andover. He commenced 
preaching in 1818; his discourses were elociuent and 
thoughtful ; but he had to abandon llie ministry on ac- 
count of ill-hcaltli. His principal poem is "The Age of 
Beuevoleucc," which he did not live to complete, and 
portions of which only have been published. Another 
incomplete poem, included in his " Remains," is " The 
Religion of Taste," republished in London in 18.50. In 
his minute and accurate descriptions of natural scenery 
he sliows some of the highest qualities of the poet, lie 



CARLOS WILCOX. 



461 



may lack the passiouate fervoi' by which the most im- 
pressive effects are reached in concentrated expression 
and startling metaphor, but ho deserved a higher fame 
than he ever reached among the literary men of his day. 
A volume of his "Remains" was published in Hartford, 
L'onn., iu 1823, by Edward Hopkins. 



A LATE SPRING IN NEW ENGLAND. 

Froj[ " The Age of Benevolenxe." 

Long swollen in drencliing lain, seeds, germs, ancl 

bnd.s 
Start at tUe toncli of Tivifyiug beams. 
Moved by their secret force, tlic vital lympli 
Diflnsive rnus, and spreads o'er wood and field 
A flood of verdure. Clothed, in one short week, 
Is naked nature iu her full attire. 
On tlie first morn, light as an open plain 
Is all the woodland, filled with sunbeams, jionred 
Through tho bare lops, on yellow leaves below, 
With strong reflection: ou the last, 'tis dark 
With full-growu foliage, shading all within. 
In one short week the orchard buds and blooms : 
Aud now, when steeped in dew or gentle showers. 
It yields the purest sweetness to the breeze, 
Or all the tranquil atmosphere perfumes. 
E'eu from the juicy leaves, of sudden growth. 
And the rank grass of steaming ground, the air, 
Filled with a watery glimmering, receives 
A grateful smell, exhaled by warming rays. 

Each day are heard, and almost every hour, 
New notes to swell the music of the groves. 
Aud soou the latest of the feathered train 
At evening twilight come ; — the lonely snipe, 
O'er marshy fields, high iu tho duskj' air, 
Invisible, but with faint, tremulous tones, 
Hovering or playing o'er the listener's head ; 
And, iu mid-air, the sportive night-hawk, seen 
Flying awhile at random, uttering oft 
A cheerful cry, attended with a shake 
Of level piuions, dark, but when upturned 
Against the brightness of the western sky, 
One white plume showing in the midst of each. 
Then far down diving with loud hollow sound ; — 
And, deep at first within the distant wood, 
Tho whippoorwill, her name her only song! 

Slic, soon as children from the noisy sport 
Of hooping, laughing, talking with all tones, 
To hear the echoes of tho empty barn. 
Are by her voice diverted, and held mute, 
Comes to the margin of the nearest grove ; 
And when the twilight, deepened into night. 
Calls them within, close to the house she comes, 



And on its dark side, haply on the step 
Of unfrequented door, lighting unseen. 
Breaks into strains articulate and clear, 
The closing sometimes quickened as in sport. 



A VISION OF HEAVEN. 

FaoM "Tde Ueligion of Taste." 

Myself I found borne to a heavenly clime, — 
I knew not how, but felt a stranger there, — 

Still the same being that I was in time, 
Even to my raiment ! On the borders fair 
Of that blessed land I stood in lone despair ; 

Not its iinre beauty aud immortal bloom, 
Its firmament serene, and balmy air, 

Nor all its glorious beings, broke the gloom 

Of my foreboding thoughts, fixed ou some dreadful 
doom. 

There walked tho ransomed ones of earth, in white 
As beautifully pure as new-falleu snow 

On tho smooth summit of some eastern height 
In the first rays of morn that o'er it How, — 
Nor less resplendent than the richest glow 

Of snow-white clouds, with all their stores of rain 
And thunder spent, rolled up in volumes slow 

O'er the blue sky just cleared from every stain. 

Till all the blaze of noon they drink aud long retain. 

Safe landed on these shores, together hence 

That bright throng took their way to where in- 
sphered 

In a transparent cloud of light intense. 
With starry pinnacles above it reared, 
A city vast the inlaud all appeared ! 

With walls of azure, green, and purple stone, 
All to one glassy surface smoothed and cleared, 

Reflecting forms of angel guards that shone 

Above tho approaching host, as each were ou a 
throne. 

And while that host moved onward o'er a plain 

Of living verdure, oft they turned to greet 
Friends that on earth had taught them heaven to 
gain ; 

Then haud-in-hand they went with quickened 
feet : — 

And bright with immortality, and sweet 
With love ethereal, were the smiles they cast ; 

I only wandered on with none to meet 
And call me dear, while pointing to the past. 
And forward to the joys that never reach their last. 



462 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



I had not bound myself by any ties 

To tbat blessed laud ; none saw me and none 
sought ; 
Nor any shunned, uor from me turned their eyes ; 

And yet such sense of guilt my conscience wrought, 

It seemed that every bosom's iumost thought 
Was fixed on nie ; — when back as from their view 

I shrunk, and would have fled or shrunk to naught, 
As some I loved and many that I knew 
Passed on unmindful why or whither I withdrew. 

Whereat of sad remembrances a flood 

Rushed o'er my spirit, and my heart beat low 

As with the heavy gnsh of curdling blood : — 
Soon left behiud, awhile I followed slow, 
Then stopped and round me looked, my fate to 
know. 

But looked in vain ; — no voice my doom to tell ; — • 
No arm to hurl me down the depths of woe ; — - 

It seemed that I was brought to heaven to dwell, 

That couscience might alone do all the work of hell. 

Now came the thought, the bitter thought of years 
Wasted in musings sad and fancies wild, 

Ami in the visionary hopes and fears 
Of the false feeling of a heart beguiled 
By uature's strange euchautmeut, strong and wild ; 

Now, with celestial beauty blooming round, 
I stood as on some naked waste exiled : 

From gathering hosts came music's swelling sound. 

But deeper in despair my sinking spirits drowned. 

At length methought a darkness as of death 
Came slowly o'er me, and with that I woke ; 

Yet knew not, in the first suspended breath. 
Where I could be, so real seemed the stroke 
That in my dream all earthly ties had broke; 

A moment more, and melting in a tide 
Of grateful fervor, how did I invoke 

Power from the Highest to leave all beside. 

And live but to secure the bliss my dream denied ! 



SEPTEMBER. 

The sultry summer past, September comes. 
Soft twilight of the slow-declining year; — 
All mildness, soothing loveliness, and peace : 
The fading season, ere the falling come. 
More sober than the buxom blooming May, 
And therefore less the favorite of the world. 
But dearest mouth of all to pensive miuds ! 
'Tis now far spent ; and the meridian sun. 



Most sweetly smiling with attempered beams, 
Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth. — 

Beneath its yellow lustre, groves and Avoods, 
Checkered by one night's frost with various hues. 
While yet no wiud has swept a leaf away. 
Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight 
Down the smooth stream to glide, and see it tinged 
Upon each brink with all the gorgeous hues. 
The yellow, red, or purple of the trees. 
That, singly, or in tufts, or forests thick. 
Adorn the shores ; to see, perhaps, the side 
Of some high mount reflected far below 
With its bright colors, intermixed with spots 
Of darker green. Yes, it were sweetly sad 
To wander in the open field.s, and hear 
E'en at this hour, the noonday h.ardly past. 
The lulling insects of the summer's night ; 
To hear, where lately buzzing swarms were heard, 
A lonely bee, long roving here and there 
To find a single flower, but all in vain ; 
Then rising quick, and with a louder hum. 
In widening circles rouud and round his head, 
Straight by the listener fl,yiug clear away. 
As if to bid the fields a last adieu : — 
To hear, within the woodland's sunny side. 
Late full of music, nothing, save, perhaps. 
The souiul of nutshells, by the squirrel dropped 
From some tall beech, fast falling through the leaves. 



lllilliam Cullcu Cruant. 



Bryant (1T94-1S78), the fii'st American poet of celebrity, 
was born at Cummington, Mass., November 3(1. He began 
to write verse at the age of ten ; and at thirteen wrote 
and published "The Embargo," a political satire, and a 
very remarkable one, under the circmustnnces. Educated 
at Williams College, he was admitted to the Bar in ISl.i, 
married young, andbegan the practice of the law at Great 
Harrington. His celebrated poem of "Thanatopsis" was 
written befoi-e he was twent}'. 

In 1825 Bryant removed to New York, and in 1820 con- 
nected himself with the New York Eveninrj Puxt, liis pro- 
prietary interest in which eventu.ally became the source 
of an ample fortune. In 1834 he travelled in Europe, 
and in 184,5 and 1849 repeated his visit. A collection 
of bis poems was published in New York in 18.32, and re- 
published in London. Repeated editions of his collected 
works have appeared. In 18T0 a line edition of his mas- 
terly translation of Horiier, in which he surpasses all 
predecessors, was published in Boston. 

"Bryant's writings," says Washington Irving, "trans- 
port us into the depths of the solemn primeval forest, to 
the shores of the lonely lake, the banks of the wild, name- 
less stream, or the brow of the rocky upland, rising like 



WILLIAM CULLEX BRTAST. 



463 



a promontory from amidst a wide ocean of foliage ; while 
they shed around us the glories of a climate fierce in its 
extremes, but splendid in all its vicissitudes." 

But it is not only in his descriptions of nature that 
Bryant excels. In his "Antiquity of Freedom," "The 
Future Life," "The Battle-field," etc., he reaches a high 
ethical strain, and is, at the same time, the genuine poet 
in thought and diction. Few men of letters have, in the 
latter half of their lives, had so prosperous, so honored, 
and so eminently successful a career, extending beyond 
fourscore years of physical activity and intellectual ro- 
bustness. In his domestic relations singularly fortunate, 
he was equally so in all his public expeiiences. 

" Bryant," says a German critic," is thoroughly Amer- 
ican in his poetry. A truly uational method of thinking 
and judging pervades even those from among his produc- 
tions which treat of non-American subjects." The re- 
mark is just, and is a sufficient reply to the superficial 
sarcasm, heedlessly thrown out by Lord Jeffrey, that 
Bryant is "but a dilution of Mrs. Hemans." We can 
recall no one verse of Bryant's to which this rash com- 
ment could apply. He and Mrs. Hemans were born the 
same year, and some of his best poems were written 
before she was known in America. " It is in the beauti- 
ful," says John Wilson oi BlackiamiVs Magazine, "that 
the genius of Bryant finds its prime delight. He ensouls 
all dead, insens.ate things ; * * * and thus there is ani- 
mation in the heart of the solitude." 

Bryant's morality was not only psychical but physio- 
logical. He reverenced and fulfilled the laws of physical 
health. He took scrupulous care of himself. His senses 
were perfect at fourscore ; his eyes needed no glasses ; 
his hearing was exquisitely fine; he outwalked most men 
of middle age. Milk and cereals and fruit were his pre- 
ferred diet. Regular in his habits, ho- retained his youth 
almost to the last, and his final illness was contracted in 
a too fearless out-of-door exposure. "His power of 
work," says Dr. Bellows," never abated ; and the Hercu- 
lean translation of Homer, which was the amusement of 
the last lustre of his life, showed not only no senility, but 
no decrease of intellectual or physical endurance." 



NOVEMBER. 

Yet one smile more, departing, distant suu ! 
One mellow smile through the soft vapory air, 
Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud Tvinds run, 
Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare. 
One smile ou the browu hills aud naked trees. 
And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are east, 
And the blue geutiau flower that in the breeze 
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last. 
Yet a few sunny days, in -whicb the bee 
Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way, 
The cricket chirp upon the russet lea, 
-iud man delight to linger in the ray. 
Yet one rich smile, aud we -will try to bear 
The piercing winter frost, a-ad vriudo, aud darkened 
air. 



THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. 

Here are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled pines, 

That stream with gray -green mosses; here the ground 

Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up 

Unsown, and die uugathered. It is sweet 

To linger here, among the flitting birds 

And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds 

That shake the leaves, and scatter as they pass 

A fiagrance from the cedars, thickly set 

With pale blueberries. In these peaceful shades — 

Peaceful, unpruued, immeasurably old — • 

My thoughts go up the long dim path of years, 

Back to the earliest days of liberty. 

O Freedom ! thou art not, as poets dream, 

A fair youug girl, with light aud delicate limbs, 

And wavy tresses gushing from the cap 

With which the Roman master crowned his slave 

When he took oft' the gyves. A bearded man, 

Armed to the teeth, art thou : oue mail(5d baud 

Grasps the broad shield, and oue the sword ; thy 

brow, 
Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred 
With tokens of old wars ; thy massive limbs 
Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has 

launched 
His bolts, aud with his lightnings smitten thee ; 
They could not quench the life thou hast from 

Heaven. 
Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep, 
And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, 
Have forged thy chain ; yet while he deems thee 

bound. 
The liuks are shivered, aud the pri.snn walls 
Fall outward : terribly thou spriugcst forth. 
As spriugs the flame above a burning pile. 
And slioutest to the nations, who return 
Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. 

Thy birthright was not given by human hands : 
Thoti wcrt twin-born with man. In pleasant fields. 
While yet our race was few, thou safest with him, 
To tend tbe quiet flock and watch the stars. 
And teach the reed to utter simple airs. 
Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, 
Didst war upon tbe panther and the wolf, 
His only foes; aud thou with him didst draw 
The earliest furrows on the mountain side, 
Soft with the Deluge. Tyranny him.self. 
Thy enemy, although of reverend look. 
Hoary with many years, and far obeyed. 
Is later born than thou ; and as he meets 



464 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AilEKICAX POKTEY. 



The giMvo defiauce of thine elder eye, 
The iisurpci- trembles in his fastuesses. 

Thou sbalt wax stronger with the lapse of years, 
But he shall fade into a feeblei- age ; 
Feebler, yet subtler: he shall weave his snares, 
And spring them ou thy careless steps, and clap 
His withered bauds, and from their ambush call 
His hordes to fall upon tlice. He shall send 
Quaint maskers, wearing fair aud gallaut forms. 
To catch thy gaze, aud uttering graceful words 
To charm thy ear ; while his sly imps, by stealth, 
Twiue round thee threads of steel, light thread ou 

thread. 
That grow to fetters; or bind down thy arras 
With chains concealed in chaplets. Oh! not yet 
Mayst thou unbrace thy corselet, nor lay by 
Thy sword ; uor yet, O Freedom ! close thy lids 
In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps, 
And thou must watcli and combat, till the day 
01' iho new earth and heaven. But wouldst thou rest 
Awhile from tumult aud the fi'auds of men. 
These old aud friendly solitudes invite 
Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees 
Were young upon the uuviolated earth. 
And yet the moss-staius on the rock were new. 
Beheld thy glorious childhood, aud rejoiced. 



THANATOPSIS. 

To him who, in the love of Nature, holds 

Conimuuion with her visible forms, she speaks 

A various language: for his gayer hours 

She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 

And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides 

Into his darker musings with a mild 

Aud healing sympathy, that steals away 

Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts 

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 

Over thy spirit, and sad images 

Of the stern agony, and slinuul, and pall. 

And breathless darkness, aud the narrow honse. 

Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart — 

Go forth under the open sky, aud list 

To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 

Comes a still voice: — Yet a few days, aud thee 

The all-beholding sun shall see no more 

In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground. 

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears. 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 

Thy image. Earth, that uourished thee, shall claim 



Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; 
And, lost e.ach human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix forever with the elements ; 
To be a brother to the insensible rock. 
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The (>:ik 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 

Yet not to thy eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone, — nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings. 
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulehre. The hills. 
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun ; the vales, 
Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 
The venerable woods ; rivers, that move 
In majesty, aud the complaining brooks. 
That make the meadows greeu ; and, poured round 

all. 
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — • 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man ! The golden snn. 
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven. 
Are shining ou the sad abodes of death, 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber iu its bosom. Take the wiugs 
Of morning, pierce the Barcau wilderness. 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there ! 
Aud millions in those solitudes, since first 
The tlight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone! — 
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw 
In silence from the living, aud no frieud 
Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. Tiie gay will laugh 
When thou art gone ; the solemn brood of care 
Plod on ; and each one, as before, will chase 
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of ages glide aw.ay, the sons of men, 
The youth, in life's green spring, aud he who goes 
In the full strength of years, matron aud maid. 
The speechless babe, and the grny-headed man, — 
Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side, 
By those who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live that « lieu thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan that moves 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 



4G5 



To that inysterious realm, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Tliou go not like the quarry-slave at uight, 
Scourgcil to his duugeoii, but, sustained aud soothed 
By an unfaltering tvust, apiiroach thy grave, 
Like one who wraps tlie drapery of his couch 
About him, aud lies down to pleasant dreams ! 



SUMMER WIND. 

It is a sultry day ; the sun has drunk 
The dew that lay upou the morning grass ; 
There is no rustling in the lofty elm 
That canopies my dwelling, aud its shade 
Scarce cools me. All is silent save the faint 
And interrupted murnuir of the bee, 
Settling on the sick flowers, aud then agaiu 
Instantly on the wing. The plauts around 
Feel the too potent fervors : the tall maize 
Rolls up its long green leaves ; the clover droops 
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. 

But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills, 
With all their growth of woods, silent and stern. 
As if the scorching heat aud dazzling light 
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds. 
Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven, — 
Their bases on the mountains, their white tops 
Shining in the far ether,— fire the air 
With a reflected radiance, and make turn 
The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie 
Languidly in the shade, where the thick tnrf, 
Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun, 
Retains some freshness, aud I woo the wind 
That still delays its coming. Why so slow. 
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air? 

Oil come, aud breathe upou the fainting earth 
Coolness and life ! Is it that in his caves 
He hears me ? See, on yonder woody ridge, 
Tlie pine is bending his jiroud top, aud now, 
Among the nearer groves, chestnut aud oak 
Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes ! 
Lo, where the grassy meadow rnus in waves ! 

The deep, distressful silence of the scene 
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds 
And universal motion. He is come, 
Shaking a .shower of blossoms from the shrubs. 
And bearing on their fragrance ; and he brings 
Music of birds and rustling of young boughs. 
And sound of swaying branches, aud the voice 
Of distant water-falls. All the green herbs 
Are stirring in his breath; a thousand (lowers. 
By the roadside and the borders of the brook, 
30 



Nod gayly to each other; glossy leaves 
Are twinkling iu the sun, as if the dew 
Were on them yet; and silver waters break 
Into small waves and sparkle as he conies. 



THE FUTURE LIFE. 

LINES ADDUIiSSEU TO HIS WIFE. 

How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps 
The disembodied spirits of the dead. 

When all of thee that time could wither, sleeps, 
Aud perishes among the dust we tread ? 

For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain. 
If there I meet thy gentle presence not ; 

Nor hear the voice I love, nor read agaiu 
In thy sereuest eyes the tender thought. 

Will not thy own meek heart demand me there ? 

That heart whose fondest throbs to mo were given ? 
My name on earth was ever in thy prayer; 

Shall it be l)anishcd from thy tongue iu heaven ? 

In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind 
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere. 

And larger uiovemeuts of the unfettered mind. 
Wilt thou forget the love that joined ns here? 

The lovo that lived through all the stormy jiast, 
And meekly with my harsher nature bore, 

Aud deeper grew, and tenderer to the last, 
Shall it expire with life, .and be uo more ? 

A happier lot than mine, aud larger light, 

Await thee there; for thou hast bowed thy will 

111 cheerful homage to the rule of right. 
And lovest all, aud rendcrest good for ill. 

For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell. 

Shrink aud consume the heart, as heat the scroll; 

And wrath has left its scar — that fire of hell 
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul. 

Yet, though thou wearest the glory of the sky, 
Wilt thou not keep the same bclovdd name? 

The same fair, thoughtful brow, and gentle eye. 
Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same? 

Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home. 
The wisdom that I learned so ill in this — 

The wisdom which is love, — till I become 
Thy fit companion in that laud of bliss? 



im 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH JXD AilEIilCAN POETRY. 



MEETING OF HECTOR AND ACHILLES. 

The follovviug is a Bpecimen of Biynnt's translation of the 
" Hind." Tlie re.ider of Iloraer will remeinl)er that Hector first 
retre.nts before Achilles, bnt at length tnrns npou his pursuer, 
detenniiied to meet his fate, whatever it may be. 

He spake, auil drew the keeu-edged sword that 
bung. 
Massive and finely tempered, at liis side. 
And sprang, — as -wbeti au eagle high in heaven, 
Through the thick cloud, darts downward to the 

plain, 
To clutch some tender lamb or timid hare. 
So Hector, Ijraudishing that keen-edged sword. 
Sprang forward, while Achilles opposite 
Leaped toward him, all on fire with savage hate. 
And holding bi.s bright buckler, nobly wrought, 
Before him. As In the still hours of night 
Hesper goes forth among the host of stars. 
The fairest light of heaven, so brightly shone, 
Brandished in the right baud of Peleus' son, 
The spear's keen blade, as, confident to slay 
The uoble Hector, o'er his glorious form 
His quick eye ran, exploring where to jilant 
The surest wound. The glittering mail of brass 
Won from the slain Patroclus guarded well 
Each part, save only where the collar-bones 
Divide the shoulder from the neck, and there 
Appeared the throat, the spot where life is most 
In peril. Through that part the noble sou 
Of Felons dravo his spear; it went quite tlirongh 
The tender neck, and yet the brazen blade 
Cleft not the windpipe, and the i^ower to speak 
Remained. * * * 

And then the crested Hector faintly said, 
"I pray thee by thy life, aud by thy knees, 
And by tliy parents, suffer not the dogs 
To tear me at the galleys of the Greeks. 
Accept abundant store of brass and gold. 
Which gladly will my father and the queen. 
My mother, give in ransom. Send to them 
My body, that the warriors and the dames 
Of Troy may light for me tlie funeral pile." 

The swift Achilles answered with a frown, — 
"Nay, by my knees entreat me not, thou cur, 
Nor by ray parents. I could even wish 
My fury prompted me to cut thy ilesh 
In fragments, and devou.- it, such the wrong 
That I have had from thee. There will bo none 
To drive away tlie dogs about thy bead, 
Not though thy Trojan friends should bring to me 
Tenfold and twenty-fold the offered gifts. 
And promise others, — not though Priam, sprung 
From Dardanus, should send tliv weight in gold. 



Thy mother shall not lay thee ou thy bier, 
To sorrow over thee whom she brought forth ; 
But dogs and birds of prey shall mangle thee." 

And then the crested Hector, dying, said, — 
"I know thee, and too clearly|I foresaw 
I should not move thee, for thou hast a heart 
Of iron. Yet reflect that for my sake 
Tlie anger of the gods may fall on thee, 
When Paris aud Apollo strike thee down. 
Strong as thou art, before the Sca>au gates." 

Thus Hector spake, and straightway o'er him 
closed 
The light of death ; the soul forsook his limbs. 
And flew to Hades, grieving for its fate, — 
So soon divorced from youth and youthful might. 



THE BATTLE-FIELD. 

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands. 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd. 

And fiery hearts and arm^d hands 
Encountered in the battle cloud. 

Ah ! never shall the land forget 

How gushed the life-blood of her bravo — 
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, 

Upon the soil they fought to save. 

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still. 

Alone the chirp of flitting bird, 
And talk of children on the hill, 

Aud bell of wanderiug kino are heard. 

No solemn host goes trailing by 

The black-mouthed gun aud staggering wain ; 
Men start not at the battle-cry, 

Ob, be it never heard again ! 

Soon rested those who fought ; but thou 
Who minglest in the harder strife 

For truths which men receive not now, 
Thy warfare only ends with life. 

A friendless warfare ! lingering long 
Through weary day aud weary year, 

A wild and many-weaponed throng 

Hang on thj' front, and flank, aud rear. 

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, 
Aud blench not at thy chosen lot : 

The timid good may stand aloof, 

The sago may frown — yet faint thoii not. 



WILLIAM CULLEy BBTAXT. 



-1(17 



Xor heed tlio shaft too surely cast, 
The foul aud bissiug bolt of seoni ; 

For with thy side shall dwell, at last, 
The victory of endurauce born. 

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again ; 

The eternal years of God are hers ; 
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, 

And dies among his worshippers. 

Yea, though thoii lie upon the dust. 

When they who helped thee flee iu fear. 

Die full of hope and manly trust. 
Like those who fell iu battle here. 

Another hand thy sword shall wield. 
Another hand the standard wave, 

Till from the trumpet's motith is pealed 
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. 



FKOJI "AN EVENING REVEEIE." 

Ob thou great Movement of the Universe, 

Or Change, or Flight of Time — for ye are one ! — 

That bearest silently this visible scene 

Into night's shadow aud the streaming rays 

Of starlight, whither art thou hearing me ? 

I feel the mighty current sweep me on. 

Yet know not whither. Man foretells afar 

The courses of the stars ; the very hour 

He knows, when they shall darken or grow bright: 

Yet doth the eclipse of Sorrow and of Death 

Come unforewarned. Who next of those I love 

Shall pass from life, or, sadder yet, shall fall 

From virtue ? Strife with foes, or bitterer strife 

With friends, or shame aud general scorn of men — 

Which who can bear ? — or the fierce rack of pain — 

Lie they within my path ? Or shall the years 

Push me, with soft and inoffensive pace, 

Into the stilly twilight of my age ? 

Or do the portals of another life 

Even now, while I am glorying in my strength, 

Impend around me ? Oli ! beyond that bourne, 

Iu the vast cycle of being which begins 

At that broad threshold, with what fairer forms 

Shall the great law of change and progress clothe 

Its workings ? Gently — so have good men taught — 

Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide 

Into the new; the eternal flow of things. 

Like a bright river of the fields of heaven, 

Shall journey onward in perpetual peace. 



TO THE FEINGED GENTIAN. 

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, 
And covered with the heaven's own blue, 
That opeuest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty nigUt,'^ 

Thou coniest not when violets lean 

O'er wandering brooks aud springs unseen. 

Or columbines, iu purple dressed, 

Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest: 

Thou waitest late aud com'st alone. 
When woods are bare and birds are flown. 
And frosts and shortening days iiortend 
The aged year is uear his end. 

Then doth thy sweet aud quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky. 
Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 

I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death -draw near to me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart. 
May look to Heaven as I depart. 



SONG. 



Dost thou idly ask to hear 

At what gentle seasons 
Nymphs releut, when lovers near 

Press the tenderest reasons ? 
Ah, they give their faith too oft 

To the careless wooer ; 
Maidens' hearts are always soft — 

Would that men's were truer ! 

Woo the fair one, when around 

Early birds are singing ; 
When, o'er all the fragrant grouud, 

Early herbs are springing : 
When the brook-side, bank, aud grove, 

All with blossoms laden, 
Shine with beauty, breathe of love, — 

Woo the timid maiden. 

Woo her when, with rosy blush. 

Summer eve is sinking ; 
When, on rills that softly gush, 



4GS 



CTCLOPJiVIA OF BHITLSH AXD AMERIVAX rOETUT. 



Wlieu, througU bougbs tbat knit tbe bower, 

Moonlight gleams are stealiug ; 
Woo liii', till tbe gentle bour 
Wake a gentler feeling. 

Woo her, wben antiinmal dyes 

Tinge the woody inotintaiu; 
When the dropping foliage lies 

In the weedy fountain ; 
Let tbe scene that tells how fast 

Youth is passing over, 
Warn her, ere ber bloom is past. 

To secure her lover. 

Woo her. when tbe north winds call 

At the lattice nightly; 
Wlien within the cheerfnl hall 

Blaze the fagots brightly ; 
While the wintry tempest ronnil 

Sweeps the landscape hoary, 
Sweeter in ber ears shall sound 

Love's delightful storv. 



THE RETURN OF YOUTH. 

My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime, 

For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight ; 
Thou muscst, with wet eyes, upon the time 

Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with 
light,— 
Years wheu thy heart was bold, thy band was strong, 

And quick tbe thought that moved thy tongue 
to speak. 
And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong 

Summoned tbe suddeu crimson to thy cheek. 

Thou lookest forward on tbe coming daj'S, 

Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep; 
A path, thick-set with changes and decays, 

Slopes downward to the place of counuou sleep; 
And they who walked with thee in life's first stage, 

Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near, 
Thou seest the sad companions of thy age — 

Dull love of rest, and weariness and fear. 

Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone, 
Nor deem that glorious season e'er could die. 

Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn, 
Waits on tbe horizon of a brighter sky ; 

Waits, like tbe morn, that folds her wings and hides. 
Till the slow stars bring back ber dawning hour; 



Waits, like tbe vanished siJriug, that slumbering 
bides 
Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower. 

There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand 

On his bright morning bills, w^tb smiles more 
sweet 
Thau when at first he took thee by the hand, 

Tlirough the fair earth to lead thy tender feet; 
He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still. 

Life's early glory to thine eyes again. 
Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill 

Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then. 

llast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here, 

Of mountains where immortal morn prevails? 
Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear 

A gentle rustling of tbe morning gales ; 
A nmrmur, wafted from that glorious shore. 

Of streams that water banks forever fair, 
And voices of the loved ones gone before, 

More musical iu that celestial air? 



TO THE REV. JOHN PIERPONT, 

ox HIS EIGHTIETH BIKTHD.W, APRIL C, 1865. 

The mightiest of the Hebrew seers, 
Clear-ej'ed and bale at eighty years. 
From Pisgah saw tbe hills and plains 
Of Canaan, green with brooks and rains. 

Our poet, strong iu frame and miud, 
Leaves eighty well-spent years behind ; 
And forward looks to fields more bright 
Than Moses saw from Pisgah 's height. 

Yet be our Pierpont's voice and pen 
Long potent with tbe sons of men; 
And late his summons to the shore 
Where he shall meet bis vouth once more. 



lUilliam Siimci) lUalkcr. 

Walker (1795-1846) was one of a group of young poet- 
ical aspirants who made Eton, O.xford, and Cambridge 
vocal with their songs early in tlic nineteenth century. 
In liis verses there is a tenderness and grace imparting 
a peculiar charm. He was one of tlie contributors to 
The Etonian, witli Praed, Moultrie, and others. An edi- 
tion of his poetical works, edited by Moultrie, appeared 
soon after his death. 



WILLIAM SIDNEY WALKER.— JEREMIAH JOSEPH CALLANAJ^. 



469 



THE VOICE OF OTHER YEARS. 

O Stella ! goldeu star of youth and love ! 

Ill thy soft uaiue tlio voice of other years 
Seems souudiiig ; each green court, and arched grove 

Where, haad-iu-haiid, vre walked, agaiu appears, 

Called by the spell : the very clouds and tears, 
O'er which thy dawning lamp its splendor darted, 

Gleam bright ; and they are there, my youthful 
jieers. 
The lofty-minded and the gentle-hearted ; 
Tlie beauty of the earth — the light of days de- 
parted — 
All, all return ; and with them comes a throng 

Of withered hopes, and loves made desolate. 
And high resolves cherislicd in silence long. 

Yea, struggliug still beneath the incumbent 
weight 

Of spirit-quelling Time and adverse fate. 
These only live ; all else have passed away 

To Memory's siiectre-laud ; and she, who sate 
'Mid that bright choir so bright, is now as they — 
A morning dream of life, dissolving with the d;iv. 



TO A GIRL IN HER THIRTEENTH YEAR. 

Thy smiles, thy talk, thy aimless plays. 

So beautiful approve thee. 
So winning light are all tliy ways, 

I cannot choose but love thee. 
Thy balmy breath upon my brow 

Is like the summer air. 
As o'er my chcelc thou leanest now, 

To plant a soft kiss there. 

Thy steps are dancing toward the bound 

Between the child and woman ; 
And thoughts and feelings more profound. 

And other years, are coming : 
Aud thou shalt be more deeply fair, 

More precions to the heart ; 
But never canst thou be agaiu 

That lovely thing thou art ! 

Aud youth shall pass, with all the brood 

Of fancy-fed affection ; 
Aud grief shall come with womanhood, 

Aud waken cold reflection ; 
Thou'lt learn to toil and watch, and weep 

O'er pleasures unreturning. 
Like one who wakes from pleasant sleep 

Unto the cares of morning. 



Nay, saj' not so ! nor cloud the sun 

Of joyous expectation. 
Ordained to bless the little one, 

Tile frcshliug of creation ! 
Nor doubt that He who thus doth fi:ed 

Her early lamp with gladness, , , 
Will be her present help in need. 

Her comforter in sadness. 

Smile on, then, little winsome thing, 

All rich ill Nature's treasure ! 
Tliou hast within thy heart a spring 

Of self-renewing pleasure. 
Smile on, fair child, and take thy 611 

Of mirth, till time shall cud it : 
'Tis Nature's wise aud gentle will, 

And who shall reprehend it f 



iJtrcmiol} Soscpl) (Ilailanan. 

C;ill;man (1795-1839) was bora in Cork, Irelantl, and 
educated for the priesthood at M.iynooth. But he gave 
up his clerical prospects, and in 1825 was an assistant iu 
the school of Dr. Maginii, by whose introduction he be- 
came a contributor to BlurkicoofV a Magazine. In 1S29 he 
was tutor in the family of an Irish gentleman in Lisbon, 
and died there in the thirty-fourth year of his age, as he 
was about leaving for Ireland. A small 12mo volume of 
his Poems was published at Cork soon after his death. 
A new edition appeared in 1S47; and in 18-JS was issued 
a third edition, edited by D. F. McCarthy, with an inter- 
esting Memoir. 



THE VIRGIN MARY'S BANK. 

FOUNDED ON .\N EXISTING rOPUL.\R TRADITION IN THE 
COUNTY OF CORK. 

The oveniug-star rose beauteous above the fading 
day. 

As to the lone and silent beach the Virgin came 
to pray; 

And hill and wave shone brightly in the moon- 
light's mellow fall. 

But the banlc of green where Mary knelt was bright- 
est of them all. 

Slow moving o'er the waters a gall.ant bai-k ap- 
peared. 

And her joyous crew looked from the deck as to 
the laud she neared ; 

To the calm aud .sheltered haven she floated like 
a swan, 

Aud her wings of snow o'er the waves below in 
pride aud beauty shone. 



4TU 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



The master saw " Oiii- Lady " as lie stood upon the 

prow, 
And marked the whiteness of her rohe, the radiance 

of lier brow ; 
Her arms were fokled gracefully upon her stainless 

breast, 
And her eyes looked up among the stars to Him 

her soul loved best. 

He showed her to his sailors, and he hailed her 

with a cheer ; 
And on the kneeling Virgin then they gazed with 

laugh and jeer, 
And madly swore a form so fair they never saw 

before. 
And they cursed the faint and lagging breeze that 

kept them from the shore. 

'J'be ocean from its bosom .shook oft' the moonlight 

.sheen. 
And up its wrathful billows rose to vindicate their 

Queen ; 
And a cloud came o'er the heavens, and a darkness 

o'er the land, 
And the scoffing crew beheld uo more tliat Lady 

on the strand. 

Out burst the pealing thunder, and the lightning 

leaped about ; 
And, rushing with its watery war, the tempest gave 

a shout ; 
And that vessel from a mountain-wave came down 

with thundering shock, 
And her timbers flew like scattered spray on Inchi- 

dony's rock. 

Then loud from all that guilty crew one shriek rose 
wild and high ; 

Lint the angry surge swept over them, and hushed 
their gurgling cry ; 

And with a hoarse exulting tone the tempest 
passed away, 

And down, still chaling from their strife, the in- 
dignant waters lay. 

When tlu' calm and purple morning .shone out on 

high Dunnnire, 
Full, many a nninglcd eorp.s(! was seen on Inchi- 

dony's shore ; 
And to this day the fisherman shows where the 

scoffers sank, 
And still he calls that hillock green the Virgin 

Mary's Bauk. 



(Lljomas ^'oou (Talfourl). 

Talfourd (1795-1854) was a native of Doxey, a suburb 
of Stafford, England. His father was a brewer in Read- 
ing. Having studied the law, Thomas was called to the 
Bar in 1831, and in 1S33 got his silk gown. As Sergeant 
Talfourd, he was conspicuous for his popular eloquence 
and liberal principles. He was returned to Parliament 
for the borough of Reading. In 1835 he published his 
tragedy of " Ion," which was the next year produced at 
Covcut Garden Theatre with success. It is the liighest 
literary elibrt of its author; and Miss Ellen Tree, who 
played the part of tlie hero in tlic United States, lielped 
to make it famous. Talfourd also produced "The Athe- 
nian Captive," a tragedy; "The Massacre of Glencoe;" 
and "The Castilian," a tragedy. He also wrote a "Life 
of Cliarles Lamb," and an "Essay on the Greek Drama." 
In 1849 he was elevated to the Bench ; and in 1854 he 
died of apoplexy,while delivering his charge to the grand- 
jury at Staflbrd. 



TO THE SOUTH AMERICAN PATRIOTS. 

O.N THE DISPERSION OF THE E-XPEDITIOX FROM SPAIN, 
APRIL, 1819. 

Rejoice, yo heroes ! Freedom's old ally, 
Unehangiiig Nature, who hath seen the powers 
Of tliousand tyrannies decline like flowers. 
Your triumiih aids with eldest sympathy: — 
The breeze hath swept again the stormy sky 
That wooed Athenian waves with tcuderest kiss. 
And breathed, in glorious rage, o'er Salamis ! 
Leaguing with deathless chiefs, whoso spirits high 
Shared in its freedom — now from long repose 
It wakes to dash unmastered Ocean's foam 
O'er the proud navies of your tyrant foes ; 
Nor shall it cease in ancient might to roam 
Till it hath borne your contest's glorious close 
To every breast where freedom finds a home. 



LOVE IMMORTAL. 

FnoM "Ion." 

Chmaiitlif. And shall we never see each other ? 

Ion {(iftcT a pause). Yes ! 
I have a.skcd that dreadful question of the hills, 
That look eternal; of the flowing streams, 
Tlmt lucid flow forever; of the stars, 
Amid wlio.so fields of azure my raised spirit 
Hath tiod in glory: all were dumb; hut now. 
While I thus gaze upon thy living face, 
I feel the love that kindles through its beauty 
Can never wholly perish : we shall meet 
Again, Clemanthe I 



THOMAS XOUN TALFOCUD. 



471 



VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF A CHILD 
NAMED AFTER CHARLES LAMB. 

Onr geutle Charles has passed away, 
From earth's short bondage free, 

And left to us its leaden day 
And mist-enshrouded sea. 

Here, by the restless ocean's side, 
Sweet hours of hope have flown, 

When first the trinniph of its tide 
Seemed omen of our own. 

That eager joy the sea-breeze gave, 

When first it raised his hair, 
Sank Avith each day's retiring wave 

Beyond the reach of prayer. 

The suu-bliiik that through dazzliug mist, 

To flickering hope akin. 
Far waves -n-ith feeble fondness kissed, 

No smile as faint can win ; 

Yet not iu vain with radiance weak 
The heavenly stranger gleams — • 

Not of the world it lights to speak, 
But that from whence it streams. 

That world our patieut suflerer sought. 

Serene, with pitying eyes, 
As if his mounting spirit caught 

The wisdom of the skies. 

AVith bonndless love it looked abroad. 
For one bright moment given. 

Shone with a loveliness that awc^. 
And quivered into heaven. 

A year, made slow by caro and toil. 

Has paced its weary round. 
Since death enriched with kindred spoil 

The snow-clad, frost-ribbctl ground. 

Then Lamb, with whoso endearing name 

Our boy we proudly graced. 
Shrank from the warmth of sweeter fame 

Than ever bard embraced. 

Still, 'twas a mournful joy to think 

Our darling might supply 
For years on earth a living link 

To name that cannot die. 



And though such fancy gleam no more 

Ou earthly sorrow's night. 
Truth's nobler torch unveils the shore 

Which lends to both its light. 

The nursling there that h.aud may ^take 

Noue ever grasped in vain. 
And smiles of well-known sweetness wake. 

Without their tinge of pain. 

Tiiough 'twixt the child and childlike bard 
Late seemed distiuctiou wide. 

They now may trace, in Heaven's regard. 
How near they were allied. 

Withiu the iufant's ample brow 

Blithe fancies lay unfurled. 
Which, all uncrushed, may open now 

To charm a sinless world. 

Though the soft spirit of those eyes 

Might ne'er with Lamb's compete- 
Ne'er sparkle with a wit as wise. 
Or melt iu tears as sweet, — 

That calm and unforgotten look 

A kindred love reveals 
With his who never friend forsook. 

Or hurt a thing that feels. 

In thought profound, in wildest glee, 
In sorrow's lengthening range, 

His guileless soul of infancy 
Endured no spot or change. 

From traits of each our love receives 

For comfort nobler scope ; 
While light which childlike genius leaves 

Confirms the infant's hope : 

And in that hojie, with sweetness fraught. 

Be aching hearts beguiled. 
To blend in one delightful thought 

The poet and the child. 



AN ACT OF KINDNESS. 
From " Ion.'* 

The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter 
Have their own season. 'Tis a little thing 
To give a cup of water ; yet its draught 
Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips. 



472 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Slay give a shock of pleasure to the frame 

More exquisite tbau wbeu nectareau juice 

Eeuews the life of joy iu happiest hours. 

It is a little thing to speak a phrase 

Of commou comfort which by daily use 

Has almost lost its sense ; yet on the ear 

Of bim who tlu)ught to die unmourned 'twill full 

Like choicest music, fill the glazing eye 

With gentle tears, relax the knotted baud 

To know the houds of fellowship again, 

Aud shed ou the departing soul a sense 

More jirecious than the beuisou of friends 

About the honored deatb-bed of the rich, 

To bim who else were lonely, that auotber 

Of the great family is near and feels. 



SONNET : ON THE RECEPTION OF THE POET 
WORDSWORTH AT OXFORD. 

Ob, never did a mighty truth prevail 

With such felicities of place and time 

As iu those sbonts sent forth with joy sublime 

From the full heart of England's youth, to hail 

Her once neglected bard witbiu the pale 

Of Learning's fairest citadel ! That voice, 

Iu which the future thuuders, bids rejoice 

Some who through wintry fortunes did not fail 

To bless with love as deep as life the name 

Thus welcomed ; — who iu happy silence share 

The triumph; while their fondest niusiugs claim 

Unhoped-for echoes iu the joyous air. 

That to their long-loved Poet's spirit bear 

A nation's iiromise of undying fame. 



iFoscpl) UoLiiiuui Drake. 



Drake (1795-1820), whose remarkable promise was 
checked by an early death, was a native of the city of 
New York. He obtained a good education, studied med- 
icine, and was admitted to practice, soon after wliicli 
be was married. With his wife he visited Europe iu 
1S17. On his return pulmonary disease developed it- 
self; in the winter of 1819 lie visited New Orleans in 
the hope of relief, but died the following autumn, at the 
age of twenty-live. Like Bryant, be was a poet from 
boyhood, and wrote remarkable verses before bo w.as 
fifteen. He was associated with Hallcck in writing the 
poems signed "Croaker & Co.," and liis "American 
Flag" first appeared among these (1819). "The Cul- 
prit Fay" (1K19), bis longest poem, is said to have been 
written in three days. It shows great facility in versi- 
fying, and an affluent fancy. The following passage is a 



not wholly unworthy parallel of Sbakspcare's descrip- 
tion of " Queen Mab :" 

" He put his ncorn helmet on, 
It was pliiined of the silk of the tlil?tle-down; 
The corselet-plate that guiirded his hreast 
Was ouce the wild hee's golden vest; 
Ills cloak of a thousand mingled dyes 
W.is formed of the wings of butterrties; 
His shield w.is the shell of a lady-bug queen. 
Studs of gold ou a ground of green ; 
And the quivering lance which he brandished bright 
Was the Bting of a wasp he hud slaiu iu fight." 

When Drake was on his death-bed, his brother-in-law. 
Dr. De Kay, collected and copied all the young poet's 
productions in verse that could be found, and took them 
to him, saying, "See, Joe, what I have done." "Burn 
them," replied Drake; "they are valueless." Clever as 
they are, they did not come up to his ideal of what poetry 
ought to be. N. P. Willis remarks of him : " His power 
of language was prompt; bis peculiarity was that of in- 
stantaneous creation ; thought, imagination, truth, and' 
imagery seemed to combine and produce their results in 
a moment." 



THE AMERICAN FLAG. 

When Freedom from her mountain height 

Unfurled her standard to the air, 
She tore the azure robe of night. 

And set the stars of glory there. 
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
The milky baldric of the skies, 
And striped its pure celestial white 
With streakings of the morning light; 
Tlieu from his mansion in the sun 
She called her eagle bearer down. 
And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen laud. 

M.njestic monarch of the cloud, 

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
To bear the tempest-trnmpings lond, 
And see tho liglitning-lances driven, 

When stride the warriors of the storm. 
Ami rcdls tho thunder-drum of heaven, — 
Child of tho sun ! to theo 'tis given 

To guard the banner of tho free, 
To hover iu the sulphur smoke, 
To ward away the battle-stroke. 
And bid its blendings shino afar, 
Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 

The harbingers of victory! 

Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
Tho sign of hope and triumph high! 
When speaks tho signal trumpet tone, 
And the long lino comes gleaming ou, — 



JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 



473 



Ero yet the life-blood, warm ami wet, 
Has (limraed the glisteniug bayonet, — 
Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 
To where thy sky-born gloiies burn ; 
And, as his springing steps advance. 
Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
And when the cauuou-mouthiugs lond 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud, 
And gory sabres rise and fall 
Like shoots of flamo on midnight's pall — 
There shall thy meteor-glances glow, 

And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 
Each gallant arm that strikes below 

That lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave 
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave : 
When death, careering on the gale, 
Sweeps darkly 'round the bellied sail, 
And frighted waves rush wildly back 
Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
Each dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
And smile to see thy splendors fly 
III triumph o'er his closing eye. 

Flag of the free heart's hope and home! 

By angel hands to valor given ! 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 

And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
Forever float that standard sheet! 

Where breathes the foe, but falls before us? 
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet. 

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er ns! 



ODE TO FORTUNE. 

From ''The Croakers." 

Fair lady with the bandaged eye! 

I'll pardon all thy scurvy tricks; 
So thou wilt cut me and deny 

Alike thy kisses and thy kicks: 
I'm quite contented as I am — 

Have cash to keep mj- duns at bay, 
Can choose between beefsteaks aud haul. 

And drink Madeira every day. 

My station is the middle rank, 
My fortune just a competence — • 

Ten thousand iu the Fr.ankliu Bank, 
And tweutj- in the sis per-eents. ; 



No amorous chains my heart iutlirall; 

I neither borrow, lend, nor sell ; 
Fearless I roam the City Hall, 

Aud bite my thumb at Mr. Bell.' 

The horse that twice a year I ride. 

At Mother Dawson's eats his till ; 
My books at Goodrich's abide. 

My country-seat is Wechawk hill; 
My n)orniug lounge is Eastburn's shop, 

At Poppleton's I take my lunch ; 
Niblo prepares my mutton-chop, 

And Jennings makes my whiskey-punch. 

When merry, I the hours amuse 

By squibbing Bucktails, Guards, and balls; 
And when I'm troubled with the blues, 

Damn Cliutou' and abn,se canals.' 
Then, Fortune ! since I ask no prize, 

At least preserve me from thy frown ; 
The m.an who don't attempt to rise, 

'Twere cruelty to tumble down. 



THE GATHERING OF THE FAIRIES. 

From "Tue Culprit Fay." 

'Tis the middle watch of a snmmer's night — 

The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright : 

Naught is seen in the vault on high 

But the moon, aud the .stars, and the cloudless sky, 

Aud the flood which rolls its milky hue, 

A river of light, on the welkin blue. 

The moon looks down on old Cro'nest ; 

She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast, 

And seems his huge gray form to throw. 

In a silver cone, on the wave below. 

His sides are broken by spots of shade. 

By the waluufc bough and the cedar made, 

Aud through their clustering branches dark 

Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark — 

Like starry twinkles that momently break 

Through the rifts of the g.ithering tempest's rack. 

The st.ars .are on the moving stream. 
And fling, as its ripples gently flow, 

A burnished length of wavy beam 
In au eel-like, spiral line below ; 



> The Eheiiff of New York Cit}'. 

^ De Witt Clinton, Governor of the State of Xew York, and 
the .idvoc.'itc of the gi-e.tt ciir.jil project. 
3 Formerly pronounced caiiawin. 



474 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEEICAX rOETRY. 



The winds are -nhist, and the owl is still, 

The bat in the shelvy rock is hid, 
And naught is heard ou the lonely hill 
But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill 

Of the gauze-winged katydid, 
And the jilaint of the wailing whippoorwill. 
Who mourns unseen, and ceaseless sings 

Ever a note of wail and woe. 
Till morning spreads her rosy wings, 

Aud earth and sky in her glances glow. 

'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell: 

The -wood-tick has kept tlie minutes well ; 

He has counted them all with click and stroke. 

Deep in the heart of tlie luouutain oak, 

And ho has awakened the sentry elve 

Wlio sleeps with him in the haunted tree. 
To bid him ring the hour of twelve. 

And call the fays to their revelry; 
Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell — 
('Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell) — 
"Midnight comes, and all is woU ! 
Hither, hitlier wing your way ! 
'Tis the dawn of tlie fiiiry day." 

They come from beds of lichen green, 

They creep from the muUeiu's velvet screen ; 

Some on the backs of beetles fly 

From the silver tops of moon-touched trees. 
Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks 
high. 

And rocked about in the evening breeze; 
Some from the luim-bird's downy nest — 

They had driven him out by elfin powei-, 
And piHowed on plumes of his rainbow breast. 

Had slumbered there till the charmdd hour ; 
Some had lain in the scoop of the rock. 

With glittering ising-stars iulaid; 
Aud some had opened the four-o'clock. 

And stole within its purple shade. 
And now they throng the moonlight glade, 

Above — below — on every side. 
Their little minim forms arrayed 

In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride. 

They cnme not now to print the lea 

In freak and ilanco around the tree, 

Or at the mushroom board to sup, 

And drink the dew from the buttercup ; — 

A scene of sorrow waits them now. 

For an ouplie has broken his vestal vow : 

He has loved an earthly maid, 

Aud left for her his woodland shade; 



He has lain upon her lip of dew, 
And sunned him in her eye of bine. 
Fanned her cheek with his wing of air, 
Played in the ringlets of her hair, 
And, nestling ou her snowy breast, 
Forgot the lily-king's behest. 
For this the shadowy tribes of air 

To the eltiu court must haste away: 
And now they stand expectant there, 

To hear the doom of the Culprit Fay. 

The throne was reared upon the grass. 
Of spice-wood and of sassafras ; 
On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell 

Huug the burnished canopy — 
And o'er it gorgeous cui'taius fell 

Of the tulip's crimsou drapery. 
The monarch sat on his judgment-seat, 

On his brow the crown imperial shone ; 
The prisoner fay was at his feet. 

And his peers were ranged around the throne. 
He waved his sceptre in the air. 

He looked around, and calmly spoke ; 
His brow was grave, and his eye severe. 

But his voice iu a softened accent broke: 
"Fairy! Fairy! list aud mark: 

Thou hast broke thine elfin chain ; 
Thy flame-wood lamp is qiieuched and dark. 

And thy wings are dyed with a deadly stain — 
Thou hast sullied thine elfin purity 

In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye; 
Thou hast scorned our dread decree, 

And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high. 
But well I know her sinless mind 

Is pure as the angel forms above. 
Gentle aud meek, and chaste and kind, 

Such as a spirit well might love. 
Fairy ! had she spot or taint. 
Bitter had been thy punishment: 
Tied to the horuet's shardy wings ; 
Tossed on the pricks of nettles' stings ; 
Or seven long ages doomed to dwell 
With the lazy worm in the walnut-shell; 
Or every night to writhe and bleed 
Beneath the tread of the centipede; 
Or bound in a cobweb dungeon dim. 
Your jailer a spider, huge and grim. 
Amid the carrion bodies to lie 
Of the worm, and the bug, and the murdered 

fly : 
These it had been your lot to bear. 
Had a stain been found on the earthly fair. 



MARIA {GOWEX) BROOKS.— THOMAS CARLTLE. 



475 



illavia (({5oiiicn) Brooks. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs. Bi-ooks (1795-1845), to whom Southcy gave the 
pen-name of "Maria del Occidentc" (Maria of the 
West), was of Welsli descent, the dauf;hter of Mr. Gow- 
en, of Medford, Mass., where she was born. Before her 
eiiihteenth year she married Mr. Brooks, a Boston mer- 
chant, and on his death, in 1823, went to live with a 
wealthy uncle in Cnba, who, dying, left her a cotton 
plantation and some other property. In 1830, in com- 
pany with her brother, she went to France, and in 1831 
passed the spring in the house of Robert Sonthey, the 
poet, to whom she addressed, at parting, these graceful 
lines : 

" Soft be thy sleep as mists that rest 
Ou Skicldftw's top at summer morn ; 
Smooth be thy days as Derweut's breast 

When suminer lii^ht is almost gone ! 
And yet, for thee why breathe a prayer ? 

I deem thy fate is given in trust 
To seraphs who by daily care 

Would prove that Heaven is not unjust. 
And treasured shall thy hiiage be 

In Memory's purest, ht)liest shrine. 
While truth and honor glow iu thee, 
Or life's warm, quivering pulse is mine.'- 

Southey calls Mrs. Brooks " the most impassioned and 
most imaginative of all poetesses" — praise whieli was 
echoed by Charles Lamb, but which will seem a little 
extravagant to the present generation. Southey read 
the proofs of her " Zophiel ; or. The Bride of Seven," a 
poem in sis cantos, which, in its completed form, was 
published in London in 1833, and in Boston in 1834. 
It contains lines of great descriptive beauty, but as a 
whole is like a surfeit of sweets. A new edition, with 
a memoir by Mrs. Zadel Barnes Gustafson, author of 
"Meg; a Pastoral, and other Poems," was published in 
Boston iu 1879. 



SONG OF EGLA. 
From "Zophiel." 

Day, in melting purple ilying ; 

Blossoms, all around me sighing; 

Fragraucc, from the lilies straying ; 

Zephyr, with my ringlets playing ; — 
Ye but wakeu my distress: 
I am sick of loneliness ! 

Thou to whom I love to hearken, 
Come, ere night aronnd me darken ! 
Though thy softness but deceive me, 
Say thon'rt true, and I'll believe tUee : 

Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent ; 

Let me think it innocent ! 

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure ; 
All I ask is friendship's iileasure : 



Let the shining ore lie darkling, — 
Bring uo gem iu lustre sparkling : 

Gifts and gold are naught to me ; 

I would only look ou thee; — 

Tell to thee the Itigh-wrought feeling, 

Ecstasy but iu revealing ; 

Paint to thee the deep sensation, 

Rapture in participation, 

Yet but torture, if compressed 
In a lone, unfriended breast. 

Absent still ? Ah, come and bless me ! 

Let these eyes again caress thee ! 

Once, iu caution, I could fly thee ; 

Now I nothiug could deny thee : 

Iu a look if death there be. 
Come, and I will gaze ou thee! 



SljomaG (Etxrlnlc. 

Carlyle, foraous as moralist, satirist, historian, and bi- 
ographer — the "censor of his age," "the prince of 
scolds" — has also been, in a small way, a poet. He 
lacked tlie lyrical faculty, however, and was, perhaps, 
aware of his failure ; for in a letter from his pen, dated 
1870, we find liim giving it as his mature opinion that 
"the writing of verse — in this age, at least — is an un- 
worthy occupation for a man of ability." Not being 
able to reach the grapes, he decries them as sour. The 
penetrating thinker will probably find as much fresh 
wisdom in Wordsworth's verse as in Carlyle's rugged 
prose, wliere we often liave the obscurity without the 
melody of the profound poet. Carlyle was born Decem- 
ber 4th, 1795, in the village of Ecclesfoehan, Scotland. His 
father was a man of great moral worth and sagacity, 
while his mother was atfeetionate and more than ordi- 
narily intelligent. It is not with his remarkable prose 
writings that we have here to deal. There is little that 
is worthy of preservation in his verse. In 1834 he took 
up liis residence in Chelsea, near London, where he was 
living in 1880, honored and respected for his brilliant tal- 
ents and his much-prized contributions to the literature 
of the age. 



cm BONO? 

W^hat is hope ? A smiling rainbow 
Children follow through the wet : 

'Tis not here — still yonder, yonder ; 
Never urchin found it yet. 

What is life ? A thawing iceboard 
Ou a sea with sunny shore : 

Gay we sail ; it melts beneath us ; 
We are snuk, and seen uo more. 



476 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEItlCAX POETRY. 



What is iiiaii f A foolish baby ; 

Vainly strives, and fij;lits, anil fiets : 
Deniaiuliiig all, deserving nothing, 

One small grave is what ho gets ! 



TO-DAY. 



So here hath bceu dawning another blue day ! 
Think, wilt thou let it slip useless away ? 

Out of Eternity this new day was born ; 
Into Eternity at night will return. 

Behold it aforotinic uo eye ever did ; 
So soou it forever from all eyes is hid. 

Here hath been dawning another blue day: 
Think, wilt thou let it slip useless away f 



5it5-(!3rccue tjixllcik. 

AMERICAN. 

Halleck (1795-1807) was a native of Guilford, Conn. 
Wliile a hoy of fourteen lie began to versify. In 1813 he 
entered llic b;inUing-liouse of Jacob Barker in New York, 
and subsciiuoiitly became the confidential clerk of New 
Y'ork's foremost niilMonnairc, John Jacob Astor. In 
1819 he retired to his native town on a competence. He 
made frequent visits to New York, however, where he 
had troops of friends. He remained a bachelor, and wrote 
little after giving uj) his clerkship. In 1819 he liad been 
associated with Drake in the composition of some satiri- 
cal poems called " The Croaker Papers." In 1833, '33 he 
visited Eiivope, and as the fruits of his travels wo have 
two line poems, "Alnwick Castle" and the lines on 
Burns, wldeh last show the inlliicnce of Campbell, of 
whom Ilalleck was a great admirer. 

The first colleetion of liis poems appeared in 1837; the 
second in 18;iC; a thinl, with illustrations, in 1847; and 
a fourth in 1853. His lliglits were limited; his poetry is 
that of the emotions rather than of tlie meditative fac- 
ulty; and a small volume will hold all that he wrote. 
But in his day Halleck was a conspicuous ligurc, and 
regarded with some local pride in the city of his adoj)- 
tion. He was an agreeable companion, scrupulously 
honorable in all his dealings ; and his beaming counte- 
nance, the smile on wliich seemed to come from an af- 
fectionate nature, made him a welcome guest at all social 
gatherings. He had little ambition as an author, regard- 
ing himself only as an amateur, and having a keener con- 
sciousness than any of his critics of his own literary lim- 
italious. Ills " Life aud Letters," edited by James Grant 
Wilson of New York, was published in 1869. Bryant, in 
vindicating Halleck from the charge of occasional rough- 
ness in his vei'silicatiou, says: "He knows that the rivu- 
let is made musical by the obstructions in its chanucl." 



ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 

" The good die flist, 
And Ihoy whose hcnits are dry ns snminer dust 
Baru to the socket." — WoupswoitTU. 

Green be the turf above thee. 

Friend of my better days! 
None knew thee but to love thee, 

Nor named thee but to praise. 

Tears fell, when thou wert dying, 

From eyes unused to weep ; 
And long where thou art lying 

Will tears the cold turf steep. 

When hearts whose truth was proven, 
Like thine, are laid in earth. 

There should a wreath bo woven. 
To tell the world their worth ; 

Aud I, who woke each morrow 

To clasp thy Land in mine. 
Who .shared thy joy and sorrow. 

Whoso weal and woo were thine, — 

It should be mine to braid it 

Around thy faded brow ; 
But I've in vain essayed it, 

Aud feel I cannot now. 

While memory bids mo weep thee. 
Nor tbouglits nor words are free ; 

The grief is fixed too deeply 
That mourns a man like thee. 



MARCO HOZZAKIS. 

Marco liozzavis fell iu a night attack on the Tarkish caaip 
at L.isi)i, the site of the ancient Plataja, August 20lh, 1S23. His 
last words were : " To die for liberty is n pleasure, inul uot a 
pain." 

At midnight, in his guarded tent. 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When (ireeee, her Uueo in snpplianco bent, 

Should tremble at his power ; 
In dre.ama, through camp and court, he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror ; 

Iu dreams, his song of triumph heard; 
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring; 
Then pressed that nninareh's throne, — a king; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 

As Eden's garden bird. 



FITZ-GBEENE HALLECE. 



477 



At midiiiglit, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote baud, 
True as the steel of their tried bUules, 

Heroes in heart and hand. 
There had the Persian's tlioiisands stood, 
Tlicre had tlie glad earth drank tlieir blood 

On old Plata;a's day ; 
And now there breathed that hannted air 
The SODS of sires wlio conquered there. 
With arm to strike, and son! to dare, 

As qnick, as far, as they. 

An hour passed on — the Turk awoke : 

That bright dream was his last; 
He -(voke to hear his sentries shriek, 
" To arms ! — they come ! the Greek ! the Greek !" 
He woke — to die 'mid tlame, and smoke. 
And shont, and groan, and sabre-stroke, 

And death-shots falling thick and fast 
As lightnings from the niountain-eloud ; 
And heard, with voice as trnmpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his baud : 
" Strike— till the last armed foe expires; 
Strike — for your altars and your fires ; 
Strike — for the green graves of j'our sires ; 

God — and your native land!" 

They fought — like brave men, long and well ; 

They piled that ground with Moslem slain ; 
They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile, when rang their proud hurrah, 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close, 
Calmly as to a night's repose. 

Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal chamber. Death ! 

Come to the mother, when she feels. 
For the first time, her first-born's breath ; — 

Come when the blessed seals 
That close the pestilence are broke. 
And crowded cities wail its stroke; 
Come in consumption's ghastly form. 
The cartliquake's shock, the ocean-storm ; 
Coine when the heart beats high and warm 

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine ; 
And thou art terrible ! — the tear. 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier ; 
And all we know, or dream, or fear, 

Of agony, are thiuc. 



But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free, 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thank.s of millions yet to be. 
Come when his task of fame is wrought ; 
Come with her laurel-leaf, blood-houglit ; 

Come in her crowning hour, — and then 
Thy sunken eye's uuearthly light 
To him is welcome as the sight 

Of sky and stars to prisoned men ; 
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign land ; 
Thy summons welcome as the cry 
That told the Indian isles were nigh 

To the world-seeking Genoese, 
When the land-wind, from woods of palm, 
And orange-groves, and fields of balm, . 

Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 

Bozzaris ! with the storied brave 

Greece nurtured iu her glory's time, 
Rest thee ; there is no jnouder grave. 

Even in her own prond clime. 
She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plnnie, 
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, 
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry. 

The heartless luxury of the tomb. 
But she remembers thee as one 
Long loved, and for a season gone. 
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed. 
Her marble wrought, her music breathed ; 
For thee she rings the birthday bells; 
Of thee; her babes' first lisping tells ; 
For thine her evening prayer is said 
At palace couch and cottage bed. 
Her soldier, closing Avith the foe. 
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; 
His plighted maiden, when she fears 
For him, the joy of her yonug years. 
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears. 

And she, the mother of thy boys. 
Though in her eye and faded cheek 
Is read the grief she will not speak. 

The memory of her buried joys, — 
And even she who gave thee birth, — 
Will by their pilgrim-circled hearth 

Talk of thy doom witliont a sigh : 
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's — 
One of the few, the immortal names. 

That were not born to die ! 



473 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRT. 



BURNS. 

TO A ROSE BROFGHT FROM NEAR ALLOWAY KIRK, IN 
AYlislllKE, IX TU£ AUIL'JIN UF 1S'J2. 

Wild rose of Alloway! wy thanks: 
Tliou niiad'st me of that autumn uoou 

Wliuu first we met upon "tlie banks 
And braes o' bonny Doon.'' 

Like thine beneath the thorn-tree's bough, 
My sunny hour was gUul and brief; 

We've crossed the winter sea, and thou 
Art withered — dower and leaf. 

And will not thy death-doom be mine — 
The doom of all things wrought of clay ? 

And withered my life's leaf like thine, 
Wild rose of Alloway ? 

Not so his memory for whose sake 
My bosom bore thee far and long — 

His who a humbler flower could make 
Immortal as his song. 

The memory of Burns — a name 

That calls, when brimmed her festal cup, 

A nation's glory and her shamo 
In silent sadness up. 

A nation's glory — be the rest 

Forgot— she's canonized his mind ; 

And it is joy to speak the best 
We may of humankind. 

I've stood beside the cottage bed 

Where the Bard-peasant first drew breath, 

A straw-thatched roof above his head, 
A straw-wrought couch beneath. 

And I have stood beside the pile. 
His monument — that tells to heaven 

The homage of earth's proudest isle 
To that Bard-peasant given! 

Bid thy thoughts hover o'er th.at spot. 
Boy-minstrel, in thy dreaming hour; 

And know, however low his lot, 
A Poet's pride and power. 

The prido that lifted Burns from earth. 
The power that gave a child 'of song 



Ascendency o'er rauk and birth, 
The rich, the brave, the strong : 

And if despondency weigh down 
Thy spirit's fluttering pinions then, 

Despair : — thy name is written on 
Tlie roll of common men. 

There have been loftier themes than his, 
And longer scrolls and louder lyres, 

And l.ays lit up with Poesy's 
Purer and holier fires : 

Yet read the names that know not death ; 

Few nobler ones than Burns are there ; 
And few have won a greener wreath 

Tban that which binds his hair. 

His is that language of the heart 

In which the answering heart would speak — 
Thought, w-ord, that bids the warm tear start. 

Or the smile light the cheek ; 

And his that music to whose tone 

The common pulse of man keeps time. 

In cot or castle's mirth or moan, 
lu cold or sunny clime. 

And who hath heard his song, nor knelt 
Before its spell with willing knee, 

And listened, and believed, and felt 
The Poet's mastery f 

O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm ; 

O'er the heart's sunshine and its showers; 
O'er Passion's moments, bright and warm ; 

O'er Reason's dark, cold hours ; 

On fields where bravo men "die or do;" 
In halls where rings the baiujuet's mirth. 

Where mourners weep, where lovers woo, 
From throne to cottage he.arth ! 

What sweet tears dim tho eye unshed. 
What wild vows falter on the tongue. 

When " .Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," 
Or "Anld Lang Syne" is sung! 

Pure hopes, that lift the soul above. 

Come with the Cotter's hymn of praise ; 

And dreams of youth, and truth, and love 
With "Logan's" banks and braes. 



FITZ-GREESE EALLECK. 



47H 



And -when he breathes his master-lay 
Of AUoway's witch-hanuted wall, 

All passious iu our frames of clay 
Come througing at his call. 

Imagination's woikl of :iir, 

And our own ■norld, its gloom and glee, — 
Wit, pathos, poetry, are there, 

Aud death's subliinity. 

And Burns, though brief the race he ran, 
Though rough and dark the path he trod, 

Lived — died — in form and soul a Man, 
The image of his God. 

Tlirongh care, aud pain, and want, and woe, 
With wounds that only death conld heal,— 

Tortures the poor alone can know. 
The proud alone can feel, — - 

He kept his honesty aud truth. 
His independent tongue and pen, 

And moved, iu manhood as iu youth, 
Pride of his fellow-meu. 

Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, 

A hate of tyrant and of knave, 
A love of riglit, a scoi'u of wrong. 

Of coward, and of slave, — 

A kind, true heart, a spirit high. 

That could not fear and would not bow, 

Were written iu his manly eye 
And on his manly brow. 

Praise to the bard ! His words are driven, 
Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown, 

Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven. 
The birds of fame have flown. 

Praise to the man ! A nation stood 

Beside his coffin with wet eyes, 
Her brave, her beautiful, her good, 

As when a loved one dies. 

And still, as on his funeral day. 

Men stand his cold earth-conch aix)und, 

With the mute homage that we pay 
To consecrated ground. 

And consecrated ground it is, 

The last, the hallowed home of one 



Who lives upon all memories. 
Though with the buried gone. 

Such graves as his are pilgrim shrines, 
Shrines to no code or creed confined — 

The Delphian vales, the Palestiues, 
The Meccas of the mind. ' 

Sages with Wisdom's garland wreathed, 

Crowned kings, and mitred priests of power, 

And warriors with their bright swords sheathed. 
The mightiest of the hour; 

Aud lowlier names, whose humble home 

Is lit by Fortune's dimmer star, 
Are there-:-o'er wave and mountain come 

From conutries near and far ; 

Pilgrims whose wandering feet have pressed 
The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand, 

Or trod the piled leaves of the West, 
My own green forest-laud. 

All ask the cottage of his birth. 

Gaze on the scenes he loved aud sung, 

Aud gather feelings not of earth 
His fields aud streams among. 

They linger by the Boon's low trees, 
Aud iiastoral Nith, aud wooded Ayr, 

And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries ! 
The Poet's tomb is there. 

But what to them the sculptor's art, 
His fuueral columns, wreaths, and urns ? 

Wear they not graven on the heart 
The name of Robert Bui'us 1 



ALNWICK CASTLE. 

Hoipe of the Percy's high-born race. 

Home of their beautiful aud brave, 
Alike their birth and burial place. 

Their cradle and their grave ! 
Still sternly o'er the castle-gate 
Their house's Lion stands iu state, 

As in his proud departed hours; 
Aud warriors frown in stone on high, 
Aud feudal banners "flout the sky" 

Above his princely towers. 



480 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



A gentle hill its side inclines, 

Lovely iu England's fadeless green, 
To meet the quiet stream which winds 

Through this romantic scene. 
As silently aud sweetly still 
As when, at evening, on that hill, 

While summer's wind blew soft and low, 
Seated by gallant Hotsiiur's side. 
His Kathcriiie was a happy bride, 

A thousand years ago. 

Gaze ou the Abbey's rniued pile: 

Docs nut the snccoring ivy, keeping 
Her watch around it, seem to smile. 

As o'er a loved one sleeping? 
One solitary turret gray 

Still tells, in melancholy glory. 
The legend of the Cheviot day, 

The Percy's proudest border-story. 

That day its roof was triumph's arch; 

Then rang, from aisle to pictured dome, 
The light step of the soldier's march. 

The music of the trump aud drum ; 
And babe, aud sire, the old, the young, 
Aud the monk's hymn, aud minstrel's song, 
Aud woman's pure kiss, sweet aud long, 

Welcomed her wan'ior home. 

Wild roses by the Abbey towers 

Are gay in their yonug biul and bloom : 
They were born of a race of funeral-tiowers 
That garlanded, in long-gone hours, 

A templar's knightly tomb. 
He died, his sword iu his maili5d hand, 
On the holiest spot of the Blessed land. 

Where the Cross was damped with his dying 
breath, 
When blond ran free as festal wine. 
And the sainted air of Palestine 

Was thick with the darts of death. 

Wise with the lore of centuries, 

What tales, if there be "tongues iu trees," 

Those giant oaks could tell. 
Of beings born and buried here ! 
Tales of the pea.sant and the peer, 
Tales of the bridal atul the bier, 

The welcome and farewell. 
Since on their boughs the startled bird 
First, in her twilight slumbers, heard 

The Norman's curfew-bell ! 



I wandered through the lofty halls 

Trod by the Percys of old fame, 
And traced upon the chapel walls 

Each high, heroic name, 
From him who once his standard set 
Where now, o'er mosque and minaret, 

Glitter the Sultau's crescent raoous; 
To him who, wheu a younger son, 
Fought for King George at Lexingtou, 

A major of dragoous.' 

That last half stanza — it has dashed 

From my warm lip the sparkling cup ; 
The light that o'er my ej-ebeam Hashed, 

The power that bore my siiirit up 
Above this bank-note world — is gone ; 
Aud Alnwick's but a market-town, 
Aud this, alas! its market-day. 
And beasts and borderers throng the way; 
O.xen and bleating lambs in lots, 
Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots, 

Men iu the coal and cattle line ; 
From Teviot's bard and hero land, 
From royal Berwick's beach of sand, 
From Wonller, Morpeth, Hexham, aud 

Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 

These are not the romantic tifues 
So beautiful iu Spenser's rhymes. 

So dazzling to the dreaming boy : 
Ours are the days of fact, not fable ; 
Of knights, but not of the round-table ; 

Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy : 
'Tis what " our Presideut," Monroe, 

Has called " the era of good feeling :" 
The Highlander, the bitterest foe 
To modern laws, has felt their blow. 
Consented to be taxed, aud vote, 
Aud put ou pantaloons and coat, 

Aud leave otf cattle-stealing: 



1 IIn<;li, Earl Percy, here referred to, rose to he eoinething 
nioie than a major. Born in 1742, and educated at Eton Col- 
lege, he married, unhappily (1TG4), a dau;^liter of the Earl of 
Bute; and in 1774 was sent to the American colony. In letters 
to his father, the Duke of Northnmherland, he writes of the 
country ahmit Boston: ** Nature has herself done the work of 
the landscape gardener; but the climate is more trying than 
that of England. I have heen (.Iidy) iu both the torrid and 
frigid zone in the space of twenty-four hours. Sometimes my 
shirt is a burden ; again I need a blanket." The earl, while in 
Boston, occupied a line house at the corner of Winter and Tre- 
mout streets. In the skirmish at Lexington he covered the re- 
treat of Pitcairn's column, and showed both courage and gener- 
alship. He was tlie father of Thomas Smithson, who was born 
out of wedlock, and who founded the Smithsonian Institute at 
Washington, D. C. 



FITZ-GEEENE HALLECK.— JAMES GATES PEECIVAL. 



4S1 



Lord Stafi'iiril mines for coal ami salt, 
The Biiko of Norfolk tleals iu malt, 

The Douglas in red Jierrings ; 
And iioblo name and cultured land, 
Palace, and park, and vassal-band. 
Are powerless to the notes of hand 

Of Kothsehild or the Barings. 

The age of bargaining, said Bnike, 
Has come ; to-day the turbaned Turk 
(Sleep, Richard of the Hon heart ! 
Sleep on, nor from your cerements start) 

Is England's friend and fast ally ; 
Tlie Jloslem tramples on the Greek, 

And on the Cross and altar-stone, 

And Christendom looks tamely on, 
And liears the Christian maiden shriek, 

And sees the Christian father die ; 
And not a sabre-blow is given 
For Greece and fame, for faitli and heaven, 

By Europe's craveu chivalry. 

You'll ask if yet the Percy lives 

Iu the armed pomp of feudal state? 
The present representatives 

Of Hotspur and his "gentle Kate" 
Are some half-dozen serving-men 
In the drab coat of William Penn ; 

A chamber-maid, whose lip and eye, 
And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling, 

Spoke Nature's aristocracy ; 
And one, half groom, half seneschal, 
Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall. 
From donjon-keep to turret-wall. 
For ten-and-sixpeuce sterling. 



3amc5 ([?atcs jpcrcbal. 

AMERICAN. 

A native of Berlin, Conn., son of a country physician, 
Percival (179.5-1857) entered Yale College at sixteen, and, 
on graduating, began the study of medicine. He tried to 
establish himself in his profession at Charleston, S. C, 
but foiled, and turned his attention to literature. In 
1827 he revised the translation of Malte Brun's "Geog- 
raphy," and assisted Noah Webster in his "Diction.iry." 
Iu both instances be quarrelled with his employers. He 
hccamc a skilful geologist, and was employed in surveys 
by the States of Connecticut and Wisconsin. His poetry 
was not a source of profit to him, and he was always 
poor. An earnest student, he became quite an accom- 
plished linguist. Constitutionally melancholy, he was 
shy of social distinction, and made few personal friends. 
His scholarship was remarkable, but unfruitful. He 
31 



must be ranked among the true, natural poets, though 
there has been a disposition to underrate him among the 
admirers of the tnost modern fashion in verse. But had 
Percival been favored in his pecuniary circumstances, he 
might have left a far more imposing poetical record than 
be has ; for there are evidences of high art, as well as 
flashes of genius, in some of his latest procVucAious. An 
edition of his poems iu two volumes was iiublished in 
1870 in Boston. 



ELEGIAC. 

Fnosi "Classic Melodies," 

Oh, it is great for our country to die, where ranks 
are contending ! 
Bright is the wreath of our fame ; Glory awaits 
us for aye,^ 
Glory that never is dim, shining on with a light 
never ending, — 
Glory that ne^•er shall fade, never, oh never away ! 

Oh, it is sweet for our country to die ! How softly 
reposes 
Warrior youth on bis bier, wet Ijy the tears of 
his love. 
Wet by a mother's warm tears. They crown biiu 
with garlands of roses, 
Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he 
triumphs above. 

Not to the shades shall the youth descend, who for 
country hath perished: 
Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there 
with her smile ; 
There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is 
cherished ; 
Gods love the young, who ascend pure from the 
funeral pile. 

Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river; 
Not to the isles of the blessed, over the blue-roll- 
ing sea ; 
But on Olympian heights .shall dwell the devoted 
forever ; 
There shall assemble the good, there the wise, 
valiant, and free. 

Oh, then, how great for our country to die, in the 
front ranic to perish. 
Firm with our breast to the foe, victory's .shont 
iu our ear ! 
Long they our statues shall crown, iu songs our 
memory cherish ; 
We shall look forth from onr heaven, pleased the 
sweet music to hear. 



482 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BUITISU AND AMERICAN rOETRT. 



TO SENECA LAKE. 

On tliy fair bosom, silver lake ! 

The ■nilil swan spreads his snowy sail, 
And round his breast the liiiides break, 

As down he bears before the gale. 

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream ! 

The dipping paddle eehocs far, 
And flashes in the moonlight gleam. 

And bright reflects the polar star. 

The ■naves along thy pebbly shore. 

As blows the north wind, heave their foam, 

And curl aronnd the dashing oar, 
As late the bo.atman hies him home. 

How sweet, at set of sun, to Tiew 
Thj' goldeu mirror spreading wide, 

And see the mist of raautliug bine 

Float round the distant mountain's side. 

At midnight hour, as shines the moon, 

A sheet of silver spreads below, 
And swift she cuts, at highest noon. 

Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake ! 

Oh, I could ever sweep the oar, 
When early birds at morning wake, 

And evening tells us toil is o'er. 



THE CORAL GROVE. 

Deep in the wave is a coral grove, 

Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove, 

Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue. 

That never are wet with falling dew, 

But in bright and changeful beauty shine, 

Far down iu the green and glassy brine. 

The floor is of sand like the mountain drift, 

And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow ; 

From coral rocks the sea plants lift 

Their boughs, wliere the tides and billows flow ; 

The water is calm and still below, 

For the winds and waves are absent there. 

And the sands are bright as the stars that glow 

In the motionless fields of upper air : 

There, with its waving blade of green, 

The sea-flag streams through the silent water. 

And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen 

To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter : 



There, with a light and easy motion, 

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep sea ; 

And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 

Are bending like corn on the upland lea : 

And life, iu rare and beautiful forms, 

Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, 

And is safe when the wrathful spirit of storms 

Has made the top of the wave his own : 

And when the ship from his fury flies, 

Where the myriad voices of ocean roar, 

When the wind-god frowns iu the nmrky skies, 

And demons are waiting the wreck ou shore ; 

Then far below, in the peaceful sea. 

The purple mullet and gold-fish rove, 

Where the waters murmur tranquilly. 

Through the bending twigs of the coral grove. 



SONNET. 

ACROSTIC TRIBUTE (1825) TO A BOSTON I.ADT, WIDELY 
CELEBU.\TED FOB HER BEAUTY. 

Earth holds no fiiirer, lovelier one than thou, 
Maid of the laughing lip and frolic eye ! 
Innocence sits upon thy open brow 
Like a pure spirit in its native sky. 
If ever beauty stole the heart away, 
Eucli.antress, it would fly to meet thy smile ; 
Moments would seem by thee a summer day, 
And all aronnd thee an Elysian isle. 
Roses are nothing to the inaideu blush 
Sent o'er thy cheeks' soft ivory, and night 
Has naught so dazzling in its world of light. 
As the dark rays that from thy lashes gush. 
Love lurks amid thy silken curls, and lies 
Like a keen archer in thy kindling eyes. 



MAY. 



I feel a newer life iu every gale ; 

The winds that fan the flowers, 
And with their welcome breathings fill the sail, 

Tell of serener hours, — 
Of hours that glide unfelt away 
Beneath the sky of Maj". 

The spirit of the gentle south wind calls 

From his blue throne of air. 
And where his whispering voice in music falls, 

Beauty is budding there ; 
The blight ones of the valley break 
Their slumbers and awake. 



JAMES GATES rERCIVAL. — WILLIAM BOTTITT. 



4;:! 



The waving vuriUu-e rolls along tlio plain, 

Aiul the wide forest weaves, 
To welcome back its playful mates again, 

A canopy of leaves : 
And from its darkening shadow floats 
A gnsh of trembling notes. 

Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May ; 

The tresses of the woods 
With the light dallying of the west wind play, 

And the fnll-brimming floods. 
As gladly to their goal they run, 
Hail the returning sun. 



A YISIOX. 

" Whence dost thou come to mo, 

Sweetest of yisions, 
Filling my sliuubers with Iioliest joy ?" 

" Kindly I bring to thee 

Feelings of childhood, 
That in thy dreams thou be happy awhile.'' 

•' Why dost thou steal from me 

Ever as slumber 
Flies, and reality chills me again ?'' 

'• Life thou must struggle through : 

Strive, — and iu slumber 
Sweetly again I will steal to thy soul." 



llTilliam tlcwitt. 



Howitt (1793-1879), husband of Mary Howitt, was a 
native of Heanor, in Derbyshire, England. Of Quaker de- 
scent, he was educated at a public seminary of Friends. 
He was a great student of laugunges, and wrote verses 
almost from boyhood. He and liis wife, after the year 
1S37, made literature their chief means of support. He 
was the author of " The Rural Life of Eualand," " Visits 
to Remarkable Places," and other successful prose works, 
includiug translations. He also published a "History of 
tlie Supernatural." He went, with his two sons, to Aus- 
tralia in 18.53, and gave the results of his experiences iu 
several volumes. With his wife and family he resided 
at times iu Germany and Italy. His poetry is scattered 
mostly through "Annuals" and magazines; in 1S71 he 
puhlishod " The Mad War Planet, and other Poems." 
About the year 18.50 he became au active Spiritualist, and 
wrote copiously iu defence of the modern phenomena, 
whieh he reconciled with a broad Christianity. Ho died 
iu Rome, in the eighty-fourth year of his age. He had 
a brother, Richard, who also wrote poetry. 



HOAK-FROST: A SOXXET. 

What dream of beauty ever equalled this! 
What bauds from Fairy-land have sallied forrh. 
With snowy foliage from tlie abundant Nortli, 
With imagery from the realms of bjiss ! 
What visions of my boyhood do I miss 
That here are not restored! All splendors iiur^'. 
All loveliness, all graces that allure; 
Shapes that amaze; a i>aradise that is, — 
Yet was not, — will not iu few moments be : 
Glory from nakeduess, that playfully 
Mimics with i)a.ssiug life each sununcr boon ; 
Clothing the ground — repleuishing the tree; 
Weaving arch, bower, and delicate festoon ; 
Still as a dream, — and like a dream to flee ! 



THE AVIXD IX A FROLIC. 

The Wind one morning sprang up from sleep, 

Saying, "Xow for a frolic! now for a leap! 

Xuw for a mad-caji galloping chase ! 

I'll make a commotion in every place!" 

So it swept with a bustle right through a great 

town, 
Creaking the signs, and scattering down 
Shutters; and whisking, with merciless squalls. 
Old womeu's bonnets and gingerbread stalls : 
There never was beard a much lustier shout, 
As the apples and oranges tumbled about; 
And the urchins, that stand with their thievish eyes 
Forever on watch, ran off each with a prize. 

Then away to the field it went blustering anil 
humming. 
And the cattle all wondered w hatever was coming ; 
It iilueked by the tails the grave matronly cows. 
And tossed the colts' manes all over their brows, 
'Till, offended at such a familiar salute. 
They all turned their backs and stood sulkily mute. 

So on it went, capering, and inlaying its prauks. 
Whistling with reeds on the broad river's banks, 
Pufling the birds as they sat on the spray, 
Or the traveller grave on 'the king's highway. 

It was not too nice to hustle the bags 
Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags : 
'Twas so bold, that it feared not to play its joke 
With the doctor's wig, or the gentleman's cloak. 
Through the forest it roared, and cried, gayly," Xow. 
You sturdy old oaks, I'll make yon bow !" 
And it made them bow without more ado. 
Or cracked their great branches through and 
through. 



484 



CYCLOPEDIA OF ISHITISH AXD AilEBICAN POETST. 



Then it rushed, like a inoiistcr, ou cottage auil 

farm, 
Striking their dwellers witli sudden alarm, 
So they ran out like bees when threatened ■with 

h:irm. 
There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over 

tlieir caps, 
To see if. their iionltry were free from mishaps ; 
The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloiul, 
Aud the hens crept to roost iu a terrified crowd; 
There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on, 
Where the thatch from the i-oof threatened soou 

to be gone. 
But the wind had swept on, and met in a lane 
With a school-boy, who panted aud struggled iu 

vain : 
For it tossed liini, aud twirled hiui, then passed, 

and he stood 
With his hat in a pool, aud his shoe in the nnid. 
Then away went the Wind in its holiday glee ! 
Aud now it was far on the billowy sea ; 
Aud the lordly ships felt its staggering blow, 
Aud the little boats darted to and fro: — 
Bnt, lo ! night came, aud it sank to rest 
On the sea-bird's rock in the gleaming west, 
Laughing to thiuk, iu its fearful fun, 
How little of mischief it had done! 



3ol)n C!?avLiincr (Caulkins Brainarti. 

AMERICAN. 

Brainard (1795-1828) was a native of New London, 
Coun., son of a judge of the Supreme Court. lie was 
educated at Yale College, and iu 1833 went to Hartford 
to take editorial eliarge of the Connecticut Mirror. Sam- 
uel G. Goodrieli, author of the "Peter Parley Tales," was 
his intimate friend, aud persuaded liim to publish his first 
volume of poems. This appeared iu New York, in 1830, 
from the press of Bliss & Wliite. A second edition, with 
a memoir by J. G. Wliitticr, appeared in 1833; and this 
was followed by a third, iu 1813, from the jircss of Hop- 
kins, Hartford. "At the age of ciglit-and-twenty," says 
Goodrieli, " Brainard was admonished that his cud was 
near. With a submissive spirit, iu pious, gentle, cheer- 
ful faith, he resigned himself to his doom. In person he 
was short; his general appearance that of a clumsy boy. 
At one moment he looked stupid, aud then inspired. He 
was true iu friendship, chivalrous iu all that belongs to 
personal honor." An instance of his ready wit is given 
in a retort he addressed to a critic, who had objected to 
the use of the word ^' brine," as a word which "had no 
more business in sentimental poetry than a pig in a par- 
lor;" to which the poet replied that Ins critic, "living 
inland, must have got his ideas of the salt-water from his 
father's pork-barrel." 



THE .SEA-BIRDS SONG. 

Ou the deep is the mariner's danger, 

On the deep is the mariner's death ; 
Who to fear of the tempest a stranger 
Sees the last bubble burst of his breath ? 
'Tis the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird. 

Lone looker ou despair ; 
The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, 
The only witness there. 

Who watches their course who so mildly 
Careen to the kiss of the breeze ? 

Who lists to their shrieks who so wildly 
Are clasped iu the arms of the seas? 
'Tis the sea-bird, etc. 

Who hovers on high o'er the lover. 
And her who has cluug to his neck ? 

Whose wing is the wing that can cover 
With its shadow the foundering wreck? 
'Tis the sea-bird, etc. 

My eye in the light of the billow. 
My wing ou tlie wake of the wave, 

I shall take to mj- breast for a pillow 
The shroud of the fair and the brave. 
I'm the sea-bird, etc. 

My foot on the iceberg has lighted, 

When hoarse the wild winds veer about; 
My eye, wbeu the bark is benighted, 

Sees the lamp of the light-bouse go out. 
I'm the sea-bird, se.a-bird, sea-bird. 

Lone looker on despair; 
The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, 
The only witness there. 



STANZAS. 

The dead leaves strew the forest walk, 

Aud withered arc the jiale wild flowers; 
The frost hangs black'niug on the stalk, 

The dew-drops fall iu frozen showers. 

Gone are the Spring's green sprouting bowers, 
Gone Summer's rich and mantling vines, 

And Antumn, with her yellow hours. 
On hill anil plain no longer shines. 

I learned a clear and wild-toned note. 

That rose aud swelled from yonder tree — 



JOHN GARVIXEB CJULKINS BRAINAllD.—.JOEN KEATS. 



435 



A giiy bir<l, with too sweet a tliioat, 

Tliere perched, and raised her soug for mc. 
The winter comes, and where is she ? 

Away, where summer wings will rove. 
Where buds are fresh, and every tree 

Is vocal with the notes of love. 

Too mild the breath of Southern sky, 

Too fresh the flower that blushes there, 
The Northern breeze tliat rushes by 

Finds leaves too green, and buds too fair; 

No forest-tree stauds stripped and bare, 
No stream beneath the ice is dead. 

No mountaiu-top, with sleety hair. 
Bends o'er the snows its reverend head. 

Go there with all the birds — and seek 

A happier clime, with livelier flight. 
Kiss, with the snn, the evening's cheek. 

And leave mc lonely with the night. 

I'll gaze upon the cold north light, 
And Avallc where all its glories shone — 

See — that it all is fair and bright. 
Feel — that it all is cold and gone. 



TO THE DAUGHTER OF A FRIEND. 

I pray thee by thy mother's face. 

And by her look, and by her eye. 
By every decent matron grace 
That hovered roimd the resting-place 

Where tliy yonng head did lie, — 
And by the voice that soothed thine ear, 
The hymn, the smile, the sigh, the tear, 

That matched thj- changeful mood ; — 
By every jirayer thy mother taught. 
By every blessing that she sought, — 

I pray thee to be good. 



THE FALLS OF NIAGARA. 

lu his "Recollections of .a Lifelimc,"S.G.Gooclncli(lT93-lS6.1) 
tells tis that he was present when Biainarrt dashed ofl' the fal- 
lowing lines in the printini^- office while the compositor was 
waiting for copy. 

The thoughts arc strange that crowd iuto my braiu 
While I look upward to thee. It wonld seem 
As if God poured thee from his hollow hand ; 
Had hung his bow upon thy awful front ; 
Had spoke iu that lond voice which seemed to him 
Who dwelt ill Patmos for his Savioui^s sake, 
The sound of many waters; and had bade 



Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, 
And notch his centuries iu the eternal rocks. 
Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we. 
That hear the question of that voice sublime ? 
Oh what are all the notes that ever rang 
From war's vain trumpet by thy thumjlefiug side ? 
Yea, what is all the riot man can make, 
In his short life, to thy unceasing roar? 
And yet, bold babbler! what art thou to Him 
Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far 
Above its loftiest mountains ? — A light wave 
That breaks and whispers of its Maker's might! 



3 1)11 Keats. 



John Keats (1T0C-1S21) was born in Lontlon, October 
29tli, 1T96, in the house of his grandfather, who kept a 
liverj--stable at Moorfiekls. Etlucated at Enfield, at fif- 
teen years of age John was apprenticed to a surgeon. 
In 181S ho publislied "Endymiou," a poem of great 
promise, and showing rare imaginative powers. It was 
criticised severely by Crokcr and Gilford in the Qnniicr- 
hj lieview; for Keats, having been lauded and befriended 
by Leigh Hunt, was treated by his Tory critics as be- 
longing to a distasteful school of politics. Keats did 
not write politics, but he had a friend who did. It is 
not probable that the Qiiarterb/s abuse hastened the 
youug poet's death, as is generally supposed. He suf- 
fered less than Shelley imagined from censure that he 
knew to be unjust. To him and others Keats modestly 
admitted the shortcomings of his early work. "I have 
written," he said, " independently, without judgment ; I 
may write independently, and with judgment, hereafter. 
The genius of poetrj' must worlv out its own salvation 
in a man." That Keats was largely influenced in his 
style by his familiarity Avith the i^oems of Leigli Hunt is 
quite apparent; but he soon surpassed his model. " En- 
dymiou" seems to have worked its way gradually to 
recognition as the production of a true poet; and the 
praises bestowed on it awakened the jealousy of Byron, 
who wrote : " No more Keats, I entreat ! Hay him alive ; 
if some of you don't, I must skin him myself. There is 
no bearing the drivelling idiotism of the manikin." But 
Byron lived to lament his rough words ; and (Novem- 
ber, 1S21) attributes his indignation to Keats's deprecia- 
tion of Pope, which, he says, " hardly permitted me to 
do justice to his own genius, whicli, malr/re all the fan- 
tastic fopperies of his style, was undoubtedly of great 
promise. His fragment of 'Hyperion' seems actually 
inspired by the Titans, and is as sublime as oEsebylus." 

In 1820 apper-red Keats's "Lamia," "Isabella," "The 
Eve of St. Agnes," and other poems. Of a delicate and 
sensitive constitution, he had seriously impaired his 
health by the care he had lavished on his dying brother, 
Tom ; and he made a trip to Italy with the hope of re- 
covering strength : but the seeds of consumption were 
lodged in his coustitutiou. Speaking of his brother's 
death, he writes: "I have a firm belief in immortality. 



4SG 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AilEEICAX POETRY. 



ami so liad Tom." " The Eve of St. Agnes " wns praised 
■warmly by Jeffrey and other leading crities. It is one 
of the most charming and perfect of the poet's works, 
and written, it would seem, under Spenserian inlluenec. 

At Rome Keats became seriously worse, and died on 
the 23d of February, 1821. A few days before his death 
he had expressed to his friend, Mr. Severn, the wish that 
on his gravestone should be the inscription: "Here lies 
one whose name was writ in water." Slielley was moved 
by KeatS'S death to produce the fiery elegy of "Ado- 
nais," worthy to be classed with the "Lycidas" of Mil- 
tun, and the "lu Memoriam " of Tennyson. Keats's 
ranlc is at the head of all the poets who have died young. 
The affluence of his imagination is such that he often 
seems to have given himself no time to select and prop- 
erly dispose of his images. His "Hymn to Pan," in 
'Endymion," was referred to by Wordsworth as "a 
P'retty piece of Paganism" — a just criticism, but one 
that somewhat nettled Keats. He would have been a 
more popular, if not a greater, poet, if he had been less 
in love with the classic mythology. He has liad a brood 
of imitators, American as well as English. 

Coleridge, in his "Table-Tall;," gives an interesting 
reminiscence, as fellows: "A loose, slack, not well- 
dressed youth met Mr. and myself in a lane near 

Highgatc. knew him, and spoke. It was Keats. 

He was introduced to me, and stayed a minute or so. 
After he had left us a little way, he came back, and said, 
' Let me carry away the memory, Coleridge, of having 
pressed your hand!' 'There is death in that hand,' I 
said to , when Keats was gone ; yet this was, I be- 
lieve, before the consumption showed itself distinctly." 

The fame of Keats lias not diminished since his death. 
The fact that what he wrote was written before his 
twenty-si.xth year will long give to his productions a 
jieculiar interest. 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 



St. Agnes' Eve, — ab, bitter chill it was! 

The owl. for all bis feathers, was a-colil ; 

The hare linipeil trembling thrungh the frozen 

grass, 
And silent Avas the flock in woolly fold ; 
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers while he told 
His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
Like pions incense from a een.scr old. 
Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death. 
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer 

he saith. 

II. 

His prayer he saith, this jiatient, holy man ; 
Then takes liis lamp, and riseth from his knees, 
And back relnrneth. meagre, barefoot, wan, 
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees : 
The sculptured dead ou each side seem to freeze, 
Imprisoned in black, purgatorial rails : 



Knights, Ladies, praying iii dumb orat'ries, 
He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails 
To think how they may ache iu icy hoods and mails. 



Northward he turneth through a little door. 
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue 
Flattered to tears this ag^d man and poor : 
But no — already had his death-bell rung ; 
The joys of all his life were said and sung. 
His was harsh penance ou St. Agnes' Eve : 
Another way he went ; aud soon among 
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, 
Aud all night kept awake, for sinner's sake to grieve. 



That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft ; 
And so it chanced, for many a door was wide, 
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft. 
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gau to chide ; 
The level chambers, ready with their pride, 
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests ; 
The carvdd angels, ever eager-eyed, 
Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests. 
With hair blown back, and wings put crosswise oi, 
their breasts. 



At length burst iu the argent revelry. 
With plume, tiara, and all rich array, 
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 
The brain, new stufl'ed, iu yonth, with triumphs gay 
Of old romance. These let us wish away. 
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there. 
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, 
On love, and winged St. Agues' saintly care. 
As she had heard old dames full many times declare. 



They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
Young virgins might have visions of delight, 
And soft adorings from their loves receive 
I'pon the honeyed middle of the night. 
If ceremonies due they did aright ; 
As, supperlcss to bed they must retire. 
And conch supine their beauties lily-white; 
Nor look behind nor sideways, but require 
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. 



Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline: 
The music, yearning like a god iu pain. 
She scarcely heard ; her maiden eyes divine. 



JOnX KEATS. 



487 



Fixed on tbo floor, saw mauy a sweeping traiu 
Pass by — sbe becded not at all : in vain 
Camo mauy a tijitoe, amorons cavalier, 
And back retired — not cooled by bigb disdain, 
But she saw not : ber heart was otherwhere ; 
She sighed for Agues' dreams, the sweetest of the year. 



She danced along with vague, regardless eyes ; 
Anxious ber lips, her breathing quick and short: 
The hallowed hour was near at hand ; she sighs 
Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort 
Of whisperers in auger or in sport ; 
■Jlid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn. 
Hoodwinked with faery fancy ; all amort. 
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn. 
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. 



So, purposing each moment to retire, 
She lingered still. Meantime, across the moors 
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on tire 
For Madeline. Beside tlie portal doors, 
Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and implores 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline 
But for one moment in the tedious hours, 
That he might gaze and worship all unseen ; 
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — iu sooth, such 
things have been. 



He ventures in : let no buzzed whisper tell : 
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 
Will storm his heart, Love's feverous citadel : 
For him. those chambers held barbarian hordes, 
Hyeua foemen, and hot-blooded lords, 
Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
Against his lineage : not one breast aftbrds 
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. 
Save one old beldame, weak iu body and iu soul. 



Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came, 
Shuffling along with ivory-beaded wand, 
To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame. 
Behind a broad hall-xiillai', far beyond 
The sound of merriment and chorus bland : 
He startled her ; but soou she knew his face, 
And grasped his fingers in ber palsied hand. 
Saying, '-Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this 

place ; 
They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty 

race ! 



" Get hence ! get hence ! there's dwarfish Hilde- 

brand ; 
He had a fever late, and in the fit 
He curs6d thee and thine, both hoijse and land ; 
Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a wliit 
More tame for bis gray hairs — Alas me! flit! 
Flit like a ghost away." — "Ah, Gossip dear. 
We're safe enough ; here iu this arm-chair sit. 
And tell me how " — " Good Saints ! not here, 

uot here ; 
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy 

bier." 

XIII. 

He followed through a lowly arched way. 
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; 
And as she muttered " Well-a — well-a-day !" 
He found him in a little moonlit room, 
Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
"Now tell me where is Madeline," said he; 
" Oh tell lue, Angela, by the holy loom 
Which noue but .secret sisterhood may see. 
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaviug inously." 



"St. Agues! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve,— 
Yet men will murder upon holy days : 
Thou must hold water iu a witch's sieve. 
And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, 
To venture so : it fills me with amaze 
To see thee, Porphyro ! — St.' Agnes' Eve ! 
God's help ! my lady fair the conjurer plays 
This very night : good angels her deceive ! 
But let me laugh awhile, I've raickle time to grieve." 



Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon. 
While Porphyro upon ber face doth look. 
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
Who keepeth closed a woudi-ous riddle-book. 
As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 
But soon bis eyes grew brilliaut, when she told 
His lady's purpo.se ; and he scarce could brook 
Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold. 
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 



Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, 
Flnshing bis brow, and in his pained heart 
Made purple riot : tlieu doth be propose 
A stratagem, that makes the beldame start : 
"A cruel man and impious thou art: 



488 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BIUTISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Sweet lady, let lier pray, autl sleep, aiiiT dream. 
Alone witli lier good angels, far apart 
From -n-icked men like thee. Go, go ! I deem 
Thou canst not surely bo the same that thon didst 
seem." 

XVII. 

'■I will not harm lier, by all saints I swear," 
Quoth Porphyro: "Oh may I ne'er liud grace 
When my weak voice shall whisper its last 

prayer, 
If one of her soft ringlets I displace, 
Or look with rufiSau passion in her face : 
Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 
Or I will, even in a moment's space. 
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, 
And beard them, though they be more fauged than 
wolves and bears." 

XVIII. 

"Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? 
A poor, -sveak, palsy-strickeu, church-yard thing. 
Whoso passiug-hell may ere the midnight toll ; 
AVhose pr.ayers for thee, e.ach morn and evening, 
Were never missed." Tlius plaining, doth she 

bring 
A gentler speech from burning Pori>liyro; 
So woful, and of such deep sorrowing. 
That Angela gives promise she will do 
Whatever ho shall wish, betide her weal or woe. 



Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, 
Even to Madeline's chamber, aud there hide 
Him in a closet, of such privacy 
That he might sec her beauty unespied. 
And win, porliaps, tliat niglit a peerless bride, 
W'liilo legioned fairies paced the coverlet. 
And pale enchantment held her sleei)y-eyed. 
Never on such ii night have lovers met. 
Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. 



" It sh.all bo as thou wishest," said the Dame : 
"All cates aud dainties shall he stor(5d there 
Quickly on this feast -night: by the tambour 

frame 
Her own lute tlion wilt sec: no time to spare; 
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
Wait here, my child, with patience kneel in 

pr;iy(?r 
Tlie while : Ah ! thou must needs the lady wed. 
Or may 1 never leave my grave among the dead." 



So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. 
The lover's eudless minutes slowly passed ; 
The dame returned, aud whispered in his ear 
To follow her ; with ag^d eyes aghast 
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, 
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hushed, aud chaste ; 
Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. 
His poor guide hurried back, with agues in her brain. 



Her faltering hand upon the balustrade, 
Old Augela was feeling for the stair, 
Wlien Madeline, St. Agnes' charmdd maid. 
Rose, like a missioned sjiirit, unaware : 
■\Vith silver taper's light, and pious care. 
She turned, aud down the aged gossip led 
To a safe level matting. Now prepare. 
Young Porphyro, for gazing ou that bed : 
Sho comes, she comes again, like ringdove frayed 
aud fled. 

XXIII. 

Out went the taper as she hurried in : 
Its little smoke, in pallid moonsbine, died ; 
She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
To spirits of the air, aud visions wide : 
No uttered syllable, or, woe betide ! 
But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 
Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her dell. 

XXIV. 

A easement high and triple-arched there was, 
All garlanded with carven imageries 
Of fi'uits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass. 
And diamondeil with panes of quaint device, 
Inmuuerable of stains and splendid dyes, 
As :u'e the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings; 
And in tlio midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, 
.Vnd twiliglit saints, and dim eniblazouiugs, 
A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of queens 
and kings. 

XXV. 

Full on tills casement shone the wintry moon. 

And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, 

As down she knelt for Heaven's grace aud boon ; 

Rosc-blooiu fell on her hands, together pressed. 

And on licr silver cross soft amethyst, 

Aud ou lii'r hair a glory, like a saint; 

Sho seemed a splendid angel, newly dressed. 



JOHN KEATS. 



489 



S.ive wiugs, for heiiveu : — Porpliyro grew faint: 
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. 



Anon his heart revives : her vespers done. 
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ; 
Unclasps her \varm(5d jewels, cue by one ; 
Loosens her fragrant bodiee ; by degrees 
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees ; 
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, 
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees. 
In fancy, fair St. Agues in her bed, 
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. 



Soon, trembling iu her .soft and chilly nest. 
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay, 
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed 
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; 
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day ; 
Blissfully havened both from joy and pain; 
Clasped like a missal where swart Paynims pray : 
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, 
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. 

XXVIII. 

Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, 
Porpliyro gazed upon her empty dress, 
And listened to her breathing, if it chanced 
To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; 
Which when he heard, that minute did lie bless. 
And breathed himself; then from the closet crept, 
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness. 
And over the hushed carpet, silent, stepped. 
And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, lo ! — how 
fast she slejit. 



Then by the bedside, where the faded moon 
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
A table, and, half anguished, threw thereon 
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet: — 
Oh for some drowsy Morpheau amulet! 
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion. 
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet. 
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — 
The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. 



And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, 
In blauchiSd linen, smooth, and lavendered. 
While ho from forth the closet brought a heap 
Of candied ai>ple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; 



With jellies soother than the creamy curd. 
And lucent sirups, tiuct with cinnamon ; 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferred 
From Fez ; and spiceel dainties, every one. 
From silken Samarcaud to cedared Lebanon. 



These delicates ho heaped with gh)wing hand 
On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
Of wreath(5d silver; sumptuous they stand 
111 the rctirdd quiet of the night. 
Filling the chilly room with perfume light. — 
" And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake ! 
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite ; 
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, 
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." 



Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 
Sauk iu her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
By the dusk curtains : — 'twas a midnight charm 
Impossible to melt as iced stream ; 
The lustrous salvers iu the moonlight gleam ; 
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies : 
It seemed he never, never could redeem 
From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes ; 
So mused awhile, entoiled iu wooled phantasies. 

XXXIII. 

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and iu chords that tenderest be. 
He played an ancient ditty, long since mute, 
Iu Provence called '• La belle dame sans merci :" 
Close to her car touching the melody; — 
Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a .soft moan ; 
He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly 
Her blue aifrayiSd eyes wide open shone ; 
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured 
stone. 

XXXIV. 

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld. 
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep ; 
There was a jiaiuful change, that nigli expelled 
The blisses of her dream so jiure and deep. 
At which fair Madeline began to weep. 
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; 
While still her gaze on Porpliyro would keep. 
Who knelt, witli joined hands and piteous eye. 
Fearing to move or speak, .she looked so dreainingly. 



"Ah, Porphyro !" .said she; "but even now 
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, 



490 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BUITISn AXD AMERICAX I'OETUY. 



JIado tuuable Tvith every sweetest vow ; 
Ami those sad eyes were spiritual and clear: 
How changed tliou art ! how pallid, chill, and 

drear ! 
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
Those looks immortal, those coinplaiuings dear! 
Oh leave nie uot in this eternal -woe, 
For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go." 



Beyond a mortal man impassioned far 
At these volnptuoiis accents, he arose. 
Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star 
Seen "mid the sa4iphire heaveu's deep repose ; 
Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
Blendeth its odor with the violet, — 
Solution sweet : meantime the frost-wind Ijlows 
Like Love's alarum, pattering the sharp sleet 
Against the window-panes : St. Agues' moou hath set. 

XXXVII. 

'Tis dark; cpiick patteretli the flaw-blown sleet; 
"This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!" 
'Tis dark; the iced gusts still rave and beat; 
'•No dream, alas ! alas! and woe is mine! 
Porphyro will leave me here to fade aud pine. — 
Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring t 
I curse uot, for my heart is lost in thine, 
Though thou forsakest a deceiv(5d thing ; — 
A dove forlorn aud lost, with sick, unpruu(;d wing." 



" Jly Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! 
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blessed ? 
Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped, aud vermeil- 
dyed ? 
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest, 
After so many hours of toil and quest, 
A famished pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest. 
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou tbink'st well 
To trust, fair Maduliue, to no rude infidel. 

XXXIX. 

"Hark! 'tis an elfin storm from fairy-lnnd, 
Of haggard seeming, but a boou iudced ; 
Arise — arise! the morning is at hand; — 
The bloated wassailers will never heed: — 
Let us away, iny love, with happy speed; 
There are no cars to hear, or eyes to see, — 
Drowned all in Ehcnish and the sleepy mead : 
Awake! arise! my love, aud fearless be, 
For o'er the southcru moors I have a home for thee." 



She hurried at his words, beset with fears, 
For there were sleeping dragons all around. 
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears — 
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found; 
In all the house was heard no human sound. 
A chain-dropped lamp was llickeringby each door; 
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, 
Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar; 
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 



They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ! 
Like phantoms to the iron jiorch they glide, 
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl. 
With a huge empty flagon by liis side; 
The wakeful blood-houud rose, aud shook his hide, 
But his sagacious eye an iumate owns; 
By one and one the bolts full easy slide : — 
The chains lie silent on the foot-worn stones ; 
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groaus. 



And they are goue: ay, ages long ago 
These lovers fled away into the storm. 
That night the Baron dreamed of many a woe, 
And all his warrior-guests, with shade aud form 
Of witch, aud demon, and large coffin-worm. 
Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old 
Died palsy-twitched, with meagre face deform ; 
The Beadsman, after thousand av^s told. 
For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. 



ODE. 



Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls ou earth ! 
Have ye souls in heaven too, 
Donblc-lived in regions new ? 
Yes, and those of heaveu commune 
With the spheres of sun and moou ; 
With the noise of fountaius wondrous, 
And the parle of voices thund'rons; 
With the whisper of heaven's trees 
And oue another, in soft ease- 
Seated on Elysiau lawns 
Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; 
Underneath large bluebells tented. 
Where the daisies are rose-scented, 
Aud the rose herself has got 
Perfume which ou earth is uot ; 



JOHN EM ATS. 



491 



^Yllere the uightiugale iloth slug 
Nut a senseless, trauc^d thing, 
But divine melodious truth ; 
Philosophic numbers smooth ; 
Tales and golden histories 
Of heaven and its mysteries. 

Thus ye live on high, and then 
On the earth ye live again ; 
And the souls ye left behind you 
Teach us, here, the way to find you, 
■\Vhere your other souls are joying, 
Never slumbered, never cloying. 
Heie, your earth-born souls still speak 
To nnirtals, of their little week; 
Of their sorrows and delights; 
Of their iiassious and their spites; 
Of their glory and their shame ; 
AVhat doth strengthen and what maim. 
Tims ye teach us, every day. 
Wisdom, though lied far away. 

Bards of Passion and of Mirtli, 
Ye have left your souls on earth! 
Ye have sonls in heaven too, 
Double-lived iu regions new ! 



BEAUTY. 



Fnosi *' Endtmion,' 



A thing of beauty is a joy forever: 

Its loveliness increases; it will never 

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep 

\ bower quiet for ws, and a^ sleep 

Full of sweet dreams, aud health, and quiet breathing. 

Therefore, ou every morrow are we wreathing 

A flowery band to bind us to the earth, 

.Spite of despondence, of the Inhuman dearth 

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days. 

Of all the unhealthy and o'erdarkeiied ways 

Made for our searching: yes, iu spite of all. 

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon. 

Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon 

For simple sheep; aud such are daft'odils 

^Yith the green world they live in; and clear rills 

That for themselves a cooling covert make 

'Gainst the hot season : the mid-fore.st brake, 

Kioli with a sprinkling of fair musk -rose blooms; 

And such, too, is the grandeur of the dooms 

We have imagined for the mighty dead ; 

All lovely tales that we have heard or read : 



An endless fountain of immortal drink. 
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 

Nor do we merely feel these essences 
For one short hour; no, even as the trees 
That whisper round a temple become soon 
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, 
The passion poesy, glories infinite. 
Haunt us till they become a cheering light 
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, 
That, whether there bo shine, or gloom o'ereast, 
They alway must bo with us, or we die. 

Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I 
Will trace the story of Endymion. 
The very music of the name has gone 
Into my being, and each pleasant scene 
Is growing fresh before me as the green 
Of our own valleys : so I will begin 
Now, while I cannot hear the city's din ; 
Now, while the early budders are just new. 
And run in mazes of the youngest hue 
About old forests ; while the willow trails 
Its delicate amber; aud the dairy-pails 
Bring home increase of milk. Aud, as the year 
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer 
My little boat, for many quiet hours. 
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers. 
JIany ami many a verse I hope to write 
Before the daisies, vermeil-rimmed aud white. 
Hide ill deep herbage ; aud ere yet the bees 
Hum about globes of clover aud sweet-peas, 
I must be near the middle of my story. 
Oh ! may no wintry season, bare aud hoary, 
See it half finished; but let autumn bold. 
With universal tinge of sober gold. 
Be all about me when I make an end. 
And now at once, adventuresome, I send 
My herald thought into a wilderness: 
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress 
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed 
Easily onward, ou through flowers and weed. 



LA BELLE DAME SAN.S MERCI. 

A B.\LL.\D. 

Oh what can ail thee, kuight-at-arms ! 

Alone and jialely loitering ? 
The sedge has withered from the lake, 

Aud no birds sing. 
Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! 

So haggard and so woe-begoue ? 



492 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD JMEHICAX POETRY. 



TLie sqiiiiTel's grauary is fall, 

Auil tbe barvest's iloue. 
I see a lily on thy brow, 

With auguisli moist and fever ilew ; 
AimI on thy cheeks a failing rose 

Fast withereth too. 

I met a lady in the mead — 

Full beautiful, a fairy's child; 
Her hair was long, her lout was light, 

And her eyes 'wei-e wild. 
I made a garland for her head 

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; 
She looked at me as she did love. 

And made sweet moan. 
I set her on my pacing steed. 

And nothing else saw all day long ; 
For sidelong would she bend, and slug 

A fairy song. 

She found me roots of relish sweet. 

And honey w ild, and manna dew ; 
And snie iu language strange she said — 

" I love thee true." 
She took me to her elfin grot. 

And there she wept, and sighed full sore; 
And there I .shut her wild, wild eyes 

With kisses four. 
And there she lulled mo asleep ; 

And there I dreamed — Ah ! woo betide ! 
The latest dream I ever dreamed 

Ou the cold hill's side. 

I saw pale kings and princes too — 

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all ; 
Tliey cried : " La belle damo sans lucrci 

Hath thee in thrall!" 
I .saw their starved lips iu the gloam. 

With horrid waruiug gap(5d wide; 
And I awoke and found me here 

Ou the cold hill's side. 
And tliis is why I sojourn here 

Alono and palely loitering. 
Though the sedge is witliered from the lake. 

And no birds sing. 



lint when the page of everlasting Trutli 

Has on the attentive mind its force impressed, 

Tlieu vauish all the affections dear in youth, 

And Love immortal fills the grateful breast. 

The wonders of all-ruliug Providence, 

The joys that from celestial Mercy flow, 

Essential beauty, perfect excellence. 

Ennoble and refine the native glow 

The poet feels ; and thence his best resource 

To iiaint his feelings with suljlimest force. 



TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT ME A LAUREL 
CROWN. 

1 1 

From my glad bosom — now fiom gloominess 
I mount forever — not au atom less 
Tlian tlie proud laurel shall content my bier. 
No! by the eternal stars! or wliy sit here 
In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press 
Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless 
By thj' white fingers and thy spirit clear ? 
Lo ! who dares say, "Do this?" Who dares call down 
My will from its high pni'pose ? Wlio say, " Stand," 
Or "Go?" Tills mighty moment I would frown 
Ou abject CiEsars — not the stoutest baud 
Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown : 
Yet would I kueel aud kiss thy gentle hand ! 



SONNET. 

There was a season when the fabled name 
Of high Parnassus and Apollo's lyre 
Seemed terms of excellence to my desire ; 
Therefore a youthful bard I may not blame. 



SONNET. 

Ill a letter to his broUiev and sister ill America (May, ISIO), 
Keats iutrodiiccs this sonnet thus : " I have been eudenvor- 
iiii; to discover a better Sonnet stanza than we liave. Tlie 
icsilimate does not snit the language well, from the pouucing 
rliynies; the other appears too elegi.ic, and the couplet at tlio 
end of it has seldom a pleasing effect. I do not pretend to 
have succeeded. It Aviil explain itself." 

If by dull rhymes our English must be chained, 

And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet 

Fettered, iu spite of paiudd loveliness. 

Let us find out, if wo must bo constrained. 

Sandals more interwoven and complete 

To lit the naked foot of Poesy ; 

Let lis inspect the lyre, aud weigli the stress 

Of every chord, and see what may be gained 

Hy ear industrious and attention meet ; 

Misers of sound and syllable, no less 

Thau Midas of his coinage, let lis be 

Jealous of dead leaves in the bay-wreath crown : 

So, if we may not let the Muse be free, 

She will be bound with garlauds of her own. 



JOHN KEATS. 



493 



ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET. 

Tho poetry of earth is iiever dead : 

Wlieu all tbe birds are faint with the hot siiu, 

Aiul hide in cooling trees, a voice yiiW van. 

From hedge to hedge about the new-mowu mead : 

That is the grasshopper's — he takes the lead 

In summer luxury, — ho has never done 

With his delights, for when tired out witli fun. 

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. 

The poetry of eartli is ceasing never : 

On a, lone winter evening, when the frost 

Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills 

The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, 

And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, 

The grasshopper's among some grassy hills. 



KEATS'S LAST SOXXET. 

Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art- 

Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night. 

And watching, with eternal lids apart. 

Like Nature's patient, sleepless eremite, 

The moving waters at their iiriest-like task 

Of iiure ablution round earth's human shores, — 

Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask 

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors — 

No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, 

Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast, 

To feel forever its soft fall and swell. 

Awake forever in a sweet unrest, 

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath. 

And so live ever — or else swoon to death. 



FAIRY SONG. 

Shed no tear ! Oh, shed no tear ! 
The flower will bloom another year. 
^yeep no more ! Oh, weep no more ! 
Young buds sleep in the root's white core. 
Dry yonr eyes! Oh, dry your eyes! 
For I was taught in Paradise 
To ease my breast of melodies — 
Shed no tear. 

Overhead ! look overhead ! 
''•!ong the blossoms white and red— 
' .ok up, look up. I flutter now 
'•;i this flush pomegranate bough. 



See me ! 'tis this silvery bill 
Ever cures the good man's ill. 
Shed no tear! Oh, shed no tear! 
Tho flower will bloom another year. 
Adien, adieu — I fly, adieu, 
I vanish in the heaven's blue— ^ 
Adieu, adieu i 



FANCY. 



Ever let the fancy roam. 
Pleasure never is at home : 
At a touch sweet Pleasure nielteth, 
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ; 
Then let wingdd Fancy wander 
Through the thought still spread beyond her 
Open wide the mind's cage-door. 
She'll dart forth and cloudward soar. 
O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 
Summer's joys are spoiled by use. 
And the enjoying of the Spring- 
Fades as does its blo.ssoniing ; 
Autumn's red-lipped fruitage too, 
Blushing through the mist and dew. 
Cloys with tasting : What do then ? 
Sit thee by the ingle, when 
The sear fagot blazes bright. 
Spirit of a winter's night ; 
When the soundless earth is mutfled. 
And the cakdd snow is shuffled 
From the ploughboy's heavy shoon ; 
When tho Night doth meet the Noon 
In a dark conspiracy 
To banish Even from her sky, 
— Sit thee there, and send abroad, 
With a mind self-overawed. 
Fancy, high-commissioned: — send her! 
She has vassals to attend her : 
She will bi'ing, in spite of frost. 
Beauties that tho earth hath lost ; 
She will bring thee, all together. 
All delights of summer weather; 
All tho buds and bells of May, 
From dewy sward or thorny spray ; 
All the heaped Autumn's wealth. 
With a still, mysterious ste.alth : 
She will mix these pleasures uji 
Like three fit wines in a cup. 
And thou shalt quaff it : — thou ehalt hear 
Distant harvest-carols clear ; 
Rustle of the reaped corn ; 
Sweet birds antheming the morn: 



494 



cyclopj:dia of Braiisn axd ameiuc.ix poetry. 



And, in tUe same moment — hark ! 
'Tis tbe early April lark, 
Or the rooks, ■with bnsy caw, 
Foraging for sticks ami straw. 
Thou shaU, at one glance, hehoUl 
The ilaisy and the marigold ; 
White-plumed lilies, and the first 
Ileugc-growu primrose that liath burst ; 
Shaded hyacinth, alway 
Sapphire queen of the mid-May ; 
And evei'y leaf and every flower 
Pearled with the self-same shower. 
Thou .slialt see the field-mouse peep 
Jleagre from its celled sleep ; 
Aud the snake all winter-thin 
Cast on sunny bank its skin ; 
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 
Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, 
■\Vhcu the hen-biixl's wing doth rest 
Quiet on her mossy nest ; 
Tlien the hurry and alarm 
AVIien the bee-Iiive casts its swarm ; 
Acorns ripe down-pattering. 
While the autumn breezes sing. 

O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 

Everything is spoiled by use : 

Where's the cheek that doth not fade. 

Too much gazed at ? Where's the maid 

Whoso lip mature is ever new '? 

Where's the eye, however blue, 

Doth not weary I where's the face 

One would meet in every place ? 

Where's the voice, however soft, 

One would hear so very oft ? 

At a tonch sweet Pleasure nielteth 

Like to bubbles when rain i>elteth. 

Let, then, wingdd Fancy find 

Thee a mistress to thy mind : 

Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter. 

Ere the God of Torment taught her 

How to frown and how to chide ; 

With a waist aud with a side 

White as Hebe's, when her zone 

Slipped its goldeu clasp, and down 

Fell her kirtlo to her feet. 

While she held the goblet sweet, 

And Jo\o grew languid. — Break the meah 

Of the Fancy's silken leash ; 

Quickly break her prison-string, 

And such joys as these she'll bring : — 

— Let the wing(?d Fancy roam, 

Pleasure never is at home. 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 

My lieart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk. 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-ward had sunk : 
'Tis uot through envy of thy happy lot, 
But being too happy in thy happiness, — 
That thou, light-wing(5d Dryad of the trees, 
lu some melodious plot 
Of beecheu green, aud shadows nnmberless, 
Siugest of summer in full-throated ease. 

Oh for a draught of vintage, that hath been 

Cooled a long age in the deep-delvdd earth. 
Tasting of Flora and the country-green. 

Dance, aud Proven9al song, aud sunbnrut mirth! 
Oh for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Ilippocrene, 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
And purple-stain(id mouth ; 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known. 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 
Wliere youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and 
dies ; 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs ; 
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 

Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee. 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
But ou the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: 
Already with thee ! tender is the night, 

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
C'lnstered around by all her starry Fays ; 
But here there is no light. 
Save what from heaveu is ■with the breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy 
ways. 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet. 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 

But, in embalmrSd darkness, guess each sweet 
Wherewith the seasonable month endows 

The grass, the thicket, aud the fruit-tree wild: 



JOHN KEaTS. 



495 



White hawthorn, and the imstoial eglantine ; 

Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves; 
And mid-May's eldest child, 
The coming mnsk-rose, full of dewy wine, 

The murmnious hanut of flies on snmmer eves. 

Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time 

I have been half in love with easefnl Death, 
Called hin; soft names in many a mnsdd rhyme. 

To take into the air my qniet breath ; 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
While thoix art iionring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy ! — 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — 
To tbj' high recpiieni become a sod. 

Thnu wast not born for death, immortal Bird! 

No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown : 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 
Through the sad heart of Kuth, when, sick for 
home, 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
The same that ofttimes hath 
Clnrmed magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of jierilous seas, in fairy-lands forlorn. 

Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu .' adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still stream. 
Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades : 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 

Fled is that music : — Do I wake or sleep ? 



ODE TO AUTUMN. 

Season of mists and mellow frnitfulness ! 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun : 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves 
rnn ; 
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees, 
And fill all frait with ripeness to the core ; 

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel-shells 
With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more. 



And still more, later flowers for the bees, 
Until they think warm days will never cease, 

For summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? 

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary fljoi^ 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind: 
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, 

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
Spares the next swath and nil its twined flowers; 
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 

Steady thy ladeu head across a brook ; 

Or by a cider-press, with patient look. 

Thou watchest the last oozings, hoars by honr.s. 

Where are the songs of spring ? Ay, where are they ? 

Think not of them, thou hast tliy music too, — 
While barr6d clouds bloom the soft-dying day. 

And touch the stnbble-plains with rosy hne ; 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats monrn 

Among the river sallows, borne aloft 

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; 
And fall-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; 

Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft 

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft, 
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. 

Thou still unravished bride of quietness? 

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, 
.Sylvan histori.an, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhj'me : 
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 
Of deities or mortals, or of both, 

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 
What men or gods are these f What maidens 
loath ? 
What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escajie ? 
What pipes and timbrels ? What wild ecstasy ? 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 

Are sweeter ; therefore, yo soft pipes, play on ; 
JJot to the sensual ear, but, more endeared. 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : 
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 

Thy song, nor ever cau those trees be bare ; 

Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, 

Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve; 

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, 
Forever wilt thou love, and she bo fair.' 



496 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BltlTISU AND AMEIUCAX POETRY. 



All, happy, liappy boughs! that cauiiot shed 

Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu ; 
And, happy melodist, unwearied, 

Forever liiping songs forever new ; 
More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! 

Forever warm and still to bo enjoyed. 
Forever panting and forever yonng; 
All breathing human passion far above, 

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed, 
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou tliat heifer lowing at the skies, 

And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed? 
What little town by river or se.a-shore. 

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
Is emptied of this folk, this pions morn ? 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 

Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 

O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede 

Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 
With forest branches and the trodden weed; 

Thou, silent form ! dost tease ns out of thought 
As doth eternity : Cold pastoral ! 

When old ago shall this generation waste, 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 

" Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 



fjartlcij (Jlolcribgc. 



The eldest son of tlic poet Coleridge, Hartley (1790- 
1849), born at Clevedon, inherited much of bis father's 
genius, but also some of his defects of organization and 
temperament. At six years of age he attracted, by his 
superior gifts, the attention of Wordsworth, who wrote 
of him : — 

" O thou, wliosc fancies from afar arc bronglit, 
Wlio of tliy words dost nifike a mock apparel. 
And fittest to unutterable tlionglit 
The t)reezc-like motion and ttie self-born carol : 
Thou fairy voyager I that dost iloat 
In such clear water, that thy boat 
May rather seem ' 

To brood on air than on an earthly stream:—' • " 
I think of thee with many fears 
For what may be thy lot in future years." 

What would have become of the elder Coleridge but for 
the friends in whose home his later years found a refuge, 
no one can say. With no such friends or home, poor 
Hartley became a castaway. In 181.5 he was a student at 
Oxford, and obtained a fellow.=Uip-elect at Oriel; but ho 



was dismissed, on the ground of intemperance, before bis 
probationary year had passed. After some ineffectual lit- 
erary efforts in London, be went to Ambleside, and sought 
for pupils ; but bis tutorial life, owing to bis unfortunate 
habits, was a faihire. The rest of his life was very sad, 
and its melancholy tone is in his verse. It was passed 
without any settled employment. He read diligently, 
thought deeply, and wrote charmingly; but his occa- 
sional fits of inebriety disqualified him for any responsi- 
ble work, and at times overshadowed his mind with a 
depression which was pitiable. 

Few men have lived more beloved (especially by the 
poor who surrounded him) than Hartley. At Grasmere 
and Rydal all knew his one intirmity ; but they also knew 
and loved bis many virtues, while they admired bis great 
talents. His name long continued a household word 
among the cottagers, whom he seems to have inspired 
with the affection they might have felt for a very dear 
tliough erring child. With hair white as snow, he bad, 
as a friend remarked, "a heart green as Ma)'." As a 
poet, Hartley is esteemed chiefly for his sonnets, some 
of which possess a charm almost peculiar to themselves, 
even in an age winch has abounded in that form of com- 
position. 

STILL I AM A CHILD. 

Long time a child, and still a child, when years 

Had painteil manhood ou my cheek, was I, — • 

For yet I lived like one not born to die ; 

A thriftless prodigal of smiles and tears, 

No hope I needed, and I knew no fears. 

But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep ; and wakiug, 

I waked to sleep no more, at once o'ertaking 

The vanguard of my age, with all arrears 

Of duty on my back. Nor child, nor man, 

Nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is gray, 

For I have lost the race I never ran : 

A ratlio December blights my lagging May ; 

And still I am a child, though I be old. 

Time is my debtor for my years untold. 



SONG. 

She is not fair to outward view- 
As nmny maidens be. 

Her loveliness I never knew 
Until she smiled on me ; 

Oh! then I saw her eye was bright, 

A well of love, a spring of light. 

Bnt now her looks are coy and cold, 
To mine they ne'er reply ; 

And yet I cease not to belrold 
The lovelight in her eye: 

Her verj- frowns are fairer far 

Thau smiles of other maidens are. 



HARTLEY COLEItWGE. 



497 



NO COURSE I CARED TO KEEP. 

How long I saik'O, anil never took a. tlioiiglit 

To -nbat iiort I was bound ! Secure as sleep, 

I dwelt upon the bosom of the deep 

And perilous sea. And tlioiigli my ship was fraugbt 

With rare and precious fancies, jewels brought 

From fairy-land, no course I cared to keep, 

Nor changeful wind nor tide I heeded augbt. 

But joyed to feel the merry billows leap, 

And watch the sunbeams dallying with tlie waves; 

Or haply dream what realms beneath may lie 

Where the clear ocean is an emerald sky, 

And mermaids warblo in their coral caves, 

Yet vainly woo me to their secret home : — 

And sweet it were forever so to roam ! 



TO WORDSWORTH. 

There have been poets that in verse display 
The elemental forms of hnmau passions : 
Poets have been, to whom tlie lickle fashions 
And all the -nilful humors of the day 
Have furnished matter for a polished lay : 
And many are the sniootli, elaborate tribe 
Who, onuikius of thee, tlio sliapo describe, 
And faiu would every shifting hue portray 
Of restless Nature. But thou, mighty Seer! 
'Tis tliino to celebrate the thoughts that make 
Tlie life of souls, the truths for whose sweet sake 
We to ourselves and to our God are dear. 
Of Nature's inner slirine thou .art the priest, 
Where most she works when we perceive her least. 



THE FLIGHT OP YOUTH. 

Youth, thou .art fled, — but where are all the charms 
Which, though with thee they came, and passed 

with tbee. 
Should leave a perfume and sweet memory 
Of what they have been ? — All thy boons aud harms 
Have perished quite. — Thj' oft renewed .alarms 
Forsake tlie fluttering eclio. — Smiles aud tears 
Die on my clieek, or, petrified with years, 
Show tlie dull woe which no compassion warms, 
Tlie mirth none shares. Yet couhl a wish, a thonglit, 
Uiir.avel all the complex web of .age, — 
Could all the ch.aracters that Time hath wrought 
Be clean effiiced from my memorial page 
!<■ one short word, the word I would not say: — 
lauk my God, because my hairs are gray. 
32 



NOVEMBER. 

The mellow year is liastiug to its close; 
The little birds have almost sung tlieir last, 
Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast — 
That shrill-piped harbinger of early sno^s; — 
The patient beauty of the scentless rose, 
Oft with the Morn's hoar crystal (jnaintly glassed, 
Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past, 
And makes a little summer whei'e it grows: — 
In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day 
The dusky waters shudder as they shine ; 
The russet leaves obstruct the straggling w.ay 
Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define, 
And the gaunt woods, in ragged, .scant array, 
Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy-twiue. 



WISDOM THE GRAY HAIRS TO A MAN. 

"I thank my God because my hairs are gray!" 
But have gray hairs brought wisdom' Doth the 

flight 
Of summer birds, departed while the light 
Of life is lingering on the middle wiiy, 
Predict the harvest nearer by a day ? 
Will the rank weeds of hopeless appetite 
Droop at the glance and venom of the blight 
That made the vermeil bloom, the flush so gay, 
Dim and unlovely, as .a dead worm's shroud? 
Or is my heart, that, wanting ho]ie, has lost 
The strength and rudder of resolve, at peace ? 
Is it no longer wrathful, vain, and proud? 
Is it a Sabbath, or untimely frost, 
That makes the labor of the soul to ce.ase ? 



TO SHAKSPEARE. 

The soul of man is larger than the sky ; 

Deeper than ocean, or the abysmal dark 

Of the unfathonied centre. Like that Ark, 

Wliich in its sacred hold uplifted high. 

O'er the drowned lulls, the human family. 

And stock reserved of every living kind. 

So, in the compass of the single mind. 

The seeds and pregnant forms in essence lie, 

That m.ako all worlds. Great Poet, 'twas thy art 

To know thyself, and in thyself to be 

Whate'er love, hate, ambiti<ui, destiny, 

Or the firm, fatal purpose of the heart, 

Can make of Mau. Yet thou wcrt still the same. 

Serene of thought, uuhnrt by thy own fiame. 



498 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BItlTISE AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



LIBERTY. 

S:iy, What is Freeilom ? AVliat the light of souls 
Which all who kuow are honnd to keep or ilie, 
And who kuows not, is ilead ? lu vain we pry 
111 the dark archives, and tenacious scrolls 
Of writteu law, thongh Time embrace the rolls 
lu his lauk arms, and shed his yellow light 
On every barbarous word. Eternal Eight 
Works its own way, and evermore controls 
Its own free essence. Liberty is Duty, 
Not License. Every pulse that beats 
At the glad summons of imperious beauty 
Obeys a law. The very cloud that fleets 
Along the dead green surface of the hill 
Is ruled and scattered by a godlike will. 



NO LIFE VAIX. 

Let nie not deem that I was made in vaiu, 
Or that my Being was an accident. 
Which Fate, in working its sublime intent, 
Not wished to be, to hinder would not deign. 
Each drop uucounted in a storm of rain 
Hath its own mission, and is duly sent 
To its own leaf or blade, not idly spent 
'Mid myriad dimples on the shipless main. 
The very shadow of an insect's wing. 
For which the violet cared not while it stayed. 
Yet felt the lighter for its vanishing. 
Proved that the sun was shining by its .shade: 
Then can a drop of the eternal spring. 
Shadow of living lights, in vaiu be made ? 



THE WAIF OF NATURE. 

A lonely wanderer upon earth am I, 
The waif of nature — like uprooted weed 
Borne by the stream, or like a, shaken reed, 
A frail dependent of the fickle sky ; 
Far, far away, are all my natural kin : 
Tlie nuilhcr that erewhile hath huslied my crj-. 
Almost hath grown a mere fond memory. 
Where is my Risfer's smile? my brother's boister- 
ous diu ? 
Ah ! nowln^re now. A matron grave and sage, 
A holy mother is that sister sweet. 
And tliat bold brother is a pastor, meet 
To guide, instruct, reprove a sinful age. 
Almost I fear, and yet I fain would greet ; 
So far astray hath been my pilgrimage. 



TO A NEWLY-MARRIED FRIEND. 

How shall a man foredoomed to lone estate, 

Untimely old, irreverently gray, 

Much like a patch of dusky snow in Maj-, 

Dead sleeping in a hollow — all too late — 

How shall so jioor a thing congratulate 

The blest completion of a patient wooing. 

Or how commend a younger man for doing 

What ne'er to do hath been his fault or fate ? 

There is a fable, that I once did read. 

Of a bad angel, that was someway good, 

Aud therefore on the brink of heaven he stood. 

Looking each way, and no way could proceed ; 

Till at the last he purged away his sin 

By loving all the joy he saw within. 



THE SAME, AND NOT ANOTHER. 

Think upon Death, 'tis good to think of Death, 

But better far to think upon the Dead. 

Death is a siiectre with a bony head, 

Or the mere mortal body without breath. 

The state foredoomed of every son of Seth, 

Decomposition — dust, or dreamless sleep. 

But the dear Dead are they for whom we weep. 

For whom I credit all the Bible saith. 

Dead is my father, dead is my good mother. 

And what on earth have I to do bnt diu ? 

But if by grace I reach the blessed sky, 

I fain would see the same, and not another; 

The very father that I used to see. 

The mother that has nursed me on her knee. 



ON RECEIVING ALMS. 

What can a poor man do but love and pray? 

But if his love he seltish, then his prayer. 

Like noisome vapor, melts in vacant air. 

I am a debtor, aud I cannot pay. 

The alms which drop upon the public way, — • 

Tlie casual tribute of the good and fair, 

With the keen, thriftless avarice of despair 

I seize, and live thereon from day to day, 

Ingrato and purposeless. — And yet not so : 

The mere mendicity of self-contempt 

Has not so far debased mo, but I kuow 

The faith, the hope, the piety, exempt 

From worldly doubt, to which my all I owe. 

Since I have nothing, yet I bless the thonulii :- 

Best are they paid whose earthlj' wage is uaiigii 



THOMAS DALE. — WILLIAM MOTUEEWELL. 



499 



(tljoiims Dale. 



Dale (1797-lSTO) was a native of London. He was 
Canon of St. Paul's, anil ulliniately Dean of Rochester, 
and was the autlioi- of two volumes of sennons (1833- 
lS3fi). A eoUection of his poems appealed in 1812. 
Thej' are noteworthy for beauty and delicacy of diction, 
and for smoothness of versitication. He was for some 
time Professor of English Literature at the London Uni- 
versity, and subsetiuently at King's College. He was the 
author of "The Widow of Nain," a poem; also of two 
volumes of sermons, published in 1S30 and 1836. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

Again tlie flowers wc loved to twine 

Wreathe wild ronuil every tree ; 
Again the summer sunbeams shine, 

That cannot shino on thee. 
Verdure returns with fresher bloom 

To vale and mountain brow ; 
All nature breaks as from the tomb ; 

But—" Where art thou ?" 

At eve, to sail upon tbe tide. 

To roam along tl)e sbore, 
So sweet while thou wert at my side, 

Can now delight no more : — 
There is iu heaven, and o'er the flood. 

The same deep azure now ; 
The same notes warble tlirough the wood ; 

But— "Where art thou?" 

Men say there is a voice of mirth 

In every grove and glen ; 
But sounds of gladness on the earth 

I cannot know agiiiii. 
The rippling of tbe summer sea. 

The bird upon the bough, 
All speak with one sad voice to me; 

'Tis— "Where art thou?" 



DIRGE. 

From " The Widow of Nain." 

Dear as thou wert, and justly dear. 

We will not weep for thee ; 
0\w thought shall check the starting tear, 

It is — that thou art free. 
And thus shall Faith's consoling power 

The tears of love restrain ; 
Oh! who that saw thy parting Lour, 

Could wish thee here again ! 



Triumpliaut in thy closing eye 

The hope of glory shone, 
Joy breathed in thine expiring sigb, 

To think the fight was won. 
Gently the passing spirit fled, 

Sustained by grace divine: 
Oh ! may such grace on me be shed, 

And make my end like thine! 



liniliam iUotljcru)cll. 

Motherwell (1797-1835) was a native of Glasgow. Af- 
ter studying Latin and Greek at the University, he was 
educated for the law. In 1838 he became editor of the 
Paisloj Advertiser, and began to devote himself to lit- 
erary pursuits. In 1830 he took charge of the Glasgow 
Courier, editing it with courage and ability. In politics 
he was a Tory, but a very sincere one. He early showed 
a taste for poetry; and in his fourteenth year had pro- 
duced the first draft of his " Jeanie Morrison;" of which 
Miss Mitford says : "Let young writers observe that this 
finish was the result, not of a curious felicity, but of the 
nicest elaboration. By touching and retouching, during 
many years, did 'Jeanie Morrison' attain her perfection, 
and yet how completely has art concealed art! How en- 
tirely does that charming song ajspear like an irrepressi- 
ble gush of feeling !" 

A volume of Motherwell's poems appeared in 1832, and 
at once gave him rank as a vigorous and genuine writer. 
It was republished in Boston in 1816. Iu his " Minstrel- 
sy, Ancient and Modern," he earned celebrity as a liter- 
ary antiquarian. At one period of his life he oversteji- 
ped some social conventions, and incurred much unhap- 
pincss thereby, to which reference is occasionally made 
iu the more personal of his poems. His taste, enthu- 
siasm, and social qualities rendered him very popular 
among his townsmen and friends. He was suddenly 
struck down by apoplexy in the thirty-eighth year of his 
age. 



THE CAVALIER'S SONG. 

A steed, a steed of matchless speed! 

A sword of metal keene ! 
All else to noble heartes is drosse. 

All else on earthe is meaue. 
The ueighyinge of the war-horse prowde, 

The rowlinge of the drum, 
The clangor of the trumpet lowde, 

Be soundes from heaven that come ; 
And oh ! the thundering presse of kuiglites 

Whenas their war-cryes swell. 
May tole from heaven an angel bright 

And rouse a fiend from hell. 

Then mounte! then mounte! brave gallants ail. 
And don your helmes amaiue : 



[;oo 



CYCLOrjLDIA OF BHITISH AND AMEUICAX POETRY. 



Deathe's couriers, fame aud honor, call 

Us to the lieltle agaiiie. 
No shrewish teares shall fill our eyo 

AVheu the sword-hilt's in our haud, — 
Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe 

For the fayrest of the laud ; 
Let pipiug swaiue, aud craven wight 

Thus weepe and puling erye, 
Our business is like men to tight, 

Aud hero-like to die ! 



JEANIE MORRISON. 

The heroine of this pathetic song, Jliss Jane Morrison, nfier- 
wavtl Mis. Mnrdocb, wiis iu her seventh year, in 1S07, in the same 
class-room at school with young Motherwell. She never met 
the poet in after-life. 

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 

Through mouj' a weary way ; 
But never, never can forget 

The luve o' life's young day ! 
The fii'o that's blawn on lieltane e'en, 

May weel bo black gin Yule ; 
But blacker fa' awaits the heart 

Wlicre first fond luve grows cnle. 

O dear, dear Jeauie Morrison, 

The thochts o' by-gaue years 
Still fling their shadows owcr my path. 

And blind my een wi' tears: 
Tliey blind my cen wi' saut, saut tears, 

And sair and sick I pine, 
As memory idly summons np 

The blithe blinks o' langsync. 

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 

'Twas then we twa did part ; 
Sweet time — sad time! twa bairns at scnle, 

Twa bairns, and but ao heart! 
'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, 

To leir ilk ither lear; 
And tones, aud looks, and smiles were shed, 

Keiuembeied evermair. 

I wonder, .leanie, afteu yet, 

When sitting on tliat bink, 
Cheek touehiu' check, loof locked iu loof. 

What our wee heads could think. 
Wlicn baith bent doun ower ac braid page, 

Wi' ae buik on our knee. 
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 

My lesson was in thee. 



Oh, mind ye liow we hnug our heads, 

How cheeks brent red wi' shame. 
Whene'er the scule-weans, langiiin', said 

We clocked thegither hamo ? 
And mind ye o' the Saturdays 

(The scnle then scail't at noon). 
When we ran otf to speel the braes,— 

The broomy braes o' Jtiuo ? 

My head rius round and round about — 

My heart flows like a sea. 
As ane by ane the thochts rush back 

O' scnle-time aud o' thee. 
O morniu' life! O moruiii' luve! 

O lichtsome days and lang, 
When hinnied hopes around our heaits 

Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 

Oh, mind j-e, luve, how aft we left 

The deaviu' dinsome tonn. 
To wander by the green burnside. 

And hear its waters croon ? 
Tlie simmer leaves hung ower our heads. 

The flowers burst round our feet. 
And in the gloamin' o' the wood 

The throssil whiisslit sweet ; 

The throssil whusslit iu the wood, 

The burn sang to the trees — 
Aud we, with Nature's heart in tutio, 

Concerted harmonies ; 
Aud on the kuowe abune the burn 

For hours thegither sat 
Iu the silentness o' joy, till baith 

Wi' very gladness grat. 

Ay, ay, dear Jcanio Morrison, 

Tears triuklcd doun yonr cheek 
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet naue 

Had ony power to speak! 
That was a time, a bless6d time, 

When hearts were fresh and young. 
When freely gushed all feelings forth, 

llusyllabled — unsung ! 

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 

Gin I hue been to thee 
As closely twined wl' earliest thochts 

As ye hae been to me 1 
Oh, tell me giu their music fills 

Thiue car as it does miue! 
Oh, say giu e'er your heart grows grit 

Wi' drcamings o' langsvne ? 



WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.— THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. 



COl 



I've wautlered east, I've wamleieJ west, 

I've boiue a weary lot ; 
But iu my 'naiitleriugs, far or uear. 

Ye never were forgot. 
The fount tbat first burst frae tliis heart, 

Still travels ou its way ; 
And channels deeper, as it rius. 

The luve o' life's young day. 

O dear, dear Jeanic Slorrison, 

Siuce we were sindered young, 
I've never seen your face, nor heard 

The music o' your tongue ; 
But I could hug all wretchedness, 

And happy could I dec. 
Dill I but ken your heart still dreamed 

O' by-gane days and me ! 



LINES GIVEN TO A FRIEND 

A DAV OR TWO BEI'Or.E THE IlECEASE OK THE WRITER. 

When I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping. 

Life's fever o'er, 
Will there for mo bo any bright eye weeping 

That I'm no more ? 
Will there be any heart still memory keeping 

Of heretofore ? 

When tiie great winds through leafless forests rush- 
ing, 

Sad music make, 
Wlien the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gu.sh- 

i"g, 

Like full hearts break, — 
Will there then one, whose heart despair is crushing, 
llourn for my sake ? 

When the briglit .sun upon that spot is shining. 

With purest ray. 
And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms 
twining, 

BLirst through tliat clay, — 
Will tliere be one still on that spot repining 

Lost hopes all day f 

Wheu no star twinkles with its eye of glory, 

On tliat low mound, 
.\nd wintry ."Storms have with their ruins hoary. 

Its loneuess crowned, — 
Will there be then one, versed iu misery's story. 

Pacing it round? — 



It may be so, — but this is selfish sorrow- 
To ask such meed, — 

A weakness and a wickedness to borrow 
From hearts that bleed, 

The wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow 
Shall never need. ; - 

Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling, 

Thou gentle heart ; 
And though thy bosom should with grief be swelliug. 

Let no tear start ; 
It were in vain, — for Time hath long been knelling, — 

" Sad one, depart !'' 



»II)oiiia5 CjaijiKS Caijln. 

Bayly (1797-1839), a populiu- song-writer, was a native 
of Bath, England. He wrote tliirty-six dramas and farces, 
among which "Perfection " and "Tom Noddy's Secret" 
still keep possession of the American stage. "Perfec- 
tion" was refused by the managers, but Madame Vestiis 
saw its merits, and brought it out with great applause. 
Bayly married young and hapijily, but his latter days were 
saddened by pecuniary reverses. He bore all, however, 
iu the spirit and with the hope of a sincere Christian. 
In the epitaph, written by Theodore Hook, it is said of 
him ; "He was a kind parent, an affectionate husband, a 
popular author, and an accomplished gentleman." His 
poetical works, iu two volumes, with a memoir by his 
widow, appeared iu 1S4S. Archdeacon Wrangham ren- 
dered some of Bayly's songs into Latin. Here are four 
lines of his "I'd be a Butterfly:" 

"Ah! Sim Papilio natus iu itosculo, 
Rosa ubi liiinque ct violae haleiit; 
Fioribus advolaus, nvolans, osciilo, 
Genimulas taugeus, qnse suave oleut !"' 



THE SOLDIER'S TEAR. 

Upon the liill he turned. 

To take a last fond look 
Of the valley and the village church, 

And the cottage by the brook, 
lie listened to the sounds 

So familiar to his ear, 
And the soldier leaned upon his sword, 

And wiped away a tear. 

Beside that cottage porch 

A girl was on her knees; 
She held aloft a snowy scarf 

Which fluttered iu the breeze. 
She breathed a prayer for him — 

A prayer he could not hear ; 



002 



CVCLOP^niA OF BEITISn AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



But lie iiaiised to bless her as she knelt, 
And lie wiped away a tear. 

He turned and left the spot, 

Oil, do not deem liim weak! 
For dauntless was the soldiei's heart. 

Though tears were ou his cheek. 
Go watch the foremost rauks 

In danger's dark career : 
Be sure the hand most daring there 

Has wiped away a tear. 



ID BE A BUTTEEFLV. 

I'd be a biitterliy born in a bower. 

Where roses, and lilies, and violets meet; 
Roving forever from flower to tiower, 

Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. 
I'd never languish for wealth or for power, 

I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet ; 
I'd be a biitterliy born in a bower. 

Kissing all buds that are pretty aud sweet. 

Oh! conld I pilfer the wand of a fairy, 

I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings. 
Their summer-day's ramble is sportive and airy. 

They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings. 
Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary, 

Power, alas! naught but misery brings; 
I'd be a butterfly, sportive aud airy, 

Rocked in a rose wlieu the nightingale sings. 

What though yon tell mo each gay little rover 

Shrinks from the breath of the first autumu day ; 
Surely 'tis better, when summer is over, 

To die, when all fair things are fading awaj'. 
8nme in life's winter may toil to discover 

Means of procuring a weary delay: 
I'd be a buttcrlly, living a rover. 

Dying when fair things are fading away. 



SHE WORE A WREATH OF ROSES. 

She wore a wreath of roses 
The night that first we met; 

Iler lovely face w.as smiling 
Beneath her curls of jet. 

Her footstep had the lightness. 
Her voice the joyous tone, — • 



The tokens of a youthful heart. 
Where .sorrow is unknown. 

I saw her but a moment. 
Yet methinks X see her now. 

With the wreath of summer tlowers 
Upon her snowy brow. 

A wreath of orange blossoms. 

When next we met, she wore; 
The esiiression of her features 

Was more thoughtful than before; 
Aud standing by her side was ouc 

Wlio strove, aud not in vain, 
To soothe her, leaving that dear home 

She ne'er might view again. 
I s.aw her but a moment. 

Yet methinks I see her uow. 
With the wreath of orange blossoms 

Upon her suowy brow. 

Aud once again I see that brow, 

No bridal-wreath is there ; 
The widow's sombre cap conceals 

Her once luxuriant hair. 
She weeps in silent solitude, 

Aud there is no one near 
To press her baud within his own, 

Aud M'ipe awaj' the tear. 
I see her broken-hearted ; 

Y'et methinks I see her uow, 
In the pride of youth and beauty, 

With a garland on her brow. 



THE PREMATURE WHITE HAT. 

I met a man iu Regent .Street, 

A daring man was he ; 
He had a hat upon his head 

As white as white could be! 
'Twas but the first of Slarch ! — away 

Three hundred yards I ran, 
Then east a retrospective glance 

At that misguided man. 

I thought it might lie possible 

To do so foul a deed. 
Yet not commit the murderous acts 

Of which too oft w-o read : 
I tlionght he might have felt distress. 

Have loved — aud loved iu vain — 
And wore that pallid thing to cool 

Tlie fever of his brain 1 



THOMAS HAYXES BAYLY.— JOEX FINLEY. 



503 



Percliance he had no relative, 

No confidential friend, 
To say when summer months hegin 

And those of winter end. 
Perchance ho had a wife, who was 

Unto his side a thorn. 
And who had basely thrnst him forth 

To brave decornni's scoru. 

But no! — a smilo was on liis cheek; 

He thought himself the thing! 
And all uuhlushingly he wore 

The garniture of spring! 
'Twas evident the mau could not 

Distinguish wrong from right; 
And cheerfully he walked along, 

Unseasonably white! 

Then, unperceived, I followed him ; 

Clandestinely I tried 
To ascertain in what strange spot 

So queer a man could hide: 
Where he could pass his days and nights, 

And breakfast, dine, and sup ; 
And where the peg conld be on which 

He hnug that white hat up I 

He paused at White's — the white capote 

Made all the members stare ; 
He passed the Atheuaium Club, 

He had no footing there ! 
He stood a ballot once (alas! 

Tliere sure was pique in that) — 
Thougli they admit liglit-headed men, 

They blackballed the white hat! 

And on he went, self-satisfied. 

And now and then did stop. 
And look into the looking-glass 

That lines some trinket-shop. 
And smilingly adjusted it! 

'Twas that which made me vexed — 
"If this is borne," said I, "he'll wear 

His nankeen trousers next!" 

The wretched being I at length 

Compassionatelj' stopped. 
And used the most persuasive words 

Entreaty could adopt. 
I said his hat was pi'eniature ; 

I never left his side. 
Until he swore most solennily 

The white hat should be dyed. 



jJolju j^inlcij. 



AMERICAN. 

Finley (17'J7-lSfi()) was a native of Brownsburg, Rock- 
liridi;c County, Va. He went to a country school, and 
learned " to read, write, and cipher as fur as the rule of 
three." After serving an apprenticeship afe ir tanner and 
carrier, he went West, and settled at Richmond, Wayne 
County, Ind., where lie was mayor some dozen years. 
He published many short poems which had a wide circu- 
lation, and gave evidence of talents, which might have 
led to higher literary distinction if his early advantages 
of education had been greater. He belongs to tlie real- 
istic school in verse, and his poems will hardly please 
tliose who deny to Pope tlie name of poet. His " Bache- 
lor's Hall " has been widely circulated, and was long at- 
t)-iL)Uted to Moore, the Irish poet. 



BACHELOR'S HALL. 

Bachelor's Hall! what a quare-lookin' place it is! 

Kape me from sich all the days of my life ! 
Snre, but I think what a, buruin' dhsgraoe it is 

Niver at all to he gettin' a wife. 

See the old bachelor, gloomy and sad enough. 

Placing his taykettle over the fire; 
Soon it tips over — St. Patrick ! he's mad enough 

(If he were preseut) to fight wid the squire. 

Then, like a hog in a mortar-bed wallowing. 
Awkward enough, see him knadiug his dough; 

Troth! if the bread he could ate widont swallowiug, 
How it would favor his palate, you know ! 

His dishcloth is missing ; the pigs are devouring it ; 

lu the pursuit he has battered his shin; 
A plate wanted washing — Grimalkin is scouring it; 

Thunder aud turf! what a pickle he's in! 

His meal being over, the table's left setting so ; 

Dishes, take care of yonr.selves, if you can ! 
But hunger returns, — then he's fuming and fretting 
so, 

Och ! let him alone for a haste of a man\ 

Pots, di.shes, pans, and such grasy commodities. 
Ashes, aud prata-skins, kiver the floor ; 

His cupboard's a storehouse of comical oddities, 
Sich as had niver been neighbors before. 

Late in the night, then, he goes to bed shiverin', 
Niver the bit is the bed made at all! 

He crapes, like a tarrapin, under the kiveriu' — 
Bad luck to the picter of Bachelor's Hall ! 



504 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BIIITISU A^D AMERICAN POETRY. 



Cjcrbcrt KuomlcG. 



Knowlos ( 17KS-1817), a unlive of Canterbury, EngUuKl, 
and of llie liiimblcst i«ronta};e, was lefl an orphan when 
a mere hid. He exeited attention by his abilities, 
liowevcr, and was helped in liis eduealion by Soutlicy, 
Kogors, and otliers. The following lines, written when 
Knowlcs was eighteen, have been justly eelebruted. He 
did not live long to avail hiiiiseU'of the generous aid of 
literary friends. 



LINES WRITTKX IN THE CnrK('H-V.\KD OF 
KICILMONI), VOUKSllIKE. 

" I.oril, it i.^ j^i^inl Cur ns id be Iilmc; ifilKni wilt, lot, us in:ikc 
here three tabenuiclcs; one for thee, and one fur M^^^;es, and one 
fur Ellas."— Matthew xvii. 4. 

Mi'lliinks it is good to be liefe ; 

If thou wilt, let lis build, — but for whom? 

Nof Elias nor Moses iippeiif; 

Hut the. shadows ofcvo that eiieoniiiass the gloom, 
The iibodo of the dead, ami the idaeo of the tomb. 

Shall wi' builil to Ambition? All! no: 
.MtVighted, lie sliriiiketli away; 

For sec, they would pin him below 

In a small narrow eave : and, begirt with cold clay. 
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. 

To lieanty ? AIi I no: she forgets 
The chaniis that she wielded before; 

Nor knows the foul worm that ho frets 

The skill which but yesterday fools could .tdore. 
For the snioothuess it held, or the tint which it 
wore. 

Shall wo Iniihl to the purple of I'ride, 
The trappings which dizeu the immd ? 

.Mas ! they are all laid aside ; 

.\iid bcre's neither dress mu' adiu'iiment allowed. 
Hut the huig winding-sheet, anil tlie fringe of the 
shriuiil. 

To l\i(dies ? Alas! 'tis in v.iin : 

Who hid, in their turns liave been hid; 

The treasures are stiuandered again ; 

And hero, in the grave, aro all metals forbid, 
lint the tinsel that shone on the dark eollin-lid. 

To I lie pleasures which Slirth can afford, 
The revid, the laugh, and the jeer? 

Ah ! here is a pliMitifnl board. 

Hut the guests are all iiiiito as their pitiful eliecr. 
Ami none but the worm is a reveller hero. 



Shall we build to AfFectiou and Love ? 
All! no: they have withered and dii-d, 

Or fleil with the spirit above: 

Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side, 
Yet none have saUiliil. and none have replied. 

Unto Sorrow f The dead cannot grieve; 

Nor a sob, nor a sigh meets initio ear, 
Which compassion itself could lelievo : 

Ah ! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, or fear ; 

Peace, peace, is the watchword, the only one here. 

Unto Death, to whom moiiarehs must bow ? 
Ah! no: for his empire is known. 

And here thero aro trophies enow ; 

Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone, 
Aro the signs of a sceptre tliat none may disou n. 

The liist tabernacle to Hope we will build, 
.\nd look for the sleepers around us to rise: 

Tlu^ second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled ; 
.\iul the third to the Lamb of the tireat Sacrilice, 
Who beiiueatbed us them both wlu'U he rose to 
the skies. 



i?ol)ii Biiniin. 



Bauini (1708-184:3) was a native of Kilkenny, Ireland, 
and received his education in its college. He wrote 
" Tales of the O'Hara Family " (1S2.5-'G), in wliieh lie was 
assisted by his brother Michael (born 17'.l(i). As a novelist, 
John Banim's rank is among the best ; and some of his 
poems are full of pathos and vigor. He was the author 
of the five-act play of " Daniou and Pythias," brought 
out May, 1821, at the Covent Garden Theatre, London, 
and of which Leigh Hunt saj-s he " never saw a more 
sneccssfnl reception. The interest is strongly e.\cited 
from the first, and increases to the last." Bauiiu ex- 
presses his aeknowledguients to Shell, tlie gifted orator, 
for revising the play. The part of " Damon " was a favo- 
rite one both wdth Maeready and Forrest. The extract 
we iiuotc has been slightly abridged from the original. 



SOGGAinil AKOON. 

Am 1 till- slave they say, 

Soggartli aroon V 
Since yon did show the way, 

Soggarth aroou, 
Their slave no more to bo, 
While they would wink with me 
Ouhl Ireland's slavery. 



' Priest dear. 



JO UN BANIM. 



505 



Wliy nut her poorest luiiii, 

Soggai'tU ai'Doii, 
Try and do all lie can, 
Soggartli ai'oon, 
Mer coinniaiiils to fiillil 
Of Ills own licart aii<l will, 
Side by side with you si 111, 



Lojal and brave to yon, 

Soggartli ai'ooii. 
Yet be no slave to yon, 

Soggai'tli aroon, — ■ 
Nor, out of feai' to yon, 
Stand lip so near to you, 
Ocli ! out of fear to yuii, 



Wlin, in tlic winter's niglit, 

Siiggartli aroon, 
When tlie euld blast did bito, 

Soggartli aroon, 
Came to my cabin-door, 
And, on my eartlien-flure, 
Kuelt by me, sick and poor. 



Who, on the maviiagc-day, 

.Soggartli aroon, 
Made the iioor cabin gay, 
Soggartli aroou, — 
And did both laugh and sing, 
Making our hearts to ring, 
At the pom' christening. 



Who, as friend only met, 

Soggarth aroon. 
Never did lloiit mo yet, 

Soggarth aroon ? 
And, when my hearth was dim, 
Gave, while his eye did brim, 
What I slionld give to him, 



Och ! y(ni, and onl}' ycm, 

Soggarth aroon ! 
And for this I was true to yoa, 

Soggarth aroon ; 
III love they'll never shake, 
When, for ould Irelaiul's sake, 
We a true part did take, 



FROM "DAMON AND PYTHIAS," Act V. 

I'ljthUis. Calaiithe here! My poor, fond girl! 
Thou art the first to meet me at the block ; 
Thou'lfc be the last to leave nic at the grave! 

Calnnthe. O my Pythias, ho yet may come ! 
Into the sinews of the horse that bears'hini 
Put swiftness, gods ! — let him outrace and shame 
Tlio galloping of clouds upon the storm ! 
Blow, breezes, with him ; lend every feeble aid 
Unto his motion ! — and thou, thrice solid earth, 
Forget thy immutable fixedness — become 
Under his feet like flowing water, and 
Hither flow with him ! 

Pyth. I have taken in 
All the horizon's vast circumference 
That, in the glory of the setting sun, 
Opens its wide expanse, yet do I see 
No signal of his coming. — Nay, 'tis likely — 
Oh no! he could uot! It is impossible! 

Cat. I say Iio is false! he is a murderer! 
He will not come! the traitor doth i)rcfer 
Life, ignominious, dastard life! — Thou minister 
Of light, and measurer of eternity 
lu this great purpose, stay thy going down, 
Great sun, behind the conlincs of this world! 
Ou yonder purple mountains make thy stand ; 
For while thine eye is opened ou mankind, 
Hope will abide within thy blessdd beams: 
They dare uot do the murder iu thy presence ! 
Alas ! all heedless of my frantic cry. 
He plunges down the precipice of heaven! 

Prochs. Take a last farewell of your mistress, sir, 
And look your last upon tlie setting sun ; 
And do both quickly, for your hour comes on. 

I'ljUi. Come here, Calanthe — closer to me yef ! 
Ah! what a cold transition it will be 
From this warm touch, all full of life and beauty ! — 

Cah Hush ! Stand back there ! 
There is a minute left : look there ! look there ! 
But 'tis 80 far off, and the evening shades 
Thicken so fast, there are no other eyes 
But mine cau catch it! Yet, 'tis there! I sec it! 
A shape as yet so vague and questionable, 
'Tis nothing, just abmit to change and take 
The form of something! 

Pijtli. Damon, I do forgive thee ! — I but ask 
Some tears unto my ashes. " * * By the gods, 
A horse aud horseman ! — Far upon the hill. 
They wave their hats, aud he returns it — yet 
I know Iiini not — his horse is at the stretch! 
Why should they shout as he comes on ? It is — 
No! — that was too unlike — but there, now — there! 



COj 



CTCLOrJEDlA OF BlilTISH JND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Life ! I scarcely dare to wish for tUee ; 

Aud yet — that jutting rock lias hid liiin from rae. 
No! let it not be Damon! — he has a wife 
And child ! Gods, keep him back ! 

Damon (tfiHwul). Where is he? (Rushes in.) 
Ha ! he's alive, untouched ! 

Pyth. Damou, dear fiiend — 

Dam. I can but laugh— I cannot speak to thee! 

1 cau but play the maniac, aud langli. 
Even iu the very crisis to have conic, — 

To have hit the very forehead of old Time! 

By heavens ! had I arrived an hour before, 

I should not feel this agony of joy — 

This triumph over Diouysins! 

Ha, ha! But thou didst doubt me; come, thon 

didst— 
Own it, and I'll forgive thee. 

Pi/lh. For a moment. 

Dam. O that false slave ! Pythias, he slew my 
horse. 
In the base thought to save me. I'd have killed him, 
And to a precipice was dragging liim. 
When, from the very brink of the abyss, 
I did behold a traveller afar, 
Bestriding a good steed. I rnshed upon him: 
Choking with desperation, and yet loud, 
Iu shrieking anguish, I commanded him 
Down from his saddle: lie denied me — but 
Would I theu be denied ? As hungry tigers 
Clutch their poor prey, I sprang upon his throat — 
Thus, thus, I had him, Pythias ! Come, your horse, 
Your horse ! I cried. Ha, ha ! 



DaBib illacbcti) iUoir. 

Under the signiiliii-e of " Delt;\," Moir (1798-1851) was 
a frequent contrilnitor to Bluck wood's Magazine. A na- 
tive of Musselburgli, Scotland, lie practised there as a 
surgeon, much beloved by nil who knew him. His po- 
etical works, edited by Thomas Aird, were published in 
1S.52. Moir was a successful prose writer, and his "Au- 
tobiogi-apliy of Mausie Wauch " (182S) is quite an amus- 
iui; production. He published volumes of verse iu 1818, 
1834, and 184:1 His " Sketches of the Poetical Literature 
of the last Half Century " appeared in 1851. 



LANGSYNE. 

Langsyno ! — how doth the word come back 

With magic meaning to the heart 
As memory roams the sunny track. 

From which hope's dreams were loath to part! 



No joy like by-jiast joy appears ; 

For what is goue we fret aud i)iue : 
Were life spun out a thousand years, 

It could uot match Langsyne ! 

Laiigsyne I — the days of childhood warm, 

When, totteriug by a mother's knee, 
Each sight .and sound had power to charm. 

And hope was high, and thought was free ! 
Langsyne I — the merry school-boy days — 

How sweetly then life's sun did shine! 
Oh ! for the glorious ju'anks and plays. 

The raptures of Langsyue ! 

Langsyne! — yes, in the sound I hear 

The rustling of the summer grove ; 
And view those angel features near 

Which first awoke the heart to love. 
How sweet it is in pensive mood 

At windless midnight to recline. 
And fill the mental solitude 

With spectres from Langsyne ! 

Langsyne! — ah, where are thej- who shared 

With us its pleasures bright and blithe ? 
Kindly with some hath fortune fared. 

And some have bowed beneath the scythe 
Of death, — while otliers scattered far 

O'er foreign lamls at fate repine. 
Oft wandering fortli, 'iieath twilight's star, 

To muse on dear Langsyue ! 

Langsyne ! — the heart can never be 

Again so full of guileless truth; 
Langsyne ! — the eyes no more shall see, 

Ah no! the rainbow hopes of youth. 
Langsyne ! — with thee resides a spell 

To raise the si)irit and i-cline : — 
Farewell ! — there can be no farewell 

To thee, loved, lost Langsyue ! 



Samuel £oBcr. 

Lover (1798-1868) was a native of Dublin. His first 
occupation was that of a miniature painter. In 1838 his 
best known novel, "Handy Andy," was commenced in 
BcnUcy's 3IisccUamj. As a song-writer ho Won a liigh de- 
gree of popularity. He also produced several pieces foi' 
the stage, among which are " The Beau Ideal," " Tho 
White Horse of the Peppers," and "II Paddy Wliaek iu 
Italy." With his short Irish sketches and his sougs he 
made up a public entertainment, which he gave with 
much success in Ireland, Init with less in tlie United 
States. His " Life," by Bayle Bernard, appeared in 1874. 



SAMUEL LOVEB.^THOilAS HOOD. 



507 



EORY O'MOEE ; OR, GOOD OMENS. 

Young Rory O'More courted Katlileen Bawn ; 

He was Ijold as tlie hawk, aud she soft as the dawn ; 

He wished iu his heart pretty Kathleen to please, 

And he thought the best way to do that was to 
tease. 

" Xow, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry. 

Reproof on her lip, but a smile iu her eye ; 

"With your tricks, I doil't know, in throth, what 
I'm about ; 

Faith, j"ou've teased till I've jiut on my cloak in- 
side out." 

"Och! jewel," says Rory, "that same is the way 

You've thrated ray heart for this many a day ; 

And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure ? 

For 'tis all for good-luck," says bold Rory O'More. 

" Indeed, then," says Kathleen, " don't think of the 

like. 
For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike ; 
The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound" — 
'• Faith !" says Rory, " I'd rather love you than the 

ground." 
" Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go : 
Sure I dream every night that I'm hating yon so!" 
" Och !" says Rory, " that same I'm delighted to hear, 
For dhrames always go by couthraries, my dear. 
Och ! jewel, keep dliramiug that same till you die. 
And bright morning will give dirty night the black 

lie! 
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure ? 
Since 'tis all for good-luck," says bold Rory O'More. 

"Arrah, Kathleen, my darliut, you've teased me 

enough ; 
Sure I've thrashed, fur your sake,Dinuy Grimes and 

Jim Duff; 
And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite 

a baste, 
So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste." 
Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck, 
So soft and so white, without freckle or speck; 
And he looked iu her eyes that were beaming with 

light, 
Aud he kissed her sweet lips — Don't you think he 

was right ? 
"Now, Rory, leave off, sir, — j-ou'll hug me no 

more, — 
Tliat's eight times to-day you have kissed me be- 
fore." 
"Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure. 
For there's luck iu odd numbers," says Rory O'More. 



THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. 

In Ireland they hnve .a snpeistition that when a child smiles 
in its Bleep it is talking with angels. 

A baby was sleeping. 

Its mother was weeping, r _ 

For her husband was far on the wild raging sea ; 
And the tempest was swelling 
Round the fisherman's dwelling ; 

And she cried, " Dermot, darling, oh come back to 
me !" 

Her beads while she numbered, 

The baby still slumbered. 
And smiled iu her face as she bended her knee: 

" Oil, blessed bo that warning. 

My child, thy sleep adorning. 
For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. 

"And while they aie keei)ing 
Bright ■watch o'er thy sleeping, 

Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me! 
And say thou wonldst rather 
They'd watch o'er thy father! 

For I know that the angels are whispering to thee." 

Tlie dawu of the morning 

Saw Dermot returning. 
And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see ; 

And closely caressing 

Her child with a blessing. 
Said, " I knew that the angels were whispering with 
thee." 



(fl)omas f)ooir. 



Hood (1798-lSi.5) was a native of London, the son of 
a bookseller. At school he picked up some Latin and 
more French. On leaving, he was planted on a counting- 
house stool, where he remained long euotigh to get ma- 
terials for the following sonnet : 

"Time was, I sat npon a lofty stool, 
At lofty desk, and with a clei-kly jjen 
Began each morning, at the stroke of ten, 
To write in Bell & Co.'s commercial school : 
In Wariiford Court, a shady nook and cool, 
The favorite retreat of merchant men; 
Yet would my pen turn vagrant even then. 
And take stray dijjs iu the Castalian pool. 
Now double entry— now a flowery trope^ 
Mingling poetic honey with trade was^ 
Blogg Brothers — Milton— Grote and Prescott — Pope — 
Bristles— .and Hogg— Glynn Mills and Halifax- 
Rogers and Towgood— Hemp — the Bard of Hope — 
Barilla — Byron — Tallow — Burus — and Flax !" 

After passing two years with his father's relatives in 
Dundee, Hood returned to London, aud was apprenticed 



508 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BIUTISH AND AilFUlCAN POETRT. 



to Ills uncle, Robert Santls, as .an enejraver. He made liis 
lirst mark as a. writer by joining;' witb bis brotlier-in-law, 
J. ir. Reynolds, in a playful volume of "Odes to Great 
People" — sueb as Graham, the aeronaut; Macadam, the 
improver of roads; and Kitchener, author of "The 
Cook's Oracle." In 1826 Hood published bis first scries 
of "Whims and Oddities ;" a second series in 1S27; and 
then a volume, " The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies, 
Willi other Poems." In IS'39 he commenced "The Comic 
Annual," wbicli was continued for nine years. In 1834 
he published "Tylney Hall," a novel. It was a failure. 
Ill health compelled him to travel on the Continent to 
recruit ; and on his return home be became editor of the 
New Muuthhj ilugazine. From this he retired iu 1843, and 
in 1844 started Hood's Magazine, and contributed to its 
pages until within a month before his death. His cele- 
brated "Song of the Shirt" first appeared in Punch in 
1844. 

Hood died a poor man, leaving a widow and two chil- 
dren. His life was one of incessant brain-work, aggra- 
vated by ill health and the uucertainties and disquiets 
of authorship. After his death his literary friends con- 
tributed liberally to the support of his widow and fam- 
ily; Government had already granted to Mrs. Hood a 
pension of £100. There is a healthy moral tone in nearly 
all Hood's poetry, and in some of it he shows high im- 
aginative power. If he had not been compelled to coin 
his brain into money for immediate use, be would doubt- 
less have tried many nobler flights. He left a son of 
the same name, who died in 1874, not without giving 
tokens that he had inherited some of the paternal genius. 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

Cue more unfortunate, 

Weary of breatli, 
Rashly importunate, 

Gone to her ilcatli ! 

Tak<', lier up teiulcrly, 

Lift her with care ; 
Fa.shioiied so sleinlerly, 

Yoiiug, ami so fair! 

Look at her garments, 
Clinging like cerements; 

Whilst the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing; 

Take her up instantly, 
Loving, not loathing. 

Touch her not sconifnlly, 
Think of her mournfully, 

Gently and humanly; 
Not of the stains of her; 
All that remains of her ' 

Now is pure womanljy 



Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny 

Kash and uudutiful ; 

Past all dishonor, 
Death has left on her 
Only the beautiful. 

Still, for all slips of hers, 

One of Eve's family ; 
Wipe those poor lips of her.s, 

Oozing so clammily. 

Loop up her trcs.scs 

Escaped from the comb — • 
Her fair auburn tresses; 
Whilst woudcrmcni guesses 

Where was her home ? 

Who was her father? 

Wlio was her mother? 

Had she a sister ? 

Had she a brother ? 

Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 

Yet than all other ? 

Alas ! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 

Under the suu I 
Oh, it was pitiful .' 
Near a whole city full, — 

Home she had none. 

Sisterly, brotherly, 
Fatherly, motherly, 

Feelings were changed ; 
Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thrown from its eminence ; 
Even God's providence 

Seeming estranged. 

Where the lamps quiver 
So far in the river. 

With many a light 
From window and casemeut. 
From garret to basement, 
S he stood, w ith amazement, 

Houseless by uiaht. 

The bleak wind of March 

Mad(! her tremble and shiver; 

But not the dark arch, 

Or the black flowing river; 



THOMAS HOOD. 



509 



M:ul from life's history, 
Glad to death's mystery 

Swift to be hurled — 
Anywhere, anywhere 

Out of the world ! 

In she plunged boldly, 
No matter how coldly 

The rough river ran ; 
Over the brink of it. 
Picture it, tliiuk of it, 

Dissolute man ! 
Lave in it, drink of it, 

Then, if you can ! 

Take her up tenderly. 

Lift her with care ; 
Fashioned so slenderly, 

Yonng, and so fair ! 
Ere her limbs frigidly 
StiBen so rigidly, 

Decently, kindly, 
Smoothe and compose them ; 
Ami her eyes, close them. 

Staring so blindly ! 

Dreadfully staring 

Through muddy impurity. 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 

Fixed on futuritj-. 

Perishing gloomily, 

Spurred by contumely, 
Cold inhumanity. 
Burning insanity, 

Into her rest ! 
Cross her hands humbly, 
As if praying dumbly. 

Over her breast ! 
Owning her weakness, 

Her evil behavior. 
And leaving with meekness 

Her sins to her Saviour. 



THE SOXG OF THE SHIRT. 

With fingers weary and worn, 
With eyelids heavy and red, 

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags. 
Plying her needle and thread. 
Stitch — stitch — stitch ! 



In i^overty, hunger, and dirt ; 
And still with a voice of dolorous jiitch 
She sang the " Song of the Shirt !" 

" Work — work — work ! 

While the cock is crowing aloof! , 
And work — work — work. 

Till the stars shine through the roof! 
It's O ! to be a slave. 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Wliere woman has never a soul to save, 

If this is Christian work ! 

" Work — work — work. 

Till the brain begins to swim ; 
Work — worli; — work. 

Till the eyes are heavy and dim I 
Seam, and gusset, and band, 

Baud, and gusset, and seam. 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep. 

And sew them on in a dream ! 

"O men, with sisters dear! 

O men, with mothers and wives, 
It is not linen you're wearing out I 

But human creatures' lives ! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
Sewing at once, with a double thread, 

A shroud as well as a shirt. 

" But why do I talk of death ? 

That phantom of grisly bone; 
I hardly fear his terrible shape. 

It seems so like my own. 
It seems so like my own. 

Because of the fasts I keep, 
O God! that bread should be so dear, 

And flesh and blood so cheap ! 

" Work — work — work ! 

My labor never flags ; 
And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, 

A cfust of bread, and rags. 

That shattered roof — and this naked floor- 

A table — a broken chair; 
And a wall so bl.ank, my shadow I thank 

For sometimes falling there ! 

" Work — work — work ! 

From weary chime to chime, 
Work — work — work. 

As prisoners work for crime I 



510 



CYCLOPxEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Baud, and gusset, and seam, 
Seam, aud gusset, aud band, 
Till tbe heart is sicli, aud the brain benumbed. 
As well as the weary baud. 

" Wurk — work — work ! 

In the dull Deeember light. 
And work — work — work, 

Wlieu tbe weather is warm and bright — 
While underueath the eaves 

The brooding swallows cling. 
As if to show me their sunny backs, 

And twit nie with the spring. 

'• Oh, but to breathe the breath 

Of the cowslip aud primrose sweet — 
Witli the sky above my head, 

Aud the grass beneath my feet ; 
For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feel, 
Before I knew the woes of want 

And the walk that costs a meal! 

" Oh, but for one short hour! 

A respite however brief! 
No blessed leisure for love or hope, 

But ouly time for grief! 
A little weeping would ease my heart, 

But in their briuy bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders ueedle aud thread!'' 

With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy aud red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her ueedle and thread — 
Stitch — stitch — stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
Aud still with a voice of dolorous pitch, — 
Would that its tone could reach the rich! — 

She saug this "Song of the Shirt!" 



I REMEMBER. 

I remember, I remember 
The house where I was born, 
Tlie little wimlow where the suu 
Came peeping in at morn ; 
Ho never came a wink too soon. 
Nor brought too long a day ; 
But now, I often wish the night 
Had borne my breath away. 



I remember, I remember 

The roses red and white. 

The violets and the lily-cups — 

Those flowers made of light ! 

The lilacs where the robin built, 

And where my brother set 

Tlie laburnum ou my birthday — 

Tbe tree is living yet! 

I remember, I remember 

W^here I was used to swing, 

Aud thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing: 

My spirit flew in feathers then 

That is so heavy now, 

And summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever ou my brow. 

I remember, I remember 

The fir-trees dark and high ; 

I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky : 

It was a childish ignorance, 

But now 'tis little joy 

To know I'm farther oft" from Heaven 

Thau when I was a boy. 



FAIR INES. 

Oh saw you not fiiir lues? 

She's gone into tbe West, 

To dazzle when the suu is down, 

And rob the world of rest. 

She took our daylight with her, 

The smiles that we love best. 

With morning blushes ou her cheek, 

And pearly upon her breast. 

Oh, turn ag.niii, fair Ines! 

Before the fall of night, 

For fear the moon should shine alone, 

Aud stars unrivalled bright. 

Aud blessdd will the lover be, 

That walks beneath their light, 

Aud breathes the love against thy cheek, 

I dare not even write! 

Would I had been, fair lues, 
That gallant cavalier, 
Who rode so giyly by thy side 
Aud whispered thee so near! — 



TflOilJS EOOD. 



511 



Were there uo loving dciiues at home, 

Or uo true lovers here, 

That he should cross the seas to wiu 

The dearest of the dear ? 

I saw thee, lovely Iiics, 

Descend along the shore, 

With a hand of uohle gentlemen, 

And banners waved before ; 

And gentle youths and maidens gay, — 

And snowy plumes they wore ; 

It would have beeu a beauteous dream, 

— If it had beeu uo more ! 

Alas, alas, fair Ines ! 

Slie went away with song, 

With music waiting ou her steps, 

And shoutings of the throng. 

But some were sad, and felt no mirth. 

But only music's wrong. 

In sounds that sang. Farewell, farewell. 

To her you've loved so long. 

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines, 

That vessel never bore 

So fair a lady ou its deck, 

Xor danced so light before : — 

Alas for pleasure on the sea. 

And sorrow on the shore ! 

The sniile that blessed oue lover's heart 

Has broken many more ! 



FAREWELL, LIFE. 

WRITTEN A FEW WEEKS BEFORE HOOD'S DEATH. 

Farewell, Life ! my senses swim, 
And the world is growing dim : 
Thronging shadows cloud the light. 
Like the advent of the night — • 
Colder, colder, colder still, 
Upward steals a vapor chill ; 
Strong the earthy odor grows — 
I smell the luould above the rose. 

Welcome, Life! the spirit strives: 
Strength returns, and hope revives; 
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn 
Fly like shadows at the morn — 
O'er the earth there comes a bloom ; 
Sunny light for sullen gloom. 
Warm perfume for vapor cold — 
I smell the rose above the mould. 



THE MONKEY-MARTYR: A FABLE. 

'Tis strange what awkward figures and odd capers 
Folks cut who seek their doctrine from tlie papeis: 
But there are many shallow politicians 
Who take their bias from bewildered journals - 

Turn State physicians. 
And make themselves fool's-cap of the diuruals. 

One of this kind, not human, but a monkey. 
Had read himself at last to this sour creed — 
That he was nothing but oppression's flunkey, 
And man a tyrant over all his breed. 

He could not read 
Of niggers whipped, or over-trampled weavers. 
But he applied their wrongs to his own seed. 
And nourished thoughts that threw him into fevers. 
His very dreams were full of martial beavers, 
And drilling pugs, for liberty pugnacious, 

To sever chains vexatious : 
In fact, he thought that all his injured line 
Should take up iiikes in hand, and never drop 'em 
Till they had cleared a road to Freedom's shrine — 
Unless, perchance, the turnpike men should stop 'em. 

Full of this rancor. 
Pacing one day St. Clement Danes, 

It came into his brains 
To give a look in at the Crown and Anchor : 
Where certain solemn sages of the nation 
Were at that moment in deliberation 
How to relieve the wide world of its chains, 

Pluck despots down, 

And thereby crown 
Wliitee as well as blackee — man— cipation. 
Png heard the speeches with great approbation, 
And gazed with pride upon the Liberators ; 

To see mere coal-heavers 

.Sucli perfect Bolivars — 
Waiters of inns sublimed to innovators. 
And slaters dignified as legislators — 
Small publicans demanding (such their high sense 
Of liberty) a universal license — 
And patten-makers easing Freedom's clogs — 

The whole thing seemed 

So tine, he deemed 
The smallest demagogues as great as Gogs! 

Pug, with some curious notions in his noddle, 
Walked out at last, and turned into the Strand, 

To the left band. 
Conning some portion of the previous twaddle. 



512 



CYCLOPJiDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRT. 



Aud striding with a step that seemed designed 
To represent the raiglity Marcli of Miud, 

Instead of that slow waddle 
Of thonght, to which onr ancestors inclined — 
No wonder, tlien, that he should qniclily fiud 
lie stood in front of that intrnsive pile 

Where Cross lieeps many a kind 

Of bird coiifiued, 
And free-horn animal, in dnrance vilo — 
A thonglit that stirred np all the moukey-hile ! 

Tlie window stood ajar — 

It was not far, 
Nor, like Parnassus, very hard to climb — 
The hour was verging on the supper-time, 
And many a growl was sent through many a bar. 
Meanwhile, Png scrambled upward like a tar, 

And soon crept in. 

Unnoticed in the din 
Of tuneless throats that made the attics ring 
Witli all the harshest notes that they could bring; 

For, like the Jews, 

Wild beasts refuse 
In midst of their captivity — to sing. 

Lord! liow it made him chafe. 
Full of his new emancipating zeal. 
To look around npon this brnte-bastile, 
And see the king of creatures in — a safe ! 
The desert's denizen in one small den, 
Swallowing slavery's most bitter pills — 
A bear in bars nnbearablc ! And then 
The fretful porcuiiinc, with all its quills. 

Imprisoned in a pen ! 
A tiger limited to four feet ten ; 

And still worse lot, 

A leopard to one spot. 

An elephant enlarged, 

But not discharged 

(It was before the elephant was shot); 
A doleful wanderow, that wandered not ; 
Au ounce much disproportioned to his pound. 

Pug's wratli waxed liot. 
To gaze upon these captive creatures round ; 
Wlioso claws — all scratching — gave him full assur- 
ance 
They found their durance vile of vile endurance. 

He went above — a solitary mounter 

Up gloomy stair.s — and saw a ]iensive group 

Of hapless fowls — 

Cranes, vultures, owls ; 
In fact, it was a sort of pouUry-compter, 



Where feathered prisoners wore doomed to droop : 
Here sat an eagle, forced to make a stoop. 
Not from the skies, but his impending roof; 

And there aloof, 
A iiiniug ostrich, moping in a coop ; 
With other samples of the bird creation. 
All caged against their powers and their wills, 
And cramped in such a space, the longest bills 
Were plainly bills of least accommodation. 
In truth, it was a very ugly scene 
To fall to any liberator's share. 
To see those wiugt5d fowls, that once had been 
Free as the wind, no freer than fixed air. 

His temper little mended, 
Png from this bird-cage walk at last descended 

Unto the lion and the elephant. 

His bosom in a pant 
To see all nature's free list thus suspended, 
Aud beasts deprived of what she had intended. 

They could not even prey 

In their own way ; 
A hardship always reckoned quite prodigious. 

Thus he revolved — 

And soon resolved 
To give them freedom, civil and religious. 

That night there wci'e no country cousins, raw 
From Wales, to view the lion and his kin : 
The keeper's eyes were fixed upon a saw — 
The saw was fixed npon a bullock's shin ; 

Meanwhile, with stealthy paw, 

Png hastened to withdraw 
The bolt th.at kept the king of brutes within. 
Now, monarch of the forest ! thou shalt win 
Precious enfranchisement — thy bolts are nudoue ; 
Thou art no longer a degraded creature, 
But loose to roam with liberty and nature ; 
And free of all the jungles about London — 
AH Ilampstead's heathy desert lies before thee! 
Methiuks I see thee bound from Cross's ark. 
Full of the native instinct that comes o'er thee, 

Aiul turn a ranger 
Of HoHUslow Forest, and the Regent's Park — 
Thin Kliodes's cows, the mail-coach steeds endanger, 
And gobble parish watchmen after dark : — 
Methiuks I see thee, with the early lark. 
Stealing to Merlin's cave — [thij cave). — -Alas 
That such bright visions should not come to pass ! 
Alas for freedom, and for freedom's hero ! 

Alas for liberty of life and limb I 
For Png had only half unbolted Nero, 

When Nero hoUed him ! 



THOMAS HOOD. 



513 



THE LEE SHOEE. 

Sleet, aud bail, and tliniider! 

And yo wiuds that rave, 
Till the sands thereunder 

Tinge the snllcn wave — 

Winds that like a demon 
Howl with horrid note 

Konud the toiling seaman 
lu his tossing boat — 

From his liumble dwelling 
On the shingly shore, 

AVhere the billows swelling 
Keep such hollow roar — 

From that weeping woman, 
Seeking with her cries 

Succor snporliMmau 

From the frowning skies — 

From the urchin pining 
For his father's knee — 

From the lattice shining, 
Drive him out to sea! 

Let bx-oad leagues dissever 
Him from yonder foam ; — 

O God ! to think man ever 
Comes too near his home ! 



TO CHARLES DICKENS, ESQ., 

ON HIS DEPARTURE FOE AMERICA. 

Pshaw! away with leaf and berry, 

Aud the sober-sided cnp ! 
Bring a goblet and bright sherry, 

And a bumper fill me up ! 
Tliough a pledge I had to shiver, 

And the longest ever was ! 
Ere his vessel leaves our river, 

I would drink a health to Boz! 

Here's success to all liis antics. 

Since it pleases him to roam, 
Aud to paddle o'er Atlantics, 

After such a sale at home ! 
May ho shun all rooks whatever. 

And each shallow sand that lurks, 
Aud his ]_m8sage be as clever 

As the best among his works. 
33 



RUTH. 

She stood breast high amid the corn, 
Clasped by the goldeu light of morn, 
Like the sweetheart of the sun, 
Who many a glowing kiss had tvon. 

On her check an autumn flush, 
Deeply ripened: — such a blush 
In the midst of brown was born. 
Like red poppies grown with corn. 

Round her eyes her tresses fell. 
Which were blackest uoue could teU ; 
But long lashes veiled a light 
That had else been all too bright. 

And her hat, with shady brim, 
Made her tressy forehead dim : — 
Thus she stood amid the stooks, 
Praising God with sweetest looks. 

Sure, I said. Heaven did not meau 
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; 
Lay thy sheaf adowu an<l come. 
Share my harvest and my home. 



A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON. 

AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE 51 N T H S . 

Tliou happy, happy elf! 
(But stop — first let me kiss away that tear) 

Thou tiny image of myself! 
(My love, he's poking peas into his e.ar!) 

Tliou merry, laughing sprite ! 

With spirits feather-light, 
Untouched by sorrow, and uusoiled by sin, 
(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!) 

Thou little tricksy Pnck, 
With antic toys so funnily bestuck. 
Light as the singing-bird that wings the air, 
(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) 

Thou darling of thy sire ! 
(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire !) 

Thou imp of mirth and joy ! 
In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, 
Thou idol of thy parents — (Drat the boy ! 

There goes my ink!) 

Thou cherub — but of earth ! 
Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale. 



514 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEIUCAX POETRY. 



la harmless sport and mirth, 
(The dog ■will bite him if ho jmlls its tail !) 

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey 
Froni every blossom in the world that blows. 

Singing iu youth's Elysinm ever sunny, 
(Another tumble — that's his precious nose !) 

Thy father's pride aud hope ! 
(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) 
With pure heart newly stamped from natui-e's mint, 
(Where (lid he learu that squint?) 

Thou young domestic dove ! 
(He'll have that jug off with another shove!) 

Dear nursling of the hymeneal uest ! 

(Are those torn clothes his best ?) 

Little epitome of man! 
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) 
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, 

(He's got a knife !) 

Thou enviable being ! 
No storms, no clouds, iu thy blue sky foreseeing. 

Play on, play on, uiy elfiu John ! 

Toss the light ball — bestride the stick, 
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick !) 
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, 
Prompting tlie face grotesque, and antic brisk, 

With many a lamb-like frisk, 
(He's got the scissors snipping at your gown I) 

Thou jiretty opening rose ! 
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) 
Balmy, aud breatliing music like the South, 
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!) 
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, 
(I wish that window had an iron bar!) 
Hold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, 

(I'll tell you what, my love, 
I cannot write unless he's sent above!) 



THE IMPUDENCE OF STEAM. 

Over the billows and over the brine. 
Over the water to Palestine! 
Am 1 awake, or do I dream f 
Over the ocean to Syria by steam ! 
My say is sooth, by this right hand ; 
A steamer bravo 
Is on tlie wave, 
Bound positively for the Holy Land! 
Godfrey of Bulogine, aud thnu 

Richard, lion-hearted king, 
Candidly inform us, now. 



Did you ever? 
No, you never 
Could have fancied such a thing. 
Never such vociferations 
Entered your imaginations 
As the ensuing — 

" Ease her, stop her !" 
" Any gentleman for Joppa ?" 
" 'Mascus, 'Mascus ?" " Ticket, please, sir !" 
"Tyre or SIdon ?" "Stop her, ease her!" 
" Jerusalem, 'lem ! 'lem !" — " Shur ! Shnr !'' 
" Do you go on to Egypt, sir ?" 
"Captain, is this the land of Pharaoh?" 
" Now look alive there ! Who's for Cairo ?" 
" Back her !" " Stand clear, I say, old file !" 
" What gent or lady's for the Nile, 
Or Pyramids ?" "Thebes! Thebes, sir!" "Steady!" 
" Now Where's that party for Eugedi t" — 
Pilgrims holy. Red Cross Knights, 

Had ye e'er the least idea, 
Even in your wildest flights, 
Of a steam trip to Jndea ? 
What next marvel Time will show, 

It is diflicult to say : 
" 'Buss," perchance, to Jericho ; 
"Only sixpence all the way." 
Cabs in Solyma may ply, 

— 'Tis a not unlikely tale — 
And from Dan the tourist hie 
Unto Beersheba bv " rail." 



THE DEATH-BED. 

We watched her breathing through the night, 

Her breathing soft and low. 
As in her brea.st the wave of life 

Kept heaving to aud fro. 

So silently wo seemed to speak, 

So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears. 

Our fears our hopes belied — 
Wo thought her dying when she slept. 

And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came, dim and sad, 

Aud chill with early .showers, 
Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 

Another morn than ours. 



JOHN MOVLTBIE. 



515 



Joljii illoultric. 



Moultrie (1799-1874) wus associated with Pracd, Hen- 
ry Nulsoa Culeridsic, and otliers in tlie Etonian and in 
Knight's Quarterly Magazine. He studied for tlie Cburcli, 
and Ijccamo Rector of Rngliy. A complete edition of liis 
poems, with a memoir by the Kev. Derwcnt Coleridge, 
was published in 1S76. Moultrie edited an edition of 
Gray's poetical works. He was the autlior of "My 
Brother's Grave, and other Poems," published iu 1887; 
" Lays of the English Church, 1843," etc. He also edit- 
ed the " Poetical Remains " of his friend, "William Sidney 
Walker. 



"FORGET THEE?" 

"Forget tbeo ?" If to dream by iiiglit, 

And muse on thee by tlay. 
If all the worship deep and n ild 

A poet's heart can pay, 
If prayers in absence breathed for thee 

To Heaven's protecting power, 
If winged thoughts that flit to thee, — 

A thousand iu an hour, 
If busy Fancy blending theo 

With all my future lot, — 
If this thou call'st "forgetting," 

Thou, iudeed, shalt be forgot ! 

" Forget thee ?" Bid the forest-birds 

Forget their sweetest tune ; 
" Forget thee 1" Bid the sea forget 

To swell beneath the moon ( 
Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink 

The eve's refreshing dew- ; 
Thyself forget thine own "dear land," 

And its " mountains wild and blue." 
Forget each old familiar face. 

Each long-remembered spot, — 
When these thiugs are forgot by thee, 

Then thou shalt he forgot ! 

Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, 

Still calm and fancy-free, 
For God forbid thy gladsome heart 

Should grow less glad for me ; 
Yet, while that heart is still unwou, 

Oh ! bid not mine to rove, 
Bnt let it unrse its humble faith. 

And nueomplaiuing love ; — 
If these, preserved for patient years. 

At last avail ine not. 
Forget nie then ; — but ne'er believe 

That thou canst bo forgot! 



HERE'S TO THEE, MY SCOTTISH LASSIE. 

Here's 10 tliee, my Scottish lassie, 

Here's a hearty health to thee ! 
For thine eye so bright, thy form so light, 

And thy step so firm and free ; ' - 

For all thine artless elegance. 

And all thy native grace. 
For the music of thy mirthful voice. 

And the sunshine of thy face ; 
For thy guileless look and speech sincere, 

Yet sweet as speech can be. 
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie. 

Here's a hearty health to thee ! 

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! — 

Though my glow of youth is o'er. 
And I, as once I felt and dreamed. 

Must feel and dream no more, — 
Though the world, with all its frosts and storms, 

Has chilled my soul at last, 
Aiul genius, with the foodful looks 

Of youthful friendship, iias.sed, — 
Though my path is dark and lonely now 

O'er this world's dreary sea — 
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie, — 

Here's a hearty health to thee ! 

Hero's to thee, my Scottish lassie! — 

Though I know that not for mc 
Is thine eye so bright, thy form so light. 

And thy step so firm and free ; 
Though thou, with cold and careless looks 

Wilt often pass me by. 
Unconscious of my swelling heart. 

And of my wistful eye, — 
Though thou wilt wed some Highland love, 

Nor wa.ste one thought on me — 
Here's a health, my Scuttish lassie, 

Here's a hearty health to thee! 

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! 

"When I meet thee in the throng 
Of merry youths and maidens 

Danciug lightsomely along, 
I'll dream away an hour or twain. 

Still gazing on thy form. 
As it flashes through the baser crowd 

Like lightning through a storm ; 
And I perhaps shall touch thy hand. 

And share thy looks of glee. 
And for once, my Scottish lassie. 

Dance a giddy dance with thee! 



-)lfi 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Here's to tliee, my Scottish lassie! — 

I sball tbink of thee at even, 
Wlieu I see its first and fairest star 

Come smiling up through heaveu : 
I .shall hear thy sweet and touching voice 

lu every -wind that grieves, 
As it whirls from the abandoned oak 

Its withered autnniu leaves; 
111 the gloom of the wild forest, 

In the stillness of the sea, 
I shall tbiuk, my Scottish lassie, 

I shall often tbiuk of thee I 

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! — 

In my sad and lonely hours, 
The thought of thee comes over me 

Like the breath of distant flowers ; — 
Like the music tliat enchants niiue ear, 

Tlie sights that bless mine eye, 
Like the verdure of the meadow. 

Like the azure of the sky : — 
Like the rainbow in the evening, 

Like the blossoms ou the tree, — 
Is the thought, my Scottish lassie, — 

Is the lonely thought of thee. 

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! — 

Thougli my muse must soon be dumb, — 
(For graver tlioughts and duties 

With my graver years are come), — 
Tliough luy soul must hurst the houds of earth. 

And learn to soar on high. 
And to look ou this world's follies 

With a calm and sober eye, — 
Tlinugh the merry wine must seldom flow. 

The revel cease for me — 
Still to thee, my Scottish lassie, 

Still I'll diiiik a health to thee! 

Here's a health, my Scottish lassie. 

Here's a parting health to thee ! 
Jlay thine be still a cloudless lot. 

Though it be far from me ! 
May still thy laughing eye be briglit. 

And open still thy brow^ 
Tliy thoughts as pure, thy speech as free, 

Thy heart as light as now! • 

And whatsoe'er my after fate. 

My dearest toast shall be, — 
Still a health, my Scottish lassie. 

Still a hearty health to thee !' 

^ Moultrie was one of the mopt prrncpfnl nntl nieditntive of 
EiiglaiicVs minor poets ; but he was not of the '• modern school." 



Uobcvt yoUok. 



Pollok (1799-1S27) was a native of Eagleshara, SeotlaniJ. 
Ho studied at tlie Glasgow University, and was five years 
in the diviuity hall under Dr. Dick. His application to 
study brought ou a pulmonary disease, and shortly after 
he began to preach (18:27) he had to seek a milder air in 
the South of England. It effected no improvement. The 
"Course of Time," his principal poem, had a prodigious 
success, passing through a vast number of editions both 
in Great Britain and America. It is a strange mi.xture 
of prosaic utterances with brief bursts of poetic fervor : 
a long disquisition in verse, extending to ten books. 
John Wilson said of it : "Though not a poem, it over- 
flows with poetry." The praise is overstrained. The 
oases in this desert of words are few and far between. 
At times we see in the style the influence of Milton, 
Blair, and Young. It bears all the marks of mental im- 
maturity, aud, as Cliambers says, "is often harsh, turgid, 
aud vehement, and deformed by a gloomy piety, which 
repels the reader, in spite of many fine passages." The 
same year witnessed PoUok's advent as a preacher, and 
his untimely death. 



INVOCATION: OPENING OF BOOK I. 

FnoM " The Course of Time." 

Eternal Spirit ! God of truth ! to whom 
All things seem as they are ; Thou who of old 
The prophet's eye unsealed, that uightly saw. 
While heavy sleep fell down on other men, 
In holy vision tranced, the future pass 
Before him, and to Judah's harp attuned 
Burdens which made the pagan monntains shake 
Aud Ziou's cedars bow — inspire my song ; 
My eye nnscale ; me what is substance teach, 
Aud shadow wliat, while I of things to come. 
As past, rehearsing, sing the Course of Time, 
The second Birth, and final Doom of man. 

Tlie muse, that soft and sickly wooes the ear 
Of love, or chanting loud iu windy rhyme 
Of fabled hero,,raves through gaudy tale 
Not overfraught with sense, I ask not ; such 
A strain befits not argument so high. 
Me thought, and phra.se, severely sifling out 
The whole idea, grant — uttering as 'tis 
Tlie essential truth : Time gone, the righteous saved, 
Tlie wicked damned, and Providence approved. 



PRIDE THE CAUSE OF SIN. 
Fkom " The Course of Time," Book II. 

Pride, self-adoring pride, was primal cause 
Of all sin past, all pain, all woe to come. 
Uueouquerablc inide ! first, eldest siu ; 



nOBERT rOLLOE.—GKORGE WJSHIXGTOX DOJXE. 



517 



Great fuiiiitaiii-bead of evil ; liigliest source 

Wlieuce flowed rebellion 'gaiuat the Onmipoteiit, 

WUeuee bate of man to man, ami all else ill. 

Pride at the bottom of the liiimau heart 

Lay, aud gave root and nourisbmeut to all 

That grew above. Great ancestor of vice ! 

Hate, niiljolief, aud blasphemy of God ; 

Euvy and slander ; malice aud revenge ; 

And murder, aud deceit, aud every birth 

Of damned sort, was progeny of pride. 

It was tlio ever-moving, actiug force, 

The constant aim, and the most thirsty wish 

Of every sinner unrenewed, to be 

A god : — in purple or in rags, to have 

Himself adored: whatever shape or form 

His actions took : whatever phrase he threw 

About his thoughts, or mantle o'er his life. 

To be the highest, was the iuward cause 

Of all — the purpose of the heart to be 

Set up, admired, obeyed. But who would bow 

Tlie knee to one who served aud was dependent? 

Hence man's iierpetual struggle, night aud day. 

To jirove he was his own proprietor, 

Aud indepeudeut of his God, that what 

He had might be esteemed his own, aud praised 

As such. He labored still, and tried to stand 

Alone, nnpropped — to be obliged to none ; 

And in the madness of his pride he bade 

His God farewell, and turned awaj' to be 

A god himself; resolving to rely, 

Whatever came, upon his own right hand. 



TRUE HAPPINESS. 

Fnosi "The Course of Time," Book V. 

True happiness had no localities. 

No tones provincial, no peculiar garb. 

Where duty went, she went; with justice went; 

Aud went with meekness, charity, and love. 

Where'er a tear was dried ; a wounded heart 

Bound uji ; a bruised spirit with the dew 

Of sympathy anointed ; or a pang 

Of honest suffering soothed ; or injury 

Repeated oft, as oft by love forgiven ; — 

Where'er an evil passion was subdued. 

Or Virtue's feeble embers fanned ; where'er 

A sin was heartily abjured, aud left ; 

Where'er a pious act was done, or breathed 

A pions prayer, or wished a piojis wish — 

There was a high and holy place, a spot 

Of sacred light, a most religious fane. 

Where Happiness, descending, sat and smiled. 



HOLY LOVE. 

From " TnE CorEsE of Time," Book V. 

Hail, holy love ! thou word that sums all bliss ! 
Gives aud receives all bliss ; fullest w^hen most 
Thou givest. Spring-head of all felicity ! 
Deepest when most is drawn. Emblem of God ! 
O'erflowing most when greatest numbers drink. 
Esseuce that binds the uncreated Three ; 
Chain that unites creation to its Lord; 
Ceutre to which all being gravitates. 
Eternal, ever-growing, happy love ! 
Enduring all, hoping, forgiving all ; 
Instead of law, fulfilling every law; 
Entirely blessed, because it seeks no more ; 
Hopes not, nor fears; but on the present lives. 
And holds perfection smiling in its arms. 
Mysterious, infinite, exhaustless love ! 
On earth mysterious, and mysterious still 
In heaven ; sweet chord, that harmonizes all 
The harps of Paradise ; the spring, the well 
Tliat fills the bowl, and bauquet of the skj'. 



A MOONLIGHT EVENING. 

F11031 " The Course of Time," Book V. 

It was an evo of autumn's holiest mood ; 

The cornfields, bathed in Cynthia's silver light. 

Stood ready for the reaper's gathering hand ; 

And all the winds slept soundly: nature seemed, 

In silent coutemplation, to adore 

Its Maker : now and then the ag^d leaf 

Fell from its fellows, rustling to the ground ; 

And, as it fell, bade man think on his end. 

On vale and lake, on wood and mountain high. 

With pensive wing outspread, sat heavenly Thonglit, 

Conversing with itself; Vesper looked fortli 

From out her western hermitage, aud smiled ; 

And uji the east, unclouded, rode the moon 

With all her stars, gazing on earth intense. 

As if she saw some wonder walking there. 



(!:covgc lHaGljington Doanc. 

AMERICAN. 

Born in Trenton, N. J., in 1799, Doane studied for tlic 
Episcopal Church, and was consecrated bishop of the 
diocese of his native State in 1S33. He published a col- 
lection of poetical pieces in 1824, and was the author ot 
various theological treatises. He died April 27, 1859. 



318 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BUITISII AXD AMEUICAN POKTRY. 



AYHAT IS THAT, MOTHER ? 
Wliat is tbat, mother ?— 

The Lark, my chihl, — 
The morn has but. just looked out, aud smiled, 
Wlieu he starts from his humble, grassy uest. 
And is np and away, with the dew on his breast, 
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere, 
To warble it out in his Maker's eai'. 
Ever, my child, bo thy morn's first lays 
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's j)raise. 

What is that, mother ? — 

The Dove, my son, — 
And that low, sweet voice, like the widow's moan. 
Is flowing out from her gentle breast. 
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest. 
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn. 
For the distant dear one's quick return. 
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove, — 
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love. 

What is that, mother ? — 

Tlie Eagle, boy, 
Proudly careering his course of joy. 
Firm, iu his own mountain vigor relying, 
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying ; 
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun. 
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. 
Boy, may the eagle's ilight ever be thine. 
Onward and upward, true to the line. 

What is that, mother ? — 

The Swan, my love, — 
He is floating down from his native grove, 
No loved one now, no nestling nigh; 
He is floating down by himself to die. 
Death darkens his eye, it tiuplnmes his wiugs, 
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings. 
Live so, my love, that when death shall come, 
Swau-like and sweet it may waft thee home. 



Slavic ^Ic^anbcv lUatts. 

Watts (1799-1804) was a native of London. He be- 
came connected with the periodical press, and was also 
among the lirst editors of those illustrated "Anuuals," 
once so fashionable, iu which poems, essays, and stories 



by the popular writers of the day were published. His 
"Lyrics of the Heart, with otlicr Poems," appeared in 
Itfil. He also conducted, at different periods, The Vnited 
fienice Gazette, The Standard, and other newspapers. 



A REMONSTRANCE. 

ADDnESSED TO A FlilEND WHO COMPLAINED OF BEING 
ALONE IN THE WOELD. 

Oh ! say not thou art all alone 

Upon this wide, cold-hearted earth ; 
Sigh not o'er joys forever flown, 

The vacant chair, — the silent hearth : 
Why should the world's unholy mirth 

Ujiou thy quiet dreams intrude, 
To scare those shapes of heavenly birth 

That people oft thy solitude ! 

Though many a fervent hope of youth 

Hath jiassed, and scarcely left a trace ; — 
Though earth-born love, its tears aud truth. 

No longer in thy lieart have place : 
Nor time nor grief can e'er efi'aco 

Tlic brighter hopes that now are thine, — 
The fadeless love, — all-pitying grace, 

Tbat makes thy darkest hours diviuo ! 

Not all alone — for thou canst hold 

Communion sweet with saint and s.age, 
Aud gatlier gems, of price untold, 

From many a pure, nntravelled page: — • 
Youth's dreams, the golden light of age, 

The poet's lore — are still thine own: 
Then while such themes thy thoughts engage, 

Oh, how canst thou be all alone ! 

Not all alone : the lark's rich note, 

As mounting up to heaven she sings ; 
The thousand silvery sounds that float 

Above — below — on morning's wings: 
The softer murmurs twilight brings, — ■ 

The cricket's chirp, cicala's glee : — 
All earth — that lyre of myriad strings — 

Is jubilant with life for thee ! 

Not all alone: the whispering trees, 

The rippling brook, the starry sky, — 
Have each peculiar harmonics. 

To soothe, subdue, aud sanctify : 
The low, sweet breath of eveuing's sigh, 

For thee hath oft a friendly tone, 
To lift thy grateful thoughts on high, — 

To say, thou art not all aloue ! 



ALirdC ALEXANDER WATTS.— JOHN ABRAHAM HERA CD. 



519 



Not all aloiio : a watchful eye, 

That notes the wandering sparrow's fall : 
A saving hand is ever nigh, 

A gracious Power attends tlij" call : 
When sadness holds thy heart iu thrall, 

Is oft His tenderest mercy shown ; 
Seek then the balm vouchsafed to all, 

Aud thou canst never ho alone. 



FOREVER THINE. 

Forever thine, whate'cr this heart betide ; 

Forever mine, where'er our lot be cast ; 
Fate, that may rob us of all wealth beside. 

Shall leave us love — till life itself be past. 

The world may wrong us, wo will brave its hate ; 
False friends may change, and falser hopes de- 
cline ; 
Though bowed by cankering cares, we'll smile at 
Fate, 
Since thou .art mine, beloved, and I am thine I 

Forever thine, when circling years have spread 
Time's snowy blossoms o'er thy placid brow; 

When youth's rich glow, its "purple light," is fled. 
And lilies bloom where roses Uuurish now ; — 

Say, shall I love the fading beauty less 

Whose spring - tide radiance has been wholly 
mine ? — 

No, — come what will, thy steadfast truth I'll bless. 
In youth. In age — thine own, forever thine ! 

Forever thine, at evening's dewy hour. 

When gentle hearts to tenderest thoughts incline; 

When balmiest odors from each closing flower 
Arc breathing louud me, — thine, forever thine ! 



In courtly bow-ers; at Folly's gilded shrine; — 
Smiles on my cheek, light words upon my tongue. 
My deep heart still is thine, — forever thine I 

Forever thine, amid the boisterous crowd, 

Where the jest sparkles, with the sparkling wine ; 

I may not name thy gentle name aloud. 

But drink to thee iu thought, — forever tliine 1 

I would not, sweet, profane that silvery sound, — 
The depths of love could such rude hearts divine ! 



Let the loud laughter peal, the toast go round. 
My thoughts, my thoughts are tliine, — forever 
thine ! 

Forever thine, whate'er this heart betide; 

Forever mine, where'er our lot be cast; 
Fate, that may rob us of all wealth beside, 

Shall leave us love, — till life itself be past ! 



3ol)u ^braljam Cjcraui). 

An English poet finil nnsccllancoiis writer (born 17911), 
Hci'.iud luis been a diligent, if not a successful, cultivator 
oftlie poetic art. He lias written tragedies, lyrics, and 
narrative poems : " The Legend of St. Loy " (1831) ; " The 
Descent into Hell, and other Poems" (1830); "Judgment 
of the Flood: a Poem" (1834); "The War of Ideas" 
(1871). It was his fortune to be snubbed by the critics, 
and not always unjustly. On his ashing Douglas Jerrold 
whether he had ever seen bis " Descent into Hell," the 
reply was, " No, but I would like to see it." Heraud 
was a man of genius, though his writings show much 
misplaced power and abortive striving. Chambers says 
of him, that "he was iu poetry what Martin was in art, 
a worshipper of the vast, the remote, and the terrible." 
His "Descent" and "Judgment" are chiefly remarkable 
as psychological curiosities. 



THE EMIGRANT'S HOME. 

Prepare thee, soul, to quit this spot. 
Where life is sorrow, doubt, and paiu : 

There is a laud where these are not, 
A laud where Peace and Plenty reign. 

And, after all, is Earth thy home ? 

Thy place of exile, rather, where 
Thou wert convoyed, ere thought could come, 

To make thy young remembrance clear. 

Oh I there in thee are traces still. 
Which of that other country^ tell — 

That angel-laud whei'e came no ill, 
Where thou art destined yet to dwell. 

Yon azure depth thou yet shalt sail. 
And, lark-like, sing at heaven's gate ; 

The hark that shall through air prevail. 
Even now thy pleasure doth await. 

The Ship of Souls will thrid the space 

'Twixt e.arth and heaven with sudden flight : 

Dread not the darkness to embrace. 
That leads thee to the Land of Light I 



523 



CYCLOPEDIA OF LRITISH AND AMEHICAX POETHT. 



lUilliam Kcuucliu. 



Kennedy (1T99-1S49) -nas a native of Paisley, Scotland. 
Before be was twenty-five years old he wrote " Sly Early 
Days," a pathetic little story, which had great success, 
and was repuljlished in Boston. In 1827 appeared his 
volume of poems, under the title of "Fitful Fancies;" 
in 1S30, "The Arrow and the Rose, and other Poems." 
He was the literary associate of Motherwell in conduct- 
ing the PaisJeij Mngazine. Removing to London, he en- 
gaged in some literary enterprises with Leitch Ritchie. 
He accompanied the Earl of Dalhousie to Canada as his 
private secretary, and was appointed consul at Galves- 
ton, Texas, where he resided several years. In 1S41 he 
published in two volumes, in London, the "Rise, Prog 
ress, and Prospects of the Republic of Texas." He re- 
turned to England in 1S47, retired on a pension, and 
took up his residence near London, where he died, short- 
ly after a visit to his native Scotland. 



L I X E S 

WRITTEN AFTER A 'V^SIT TO THE GR.WE OF JIT FRIEND, 
WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, NOVEMBER, 1817. 

Place we a stone at his head and his feet ; 
Sprinkle his sward with the small flowers sweet ; 
Piously hallow the iioet's retreat : — 

Ever approvingly, 

Ever most lovingly, 
Tnrued he to nature, a worshipper meet. 

Harm not the thorn which grows at his head ; 
Odorous honors its blossoms will shed, 
Grateful to him, early summoned, who sped 

Hence, not unwillingly — 

For he felt thrillingly — 
To rest his poor head 'mong the low-lying dead. 

Dearer to him than the deep minster-hell. 
Winds of sad cadence, at midnight, will swell, 
Vocal with sorrows he knoweth too well, 

Who, for the early day, 

Plaining this roundelay, 
Might his own fate from a brother's foretell. 

Worldly ones treading this terrace of graves, 
Grudge not the minstrel the little he cr.aves, 
When o'er the snow-monnd the winter-blast raves, — 

Tears — which devotedly, 

Tliougli all nnuotedly. 
Flow from their spring in the soul's silent caves. 

Dreamers of noble thoughts, raise him a shrine, 
Graced with the beauty which lives iu his line ; 



Strew with jiale flowerets, when pensive moons 
shine, 

His grassy covering, 

Where spirits, hovering. 
Chant for his requiem music divine. 

Not as a record he lacketh a stone ! 

Pay a light debt to the siuger we've known — 

Proof that our love for his uame hath not flown 

With, the frame perishiug — 

That we are cherishing 
Feeliugs akin to the lost poet's owu. 



A THOUGHT. 

Oh that I were the great soul of a world ! 

A glory iu space ! 
By the glad hand of Omnipotence hulled 

Sublime on its race I 
Reflecting the marvellous beauty of heaven. 

Encircled with joy; 
To endure when the orbs shall was dim that are 
given 

Old Time to destroy ! 

Oh that I were this magnificent spirit ! 

Embodied to prove 
The measureless bliss they were sure to inherit, 

Who lived in my love : 
With elements infinite fitted for taking 

All forms of my will, — 
To give me forever the rapture of making 

More happiness still ! 



Hobtrt (Tomfort 5ani)0. 



Sands (1799-1832) was a native of the city of New 
Tork, and a graduate of Columbia College, of the class 
of 1S1.5. One of his college companions, two years his 
senior, was James Wallis Eastburn, who was also a poet, 
and wrote, in conjunction with Sands, the poem of "Ta- 
moydeu," founded on the history of Philip, the Pcquod 
chieftain. Eastburn took orders in the Episcopal Church, 
and died in 1S19, in his twenty-second year. The best 
part of "Tamoyden" is the "Proem," written by Sands, 
and containing some graceful and pathetic st^uizas in ref- 
erence to Eastburn, one of which we subjoin : 

" Go forth, sad fragmeots of a broken str.iin, 
The last th;it either bard shall e'er essay I 
The hand can ne'er attempt the chords again. 
That first awoke thcra iu a happier day : 



ROBERT COMFORT SAXDS. 



S21 



Where sweeps the ocesiu bi-eeze its desert way, 
His requiem miirmius o'er the moaning wave; 
And he who feebly now prolongs the lay, 
Shall ne'er the minstrel's hallowed honors crave : 
Uis haip lies buried deep iu that untimely grave !" 

Sands was a lawyer, but the attractions of literature 
drew him away from liis profession, and he became an 
associate editor of tlie Comtnercial Advertiser. He vent- 
ured ou several literary projects, edited magazines, and 
wrote a " Life of John Paul Jones." He did not live 
to fulfil the promise which his early compositions gave. 
He died unmarried, having always lived at home in his 
father's house. His " Writings in Prose aud Verse, with 
a Memoir of the Author," in two volumes, were pub- 
lished by the Messrs. Harper in 1834. 



THE DEAD OF 1832. 

O Time and Death ! with certain pace, 
Thougb still unequal, Lurrying on, 

O'cftnriiiug iu your awful race 

The cot, the palace, and the throne, — 

Not always iu the storm of war. 
Nor by the pestilence that sweeps 

From the plague-smitteu realms afar 
Beyoud the old and solemu deeps, 

Iu crowds the good and mighty go. 
And to those vast dim chambers hie. 

Where, mingled with the vile aud low. 
Dead Csesars aud dead Shakspeares lie ! — 

Dread Ministers of God ! sometimes 
Ye smite at once, to do His will, — 

In all earth's ocean-severed climes, — 
Those — whose reuowu ye cannot kill I 

AVhen all the brightest stars that burn 
At once are banished from their spheres. 

Men sadly ask, AVheu shall return 
Snch lustre to the comiug years ? 

For where is he' — who lived so long — 
Who raised the modern Titan's ghost, 

Aiul showed his fate, iu i)owerful song, 
Whose soul for learning's sake was lost ? 

Where he — who backward to the birth 
Of Time itself adventurous trod, 

Aud iu the mingled mass of earth, 
Found out the handiwork of God?" 



' Goethe aud his "F.iust." 



2 Cuvier. 



Where he — who in the mortal head' 

Ordained to gaze ou heaveu, could trace 

The soul's vast features, that shall tread 
The stars, when earth is nothingness ? 

Where he— who struck old Albyu's lyre,^ 
Till rouud the world its echoes loTl, 

Aud swept, with all a prophet's fire, 
The diapason of the soul ? 

Where he — who read the mystic lore,' 
Buried, where buried Pharoahs sleep, 

And dared presumptuous to explore 

Secrets four thousand years could keep ? 

Where he — who with a poefs eye,* 
Of truth, ou lowly nature gazed. 

And made even sordid Poverty- 
Classic, wheu iu his numbers glazed? 

Where — that old sage, so hale and staid,^ 
The "greatest good" who sought to find: 

Who in his garden mused, aud luado 
All forms of rule, for all maukind ? 

And thou — whom millions far removed' 
Kevered — the hierarch meek aud wise ; 

Thy ashes sleep, — adored, beloved ! — 
Near where thy Wesley's coffiu lies! 

Ho too, the heir of glory — where 
Hath great Napoleon's scion fled ? 

Ah ! glory goes not to an heir ! 
Take him, ye noble, vulgar dead ! 

But hark ! a nation sighs ! for he,' 
Last of the brave, who perilled all 

To make an infaut empire free. 
Obeys the inevitable call ! 

They go — and with them is a crowd, 

For human rights who thought aud did ! 

We rear to them uo temples proud, 
Each hath his mental iiyramid. 

All earth is now their sepulchre, 

The Mind, their monument sublime — 

Young in eternal Fame they are — 

Such are your triumphs, Death and Time ! 



1 Spnrzheini, 
3 Champollion. 
5 .Jeremy Bentham. 
' Charles Carroll. 



2 Scott. 

^ C'rabbe. 

« Adam Clarke. 



522 



CTCLOFJ£DIA OF BRITISH AA^D AMERICJX POETRY. 



lllilliam 33. ©. ycabolii) aui) (Dlbcr 
111. 13. XhM\). 

AMERICANS. 

William Bourne Oliver Pe;ibocly (1799-1847) and Oliver 
William Bourne Peabody (179&-1S48) were twin brothers, 
natives of Exeter, N. H., and sons of Judge Oliver Pea- 
bodj'. They entered Harvard College together at the 
early age of thirteen, and graduated in 1817. Both were 
men of fine iutellectual endowments, gentle and afl'ee- 
tionate, keenly sensitive to all that is beautiful. and good 
in nature and in art. Botli brotliers studied divinity, aiul 
became clergymen. William was settled over the Unita- 
rian Church in Springfield, Mass., in 1820, and continued 
in his pastorate till his death. Oliver was settled, in 
1845, over the Unitarian Church in Burlington, Vt. Both 
brothers wrote poetry, very similar in style ; and both 
were so indifferent to fame that neither made a collection 
of his writings. A selection from the sermons and poems 
of William was published in 1849. The noble "Hymn 
to the Stars" (see page 544) is believed to have been 
from the pen of O. W. B. Peabody, but is not in his MS. 
collection. 

The poetical fiiculty is not unfrcquently inherited, and 
this w.-is notably so in the case of Colonel Everett Pea- 
body (1830-1862), son of William, and who wrote the fol- 
lowing spirited soug, which was sung at a supper given 
in 1853 by the Boston Independeut Cadets : 

" Wc have met .igain to-night ; we're hand iu hand once more, 
A century behind us, eternity before ; 

Tlien let the wine-cup chcle round ; like the cavahere of old, 
III the revel we'll be joyous, in the hour of battle bold. 
Fill the cup, brimming up ; by its light divine, 
We swear he is no true Cadet who ebuns the sparkling wiue. 

"For the wine-cup and the sword are married since the diiy 
When Kiug Arthur spread the festive board, and led the bat- 
tle fray. 
Aud shall wc part what Heaven hath joined ? No ! thuudeis 

forth with might 
The ghost that you have summoned up, oue of his knights— 
to-night. 
Fill the cup, brimming np, etc. 

"And if the armies of the foe invade our native land, 
Or rank disunion gathers up its huvless, faithless band. 
Then the arm upon our ancient shield shall wield his blade 

of might, 
And we'll show our worthy brethren that geutlemeu cau fight. 
Fill the cup, biimniing up, etc." 

The result showed that Colonel Everett Pe.abody was 
no mere hero on paper. The last stanza is prophetic of 
his own high daring and honorable dcatli. He was acting 
Brigadier-general in the battle of Shilob, near Pittsburgh 
Landing, in which the Twenty -fifth Missouri regiment 
took part, in 186'2. If it had not been for his vigilance in 
sending out a seouting-party, the whole of the brigade 
under bis command would have been captured by the 
Confederate army. While w.iving his sword, and bravely 
rallying his men in the action that ensued, a Minie-ball 
struck him in the upper lip, passed through his head, 
and killed him instantly. There was no offlcer more be- 
loved by his men, or whose loss was more deplored. 



THE AUTUMN EVENING. 

\V. B. O. PZABODT. 

Bcliokl tbe Western eveuiug liglit ! 

It melts ill deepening gloom : 
So calmly Christians sink awaj", 

Descending to tlie tomb. 

Tlie winds breathe low ; tbe withering leaf 
Scarce whispers from the free : 

So gently flows tlie parting breath, 
When good men cease to be. 

How beatitifiil on all the hills, 

The crimsou light is shed! 
'Tis like the peace the dying gives 

To luourners round his bed. 

How mildly on the wandering cloud 

The sunset beam is east! 
'Tis like tbe memory left behind 

W'heii loved ones breathe their last. 

Aud now, above the dews of night. 

The yellow star appears ; 
So faith springs in the hearts of those 

AVhose eyes are dim with tears. 

But soon the morning's happier light 

Its glories shall restore ; 
And eyelids that are sealed in death 

Shall wake to close no more. 



THE ALARM. 

W. U. 0. Peaijodt. 

Look there! the beacon's crimson light 

Is blazing wide and far ! 
And sparkles iu its towering height 

The rocket's signal star! 
Rise ! rise ! the cannon rolls at last 

Its deep and stem reply ; 
And heavier sleep is coming fast 

Than seals the living eye. 

Aud now the warning trumpet peals! 

The battle's on the way ; 
The bravest heart that moment feels 

The thrilling of dismay. 
Around the loved, in shrinking fear, 

Love's straining arms are cast ; 



WILLIAM B. 0. PEABODY AXU OLIVER JT. B. PEABODY. 



523 



The Iieart is iu that single tear, 
That parting is the last. 

A thousand windows flash witli fires 

To light them throngh the gloom, 
Before the taper's flame expires, 

To glory or the tomb. 
Far down the hollow street rebounds 

Tlie charger's rattling heel ; 
And ringing o'er tlie iiavement sounds 

The cannon's crushing wheel. 

Then answers to the echoing drum 

Tlic bugle's stormy blast ; 
With crowded ranks the warriors come, 

And bauds are gathering fast ; 
Red ou their arms the torch-light gleams, 

As ou their footsteps spring, 
To iierish ere tho morning beams — 

For deatli is ou tlio wiug. 

Tho courier, iu his arrowy flight. 

Gives out the battle-cry ! 
And now march on with stern delight — 

To fall is not to die ! 
Already many a gallant name 

Your country's story bears : 
Go ! rival all your fiithers' fame, 

Or earu a death like theirs. 



NATURE AND NATURE'S GOD. 

ADDRESSED TO A LITTLE GIRL OF NINE YEARS. 
W. B. 0. Peacodt. 

Louisa, did you never trace 
The smile on Nature's glorious face, 
That seems to breathe from every part 
The deep cspressiou of a heart ? 
I know you have ; — in every flower 
You feel a preseuce and a jiower ; 
To you tho blue aud slleut sky 
Has meauing, like an earnest eye ; 
And all tho warm and living glow 
Where foliage heaves, and waters flow, 
Inspires in every changing tone 
Some feelings answering to your own. 

But toll me whence that smile can be 1 
The earth says, " It is not in me ;" 
"'Tis not in me," the deep replies; 
The same voice auswers from the skies. 



The smile divine that nature wears 
Comes from some higher source than theirs ; 
For such expression uever springs 
From lifeless and uumeauiug things ; 
Thej' have no influence to impart, 
They have no power to touch the heart ; 
Aud all the brightness round theiii thrown 
Is beautiful, but not their own. 

Then there must be a living sonl 
Tliat quickens and informs the whole; 
There is ! in Nature ever shine 
The kindlings of that Soul Divine. 
And thus the rich aud dreamy haze. 
That sweetly veils the autumn days, 
The scarlet leaves that, glancing round, 
With rainbow fragments strew the ground, 
Tlie clear transparency of noon. 
The bright and thoughtful harvest-moon. 
And all around us and above. 
Reflect a Father's smile of love. 

I know that your young heart di.scerns 
What man's hard spirit coldly learns — 
The truth which throws the brilliant ray 
Of joy upon the earthly way ; 
You have a Father, — kind and true, 
Aud full of sympathy for you ; 
And, though witli warm aft'ection blessed. 
Remember that he loves you best ; 
Oh turn, theu, to that Frieiul above, 
Resolve to answer love with love ; 
And ever act the filial part 
With faithful and confiding lieart. 



VISIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 

O. W. B. Reabodt. 

Yes, visions of his future rest 

To man, the pilgrim, here are shown ; 

Deep love, pure friendship, thrill his breast, 
And hopes rush in of joys unknown. 

Released from earth's dull round of cares. 
The aspiring soul her vigor tries ; 

Plumes her soiled pinions, and prepares 
To soar amid ethereal skies. 

Around us float in changing light 
The dazzling forms of distant years, 

And earth becomes a glorious sight. 
Beyond which opeuiug heaven appears. 



524 



CYCLOPEDIA OF SBTTISB AXD AJIErilCAX POETRY. 



TO A DEPARTED FRIEND. 



0. "iV, B. Peabodt. 



Too lovely and too early lost ! 
Mj- memory clings to thee ; 



:-star 



Auiiil the treacherous sea; — 
But douhly cold and cheerless uow, 

The wave too dark before, 
Since every beacon-light is quenched 

Along the midnight shore. 

I saw thee first, wlieu hope arose 

On youth's triumphant wiug, 
And thou wast lovelier thau the light 

Of early dawning spring. 
Who then could dream that health and joy 

Would e'er desert the brow, 
So bright with varying lustre once, — 

So cliill and changeless now ? 

That brow ! how proudly o'er it then 

Thy kingly beauty hung, 
Whcu wit, or eloquence, or mirth, 

Came buruiug from the tongue ; 
Or when upon that glowing cheek 

The kindliug smilo was spread. 
Or tears, to thine own woes deuied, 

For others' griefs were shed ! 

Thy mind ! it ever was the home 

Of high and holy thought ; 
Thy life, an emblem of the truths 

Thy pure example taught ; 
When blended in thiue eye of light. 

As from a royal throne, 
Kindness, and peace, and virtue there 

In mingled radiance shone. 

One evening, when the autumn dew 

Upou the hills was shed. 
And Hesperus far down the west 

His starry host had led, 
Thou said'st how sadly and how oft 

To that prophetic eye. 
Visions of darkness and decline. 

And early death were uigh. 

It was a voice from other worlds. 
Which none beside might hear ; — 

Like the night breeze's plaintive lyre, 
Breathed faiutly on the ear ; 



It was the warning kindly given, 

When bless(5d spirits come. 
From their bright paradise above. 

To call a sister home. 

How sadly on my spirit then, 

That fatal warning fell! 
But oh ! the dark reality 

Another voice maj' tell ; 
The quick decline, — the parting sigh, — 

The slowly moving bier, — 
The lifted sod, — the sculptured stone, — 

The unavailing tear! — 

The amaranth flowers that bloom in heaven. 

Entwine thy temples uow; 
The crowu that shines immortally. 

Is beaming ou thy brow ; 
The seraphs round the burning throne 

Have borne thee to thy rest, 
Tq dwell among the saints on high. 

Companion of the blessed. 

The suu hath set iu folded clouds, — 

Its twilight rays are gone ; 
And, gathered iu the shades of night, 

The storm is rolling on. 
Alas! how ill that bursting storm 

The fainting spirit braves, 
When they, — the lovely and the lost, — 

Are gone to early graves ! 



THE DISEMBODIED SPIRIT. 

O. W. B. PEABODt. 

O sacred star of evening, tell 

In what unseen, celestial sphere. 
Those spirits of the perfect dwell, 

Too pure to rest in sadness here. 

Roam they the crystal spheres of light. 

O'er paths by holy angels trod, 
Their robes with heavenly lustre bright. 

Their home, the Paradise of God? 

Soul of the just! .and canst thou soar 
Amid those radiant spheres sublime, 

Where countless hosts of heaven adore, 
Beyond the bounds of space or time ? 

And canst tliou join the sacred choir. 

Through heaven's high dome the song to raise. 



JTILLIAM B. 0. PEABODY AND OLIVER W. B. PEABODY.—GREXVILLE AlELLEX. 525 



Where seraphs strike the goklcu lyre 
In ever-duriug notes of praise ? 

Oil, who would heed tlie chilling blast 
That blows o'er time's eveutfiil sea, 

If bid to hail, its peril past, 
The bright wave of eternity ! 

And who the sorrows would not bear 
Of snch a transient world as this, 

AVhcn Hope displays, beyond its care, 
So bright an entrance into bliss ! 



HYMN OF NATURE. 



W. B. O. Peabody. 



God of the earth's extended plains, 

Tlie dark green lields contented lie : 
The mountains rise like holy towers, 

Where man might commune with the sky. 
Tlie tall clift' challenges the storm 

That lowers upon the dale below. 
Where shaded fountains send their streams. 

With joyous music in their flow. 

God of the dark and heavy deep ! 

The waves lie sleeping on the sand.s. 
Till the fierce trumpet of the storm 

Hath summoned up their thundering bands; 
Then the white sails are dashed like foam. 

Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas. 
Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale 

Serenely breathes, "Dejiart in peace." 

God of the forest's solemn shade ; 

The grandeur of the lonely tree. 
That wrestles singly with the gale, 

Lifts up admiring eyes to thee : 
But more majestic far they stand 

When, side by side, their ranks they form, 
To wave on high their plumes of green, 

And light their battles with the storm. 

God of the light and viewless air ! 

Where summer breezes sweetly flow. 
Or, gathering in their angry might. 

The fierce and wintry tempests blow, — 
All — from the evening's plaintive sigh. 

That hardly lifts the drooping flower. 
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry — 

Breathe forth the language of thy power. 



God of the fair and open sky ! 

How gloriously above us springs 
The teuted dome of heavenly blue 

Suspended on the rainbow's wings ! 
Each brilliant star that sparkles through. 

Each gilded cloud that wanders, free, 
In evening's purple radiance, gives 

The beauty of its praise to Thee. 

God of the rolling orbs above! 

Thy name is written clearly bright 
In the warm day's unvarying blaze. 

Or evening's golden shower of light. 
For every fire that fronts the snn. 

And every spark that glows alone 
Around the utmost verge of heaven, 

Were kindled at thy burning throne. 

God of the world! the hour must come, 

And nature's self to dust return ; 
Her crnmbling altars must decay, 

Her incense-fires .shall cease to burn : 
But still her grand aud lovely scenes 

Have made man's warmest praises flow. 
For hearts grow holier as they trace 

The beauty of the world below. 



C3rcntiille illcllcu. 



Mellen a799-1841) was a native of Biddeford, Me. He 
graduated at Cambridge, and stiulied law ; but a ten- 
dency to epilepsy prevented all professional success. He 
resided at times in Boston, Washington, and New York. 
A man of singular elevation and purity of character, and 
a true poet in feehng, he lacked the artistic gift by which 
expression is made to interpret and impart, in aptest, 
briefest form, what is powerfully felt. The chief collec- 
tion of his poems, "The Martyr's Triumph, Buried Val- 
ley, and other Poems" (of which few copies are to be 
found), was published in Boston in 1833. 



THE BUGLE. 

"But still the dingle's hollow throat 
Prolonged the swelling bugle's note ; 
The owlets started from their dream. 
The engles answered with their scream : 
Round and around the sounds were cast, 
Till echo 'turned an answering blast." 

Lady of the Lake. 

O wild enchanting Lorn ! 
Whose music np the deep and dewy air 
Swells to the clouds, and calls on echo there, 

Till a new melody is born ; — 



526 



CrCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAX POETRY. 



AVake, wake again ! tho uigbt 
Is lieuding fi-oiii her throue of beauty down, 
With still stars beaming ou her azure erowu, 

luteiiso aud cloqueutly bright ! 

Night, at its pulseless uoon, 
Wheu the far voice of waters mourns iu song, 
And some tired watch-dog, lazily and loug. 

Barks at the melaucholy moon ! 

Hark ! how it sweeps away, 
Soaring aud dying ou the silent sky, 
As if some sprite of sound weut wandering by. 

With lone halloo and rouudelay. 

Swell, swell iu glory out ! 
Thy toues come pouring ou my leaping heart, 
Aud my stirred spirit hears thee with a start 

As boyhood's old, remembered shout. 

Oh, have ye heard that peal 
From sleej)ing city's moou-bathed battlements, 
Or from the guarded held and warrior tents. 

Like some near breath arouud you steal ? 

Oi- have ye, in the roar 
Of sea, or storm, or battle, heard it rise, 
Shriller than eagle's clamor, to the skies, 

Where wiugs aud tcmi)ests uever soar? 

Go, go ! no other sound. 
No music that of air or earth is born. 
Can match the mighty music of that horn, 

Ou midnight's fathomless profonnd ! 



Joijii iJmlalj. 

Imlali (1799-1846), a Scottish song-writer, was a native 
of iibcrtleen, the son of an innlveeper, and the youngest 
of seven sons born in succession. On completing an 
ordinary education at tlie grammar-school, he was ap- 
prenticed to a piano-forte-niakcr. Excelling as a piano- 
tuner, he got employment in that capacity in London. 
He composed songs from liis boyliood. In 1S27 he pub- 
lished "May Flowers," a 13mo volume of lyrics, chiefly 
in the Scottish dialect. His second volume of poems 
appeared iu ISll. 



THE GATHERING." 

Rise, rise ! Lowland and Highland men, 

Bald sin^ to beardless sou, each come, aud early ; 

' This sons has been erroueously ascribed to James Hogg, 
the Ettrick Shepherd. 



Rise, rise ! main-land aud island men. 

Belt ou your broad claymores — fight for Prince 
Charlie ; 

Dowu from the mountain steep, 
Up from the valley deep, 
Out from tho clachau, the bothie, and shieling, — 
Bugle and battle-drum. 
Bid chief aud vassal come ! 
Bravely our bagpipes the pibroch are pealing. 

Men of the mountains — descendants of heroes ! 

Heirs of the fame as the hills of your fathers ; 
Say, shall the Sontlirou, the Sassenach, fear us, 
Wheu to the w.ar-peal each plaided clan gathers ? 

Too long ou the trophied walls 

Of your ancestral halls. 
Red rust has blunted the armor of Albyn ; 

Seize, then, — ye mountain Macs ! — 

Buckler and battle-axe. 
Lads of Lochaber, Braeraar, aud Breadalbin ! 

When hath the tartan-plaid mantled a coward ? 
When did the blue-bonnet crest the disloyal ? 
Up, then, aud crowd to the standard of Stuart, 
Follow your leader, the rightful, the royal ! 

Chief of Clanrouald, 

Donald Slacdonald ! 
Lovat! Lochiel! with the Grant aud the Gordon! 

Rouse every kilted clan. 

Rouse every loyal man. 
Gun ou the shoulder, aud thigh the good sword on ! 



FROM -'THERE LIVES A YOUNG LASSIE." 

There lives a young lassie 

Far down you laug glen ; 
How I lo'e that lassie 

Thero's nao ane can ken ! 
O! a saint's faith may vary, 

But faithful I'll be ; 
For well I lo'e Mary, 

An' Mary lo'es me.- 

Red, red as the rowan' 

Her smiling wee mou' ; 
Aud white as the gowan" 

Her breast and her brow ! 
Wi' a foot o' a fairy 

She links' o'er the lea : 
O ! weel I lo'e Mary, 

Aiul Mary lo'es me. 



' 5Iouutnin-n?h berry. 



2 Daisy. 



3 To irij) along. 



ANOJ^fYMOrS JXD MLSCELLAXEOUS POEMS. 



527 



Jlnounmoiis aiib iUisccllancous Poems 
of tijc IStlj anb 19tl) Centuries. 



MEREY MAY THE KEEL ROW. 

Anonymous (Scottish — 18th Century). 

As I came down through Cauuobie, 
Through Cauuobie, thioiigli Cauuobie, 
The summer suu had shut his e'e, 

And loud a lass did sing, O : 
Ye westliu iviuds, all gently blow ; 
Ye seas, soft as my wishes flow ; 
And merry may the sliallop row 

That my true love sails in, O ! 

My love hath breath lilie roses sweet, 
Like roses sweet, like roses sweet, 
Aud arms like lilies dipped iu weet, 

To fold .a maiden iu, O ! 
There's not a wave that swells the sea 
But bears a prayer and wish frae me ;— 
Oh soon may I my true love see, 

Wi' his bauld bauds again, O ! 

Jly lover wears a bonnet blue, 
A bonnet blue, a bonnet blue — 
A rose so white, a heart so true, 

A dimple on his chin, ! 
He bears a blade his foes have felt. 
And nobles at his nod have knelt; 
My heart will break, as well as melt, 

Should ho ue'er come agaiu, O 1 



OH SAW YE THE LASS? 
Anonymous (Scottish — 18tii Century). 

Oh saw ye the lass wi' the bonuie blue een ? 
Her smile is the sweetest that ever was seen ; 
Her cheek like the rose is, but fresher, I ween ; 
She's the loveliest lassie that trips on the green. 

The homo of my love is below in the valley, 
Where wild fiowers welcome the wandering bee ; 
But the sweetest of flowers in that spot that is seen 
Is the dear one 1 love wi' the bonuie blue een. 

When night overshadows her cot iu the glen. 
She'll steal out to meet her loved Donald again ; 
Aud when the moou shines on you valley so green, 
I'll welcome the lass wi' the bonuie blue een. 



As the dove that has wandered awaj- from his nest. 
Returns to the mate his fond heart loves the best, 
I'll fly from the world's false aud vanishing scene, 
To my dear one, the lass wi' the bonuie blue een. 



THE PAUPER'S DRIVE. 

TuoMAS Noel (Duitisii — IOtii Century). 

There's a grim one-horse hearse iu a jolly round trot. 
To the church-yard a paniJer is going, I wot ; 
The road it is rough, ami the hearse has uo springs ; 
And hark to the dirge which the sad driver sings : 

Rattle his bones over the stones ! 

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns .' 

Oh, where are the mourners ? Alas ! there are none ; 
He has left not a gap iu the world now he's gone — 
Not a tear in the eye of child, wouiau, or mau ; 
To the grave with his carca.ss as fast as you can: 

Rattle his bones over the stones! 

He's ouly a pauper, whom nobody owns ! 

What a joltiug,aud creaking,and splashing, aud diu ! 
The whip how it cracks, aud the wheels how they 

spin ! 
How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled! 
The pauper at length makes a uoise in the world ! 

Rattle his bones over the stones ! 

He's only a pauper, whom uobody owns ! 

Poor pauper defunct ! he has made some approach 
To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach ! 
He's taking a drive in his carriage at last ; 
But it will not be long, if he goes ou so fast ! 

Rattle his bones over the stones ! 

He's ouly a jiauper, whom nobody owns ! 

You bumpkins ! who stare at your brother cou vejed, 

Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid ! 

Aud be joyful to think, when by death you're laid 

low, 
You've a chance to the! grave like a geunuan to go! 

Rattle his bones ifver the stones ! 

He's only a pauper, whom uobody owns! 

But a truce to this sthMu ; for my soul it is sad. 
To think that a heart in humanity clad 
Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end, 
Aud depart from the light without leaviug a frieiul. 

Bear soft his bones over the stones ! 

Though a jiauper, he's one whom his Maker 
yet owns! 



528 



CYCLOrJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AilERICAN POETUY. 



SONNET: DECEMBER MORNING. 

Anna Seward (Lichfield, England — 1747-1S09). 

I love to rise ere gleams the tardy light, 
Winter's pale dawu ; ami as warm fires illume, 
Ami cheerful tapers shine arouud the room, 
Through misty windows bend my musing sight, 
Where, round the dusky lawn, the mansions white, 
With shutters closed, peer faintly through the gloom, 
That slow recedes ; while yon gray spires assume, 
Rising from their dark pile, an added height 
By indistinctness given. Then to decree 
Tlie grateful thoughts to God, ere they unfold 
To friendship or the Muse, or seek with glee 
Wisdom's rich page. O hours more worth than gold. 
By whose blessed use we lengthen life, aud, free 
From drear decays of age, outlive the old! 



SONG OF BIRTH. 

ANuNVMol's (BniTisn — IOtii Centurt). 

Hail, new-waked atom of the Eternal whole, 
Young voyager upon Time's mighty river! 
Hail to thee. Human Soul, 

Hail, aud forever! 
Pilgrim of life, all hail ! 
He who at first called forth 
From nothingness the earth, 
Who clothed the hills in strength, and dug the sea ; 
Who gave the stars to gem 
Night, like a diadem. 

Thou little child, made thee ; 
Young habitant of earth, 
Fair as its flowers, though brought in .sorrow forth. 
Thou art akin to God who fasliioued thee! 

Tlie Heavens themselves shall vanish as a scroll. 
The solid earth dissolve, the stars grow pale, 
But thou, O human .Soul, 

Shalt be immortal ! Hail ! 
Tlion youug Immortal, hail ! 
He, before whom are dim 
Seraph and cherubim. 
Who gave the archangels strength aud majesty, 
Who sits upon Heaven's throne. 
The Everlasting One, 

Thou little child, made thee ! 
Fair haliitant of Earth, 
Immortal in thy God, though mortal by thy birth, 
Born for life's trials, hail, all hail to thee ! 



SONG OF DEATH. 

Anonymous (Britisu — 19tii Centcby). 

Sliriuk not, O human Spirit, 
The Everlasting Arm is strong to save ! 

Look up, look up, frail nature, put thy trust 
In Him who went down mouruiug to the dust, 

Aud overcame the grave ! 

Quickly goes down the sun ; 

Life's work is almost done ; 
Fruitless endeavor, hope deferred, aud strife ! 

One little struggle more, 

One pang, and then is o'er 
All the long, mournful, weariness of life. 

Kind friends, 'tis almost past ; 

Come now and look your last ! 

Sweet children, gather near, 

And his last blessing hear, 
See how he loved you who departeth now ! 
xVud, with thy trembling step aud pallid brow. 

Oh, most belov(5d one. 

Whose breast he leaned upon. 

Come, faithful unto death, 

Receive his parting breath ! 
Tlie fluttering spirit panteth to be free. 
Hold him not back who speeds to victory ! 
— The bonds are riven, the struggling soul is free ! 

Hail, hail, enfranchised Spirit ! 
Thon that the wine-press of the field hast trod ! 
On, blessed Immortal, on, through boundless space, 
And stand with thj' Redeemer face to face ; 

And stand before thy God I 

Life's weary work is o'er, 

Thou art of earth no more ; 
No more art trammelled by the oppressive clay, 

But tiead'st with wingdd ease 

The high acclivities 
Of truths sublime, up Heaven's crystalline way. 

Here is no bootless quest ; 

This city's name is Rest ; 

Here shall no fear ajipal ; 

Here love is all in all; 
Here shalt thou win thy ardent soul's desire ; 
Here clothe thee in thy beautiful attire. 

Lift, lift thy wond'riug eyes ! 

Yonder is Paradise, 

And this fair shining band 

Are spirits of thy land ! 
And these who throng to meet thee are thy kin. 
Who have awaited thee, redeemed from sin ! 
— The city's gates unfold — enter, oh ! enter in ! 



AXOXTMOUS AXD MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



529 



YOUNG AIRLY. 

Anonymous (Scottish— 18th Centtjrt). 

Ken yo aught of brave Locliiel ? 

Or ken ye aught of Airly ? 
TUey have belted on their bright broadswords, 

And off and awa' wi' Charlie! 
Now bring me fire, uiy merry, merry men, 

And bring it red and yarel^- — 
At mirk midnight there Hashed a light 

O'er the topmost towers of Airly. 

What lowe' is you, quo' the gndo Loehiel, 

Which gleams so red and rarely ? 
By the God of my kin, quo' young Ogilvie, 

It's ray ain bounie hame of Airly ! 
Pnt up your sword, said tho brave Loehiel, 

Aud calm your mood, said Charlie ; 
Ere nioruing glow we'll raise a lowe 

Far brighter than bounie Airly. 

Oh, yon fair tower's my native tower! 

Nor will it soothe my mourning, 
Were London palace, tower, and town, 

As fast and brightly burning. 
It's no my hame — my father's liame. 

That reddeus my cheek sae sairlie — 
But my wife, and twa sweet babes I left 

To smoor' in tho smoke of Airlv. 



LOVE'S REMONSTRANCE. 
James Kennet (see Page 359). 

Dear Tom, my brave, free-hearted lad, 

Where'er you go, God bless j-ou ; 
Y'ou'd better speak than wish you had. 

If love for me distress you. 
To me, they say, your thoughts incline, 

And possibly they may so : 
Then, once for all, to quiet mine, 

Tom, if you love nie, say so. 

On that sound heart and manly frame 

Sits lightly sport or labor. 
Good-humored, frank, and still the same. 

To parent, friend, or neighbor : 
Then why postpone your love to own 

For me, from day to day so, 
Aud let me whisper, still alone, 

" Tom, if you love me, say so ?" 



' A flame. 



= To smother. 



34 



How oft when I was sick, or sad 

With some remembered folly. 
The sight of you has made lue glad, — 

And then most n)elaucholy ! 
Ah ! why will thoughts of one so good 

Upon my spirit prey so ? 
By you it should be understood — 

" Tom, if you love me, say so !" 

Last Monday, at the cricket-match, 

No rival stood before you ; 
In harvest-time, for quick despatch 

The farmers all adore you ; 
And evermore your praise they sing, 

Though one thing you delay so. 
And I sleep nightly murmuring, 

"Tom, if you love me, say so !" 

Whate'er of ours you chance to .seek. 

Almost before you breathe it, 
I bring with blu.shes on my cheek. 

And all my soul goes with it. 
Why thank me, then, with voice so low, 

And faltering turn away so ? 
When next you come, before you go, 

Tom, if you love me, say so ! 

When Jasper Wild, beside the brook, 

Resentful round us lowered, 
I oft recall that liou-look 

That quelled the savage coward. 
Bold words aud free you uttered then : 

Would they could find their way so, 
When these moist eyes so jjlaiuly mean, 

"Tom, if you love me, say so!" 

My friends, 'tis true, are well to do, 

And yours arc poor and friendless ; 
Ah, no ! for they are rich iu you. 

Their happiness is endless. 
You never let them shed a tear. 

Save that on you they weigh so ; 
There's one might bring you better cheer ; 

Tom, if you love me, say so I 

My uucle's legacy is all 

For you, Tom, when you choose it ; 
In better hands it cannot fall, 

Or better trained to use it. 
I'll wait for years ; but let me not 

Nor wooed nor plighted stay so ; 
Since wealth and worth make even lot, — 

Tom, if you love me, say so ! 



530 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AlIERICAX POETRY. 



SONNET : COxMPARISON. 

Anonymous (British — 19th CENTritY). 

Tlie lake lay bid in mist, and to tlie sand 

The little billows liasteuing silently 

Came sparkling on, in many a gladsome band, 

Soon as tliey touched the shore all doomed to die. 

I gazed npou them with a peusive eye ; 

For, on that dim and melancholy strand, 

I saw the image of man's destiny : 

So hurry we right onward thonghtlessly. 

Unto the coast of that Eternal Land, 

Where, like the worthless billows iu their glee, 

The first faint touch unable to withstand, 

We melt at once into eternity. 

O Thou who weighest the waters iu thine hand, 

My awe-struck spirit puts her trust iu Tlioe! 



THE CROCUS'S SOLILOQUY. 

Miss Hannah Flngg Goiilil (1789-1865), by wlinm the f.)Ilo\ving 
little poem was written, was a native of Lancaster, Vt,, but sub- 
sequently resided in Newbm-yport, Mass. A volume of her po- 
ems appeared iu 1832 ; another in 1S36 ; and a third in 1S4I. 

Down in my solitude nnder the snow, 
Where notliing cheering can reach me, 

Here, without light to see how to grow, 
rU.trnst to nature to teach me. 

I will not despair, nor be idle, nor frown. 

Locked in so gloomy a dwelling ; 
My leaves sh.ill run np.and my roots shall run down, 

Wliile the bud in my bosom is swelling. 

Soon as the frost will get out of my bed, 
From this cold dungeon to free me, 

I will peer up with my little bright head ; 
All will be joyful to see me. 

Then from my heart will young petals diverge. 
As rays of the sun from their focus ; 

J from the darkness of earth will emerge, 
A hapjiy and beautiful crocus. 

Oayly arrayed in my yellojv and green, 

When to their view I liave risen, 
Will they not wonder that one so sereue 

Came from so dism.il a prison ? 

Many, perhaps, froni so simple a flower 

This little lesson may borrow; 
Patient to-day, through its gloomiest hour, 

We come out tlie brighter to-morrow. 



THE MANAGING MAMMA. 

Anonymous (BniTisn — 19th Century). 

She walketh up and down the marriage mart. 
And swells with triumph as her wares depart : 
In velvet clad, with well-bejewelled bands, 
She has a smile for him who owns broad lands, 
And we.ars her nodding jilumes with rare effect 
Iti passing poverty with head erect. 
She tries each would-be suitor iu the scale — 
That social scale whose balance does not fail ; 
So much for wealth, so much for noble blood. 
Deduct for age, or for some clinging mud. 
Her daughters, too, well tutored by her art. 
All nnreluctant in her game take part ; 
Or, meekly passive, yield themselves to fate. 
Knowing full well resistance is too late. 
Thus are her victims to the altar led. 
With shining robes and flowers upon the he.ad ; 
There, at the holy shrine, 'mid sacred vows. 
She fancies Heaven will bless what earth allows. 
And sells her child to Mammon with a smile, 
While Mephistopheles approves the style. 



A RIDDLE ON THE LETTER H. 

Miss Catherine 51. Fansuawe (England— 17C4-1834). 

'Twas whispered in heaven, 'twas muttered in hell. 
And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell ; 
On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest, 
And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed. 
'Twill be found iu the sphere, when 'tis riven asun- 
der. 
Be seen iu the lightning, and heard in the thunder. 
'Tw.as allotted to man with his earliest breath, 
Attends at his birth and awaits him iu death: 
Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health. 
Is the prop of his house, aud the end of his wealth ; 
In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded witli care, 
l$nt is sure to be lost on his prodig.al heir. 
It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, 
With the husbandman toils, aud with mouarehs is 

crowned. 
Without it the soldier, the seainati may roam, 
But woe to the wretch who expels it from home. 
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found. 
Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion is drowned. 
'Ttt'ill not soften the heart ; and though deaf be tlie 

ear. 
It will make it acutely and instantly he.ar. 
Yet iu shade let it rest like a delicate flower. 
Ah, breathe on it softly — it dies iu au hour. 



AyOXTMOUS AND MISCELLAKEOVS POEMS. 



■iM 



S\\"EET TYRANT, I.OVE. 

The f.tUowiiij; nppenved in the London Literary Gazette, Octo- 
ber 9, 1330, as undoubtedly the prodiicliou of James Thomson. 
It was taken from a niauusci'ipt volume of dramatic aud oth- 
er collectious, made by a Mr. Ogle, who published a worlc on 
Gems, toward the latter part of the ISth century. The internal 
evidence is good, and justifies the ascriptiou. For an account 
of Thomson, see page 105. 

Sweet tyrant, Love ! but hear rue now, 

And cnre, while young, this pleasing smart, 
Or rather aid my trcmbliug vow. 

And teach me to reveal my heart : 
Tell her whoso goodness is my bane, 

Whose looks have smiled ray peace away — 
Oh, whisper how she gives me pain, 

Whilst uudesigning, frank, aud gay ! 

'Tis not for common charms I sigh. 

For what the vulgar beauty call ; 
'Tis not a. cheek, a lip, an eye — 

But 'tis the soul that lights them all. 
For that I drop the tender tear. 

For that I make this artless moan, 
Oh, sigh it. Love, iuto her ear, 

Aud make the bashful lover known ! 



THE END OF THE DROUGHT. 

Anonymous iBritisu — IOtu Centcry). 

The rain's come at last ! 
Aud 'tis pouring as fast 
As if it would pay the arrears of the past ; 
While the clouds on the wind 

Press on thicker and thicker. 
As if they'd a miud 

To disgorge all their liquor. 

Let them patter away — 
TUere's a toper to-day 
That will take their whole tonnage to moisten his 
clay : 

Yea, though they keep up 

For a fortnight their dropping. 
He won't flinch a cup. 
Nor require any mopping. 

Yea, earth that was cursed 
W^ith a vehement thirst. 
Is ilriukiiig so eager you'd fancy he'd burst ; 
Ami his hot chappy lii)S — 

How he smacks them together 



As he gulps, tastes, aud sips 
The delicious wet weather ! 

See the beautiful flowers. 
How they soak in the showers 
That plash on the meadows or splash through the 
bowers ! 

Leaves, blossoms, and shoots 

Qnatf with sncculent mouth ; 
Aud the fibres and roots 
Are iuibibiug the South. 

The farmer's nice ear 
Distinctly can hear 
The growtli of his crops through their bacchanal 
cheer ; 

And the boozy potatoes 
Cry out, under cover, 
"With elbow-room treat us, 
Arrah ! neighbors, lie over." 

The horses and cows. 
Neglecting to browse. 
Stand still when they give their parched hides a 
carouse ; 

And tUe iudolent sheep 

Their frieze jackets unbutton. 
While with rain-drops they steep. 
Their half-roasted nuittou. 

The birds of the air 
Seem little to care, 
If the summer should never again dry up fair ; 
For they're dabbling, like snipes. 

And rejoicing together, 
W^hile the quail tuues his pijies 
To wet-ioadher ! wct-ireatlier ! 

The ducks aud the drakes 
Spread their feathers in flakes, 
Aud dabble their bellies in stable-yard lakes ; 
And nothing on earth 

Can be half so absurd 
As the bibulous mirth 
Of the poud-loviug bird. 

In brief, to sum up — 
All things seem to sup 
New vigor from Nature's most bountiful cup ; 
While the sky dropping rain, 

And the sun, shining southerly, 
Make the country again 

Look good-natured and motherly. 



532 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BHITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THREE KISSES OF FAREWELL. 

FnoM ONE OF "Esther Wysn's Love-letters," by the Anony- 
mous Author of the Saxe-Holm Stories (1873). 

Three, only three, my darling, 

Separate, solemn, slow : 
Not like the swift and joyous oues 

We used to know, — 
When we kissed because ■we loved each other, 

Simply to taste love's sweet. 
And lavished our kisses as the summer 

Lavishes heat, — 
But as they kiss whoso hearts are wruug. 

When hope and fear are spent. 
And notliing is left to give, except 

A sacrament ! 

First of the three, my darling, 

Is sacred unto pain : 
We have hurt each other offen, — 

We shall again, — 
When we pine because we miss each other. 

And do not understand 
How the written words are so much colder 

Thau ej'e and Laud. 
I kiss thee, dear, for all such pain 

Which we may give or take; — 
Buried — forgiven before it comes, 

For our love's sake ! 

The second kiss, my darling, 

Is full of joy's sweet thrill ; 
Wo have blessed each other always; 

We always will. 
We shall reach until we feel each other. 

Past all of time and si>aco. 
We shall listen till we hear each other 

In every place. 
The earth is full of messengers 

Which love sends to and fro. 
I kiss thee, darling, for all the joy 

Which we shall know. 

Tlie last kiss, oh, ray darling. 

My love — I cannot see 
Tlirough my tears, as I remember 

What it may be. 
AVe may die and never see each other. 

Die with no time to give 
Any sign that onr hearts are faithful 

To die as live. 
Token of what they will not see 

Who see our parting breath : 



Tliis one last kiss, my darlini; 
The seal of death! 



seals 



THE SAILOR'S COXSOLATIOX. 

In Cissell's " Illnstr.ited Re.idiugs," edited by Tom Hood, 
the ymuiger (1S35-1S75), this amiisiug song is credited to Wil- 
liam Pitt, who was master attendant at Jamaic.i Docl;-yard, and 
afterward at Malta, where he died in 1S40. It is credited in 
many collections to Charles Dibdiu ; an error arising probably 
from the fact that Dibdiu wrote a sung nnder the same title, 
and corameuciug— 

"Spanking Jack was so comely, so pleasant, so jolly. 

Though winds blew great guns still he'd whistle and aing ; 
Jack loved his friend, and was trne to his Molly, 
And, if honor gives greatness, was great as a king." 

This song was set to music, and published by Novello & Co., 
London, Pitt's song (a much better one) was also set to music, 
and published by Purday & Son, London. 

One night came on a hurricane. 

The sea was mountains rolling. 
When Barney Buntline turned his quid. 

And said to Billy Bowling — 
"A strong nor'-wester's blowing, Billy — 

Hark ! don't ye hear it roar now ? 
Lord help 'em ! how I pities all 

Unhappy folks on shore now ! 

"Foolhardy chaps who live in town — 

Wliat danger they are all in ! 
And now are quaking in tlieir beds, 

For fear the roof should fall in. 
Poor creatures! how they envies us. 

And wishes, I've a notion. 
For our good luck, in such a storm, 

To be upon the ocean. 

" Bnt as for them who're out all day, 

On business from their houses, 
And late at night are coming home, 

To cheer the babes and spouses. 
While you and I, Bill, on the deck 

Are comfortably lying — 
My eyes ! what tiles iiud chimney-pots 

About their heads are flying! 

"And very often have wo heard 

How men are killed and undone 
By overturns of carriages. 

By thieves and fires in London. 
We know what risks all landsmen run. 

From noblemen to tailors ; 
Tlien, Bill, let us thank Providence 

That you and I are sailors !" 



AXOXTAIOUS AND MISCELLAKJiOUS POEMS. 



533 



WHERE IS HE? 

Heui-y Neele (1"5S-1S2S), antlmi- of the followiiig pncm,was a 
iialive of London, who published two vnUimes of poems, and 
wrote "Tlie Romance of English llistoiy." Just after his thir- 
tieth birthday lie committed suicide iu a tit of despondency. 

And •where is lie ? Not by tbe side 

Of ber whose wants he loved to teud ; 
Not o'er those valleys wandering wide, 

Where, sweetly lost, be oft would wend 
That form beloved he marks no more ; 

Those scenes admired no more shall see — 
Those scenes are lovely as before, 

And she as fair — but where is he? 

No, no ! the radiance is not dim 

That used to gild his favorite hill ; 
The pleasures that were dear to hiui 

Are dear to life and nature still ; 
But ab ! his homo is not so fair ; 

Neglected must his garden be — 
Tlie lilies droop and wither there, 

And seem to wbisjier, where is he? 

His was the pomp, the crowded hall! 

But where is now tbe proud disiday ? 
His riches, honors, pleasures, all 

Desire could frame ; but where are they 1 
And be, as some tall rock that stands 

Protected by the circling sea, 
Surrounded by admiring bauds. 

Seemed proudly strong — and where is be ? 

The church-yard bears an added stone, 

The fireside shows a vacant chair ; 
Hero sadness dwells and weeps alone, 

And death displays his banner there ; 
Tho life has gone, the breath has fled. 

And what has been no more shall be ; 
The well-kuowu form, tho welcome tread, 

O where are they? and where is he? 



HEAVING OF THE LEAD. 

Anonymous (Britisu — ISth Centcry). 

For England when with favoring galo 
Our gallant ship up Channel steered, 

And, scudding uuder easy sail, 

The high blue western land appeared ; 

To heave the lead the seaman sprung, 

And to the pilot cheerly sung, 

'■ By the deep — uiue !" 



And bearing up to gain the porf. 

Some well-known object kept in view ; 

An abbey-tower, tbe harbor-fort. 
Or beacon to tbe vessel true ; 

While oft tbe lead tbe seaman flung, 

And to the pilot cheerly snug, ' - 

" By the mark — seven !" 

And as tbe much-loved shore we near, 
With transjiort we behold the roof 

Wliere dwelt a friend or partner dear. 
Of faith and love a matchless proof. 

The lead once more the seaman flung, 

.\nd to the watchful pilot sung, 

" Quarter less — iive!" 

Now to her berth the ship draws nigh : 
We shorten sail — she feels the tide — 

" Stand clear the cable," is the cry — 
The anchor's gone ; we safely ride. 

The watch is set, and through tbe night 

We hear the seaman with delight 

Proclaim— "All's well!" 



COMING THROUGH THE EYE. 

Anontjious (Scottish — ISxii Century). 

Gin a body meet a body 

Coinin' through tbe rye, 
Gin !i body kiss a body, 

Need a body cry ? 
Every lassie has ber laddie — 

Ne'er a ane bae I ; 
Yet a' the lads they smile at uie 

When comin' through the rye. 
Amang the train there is a swain 

I dearly lo'e mysel' ; 
But wbaur his hame, or what his name, 

I dinna care to tell. 

Gill a body meet a body 

Comin' frae the town. 
Gin a body greet a body, 

Need a body frown ? 
Every lassie has her laddie — 

Ne'er a ane bae I ; 
Y'et a' the lads they smile at me 

When comin' through the rye. 
Amang the train there is a swain 

I dearly lo'e mysel' ; 
But wbaur bis hame, or what his name. 

I diuua care to tell. 



5:i4 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAX POETRY. 



OH ! SAY NOT WOMAN'S HEART IS BOUGHT. 
TH05IAS Love Peacock.* 

Oh! say not Tvoiiiau's Leart is boiigbt 

With vain aud empty treasure ; 
Oh ! say not -noman's heart is caught 

By every idle pleasure. 
When first her gentle bosom knows 

Love's flame, it wanders never ; 
Dec'p iu her heart the passion glows, — 

She loves, and loves forever. 

Oh ! say not woman's false as fair, 

That like the bee she ranges ; 
Still seeking flowers more sweet and rare, 

As fickle fancy changes. 
Ah, no! the love that first can warm 

Will leave her bosom never ; 
No second passion e'er can charm, — 

She loves, and loves forever. 



LOVE AND AGE. 

Thomas Love Peacock.' 

I played with yon 'mid cowslips blowiug, 

Wlien I was six and you were four ; 
Wlien garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing. 

Were pleasures soon to jilease no more. 
Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather. 

With little playmates, to and fro, 
We wandered hand in hand togetlier: 

But that was sixty years ago. 

You grew a lovely roseate maiden. 

And still our early love was strong ; 
Still with no care onr days were laden. 

They glided joyously along : 
Ami I did love you very dearly — 

How dearly, words want power to show ; 
I thought your heart was touclied as nearly : 

But that was fifty years ago. 

Thou other lovers came around you. 
Your beauty grew from year to year. 

And many a splendid circle found you 
The centre of its glittering sphere. 

' Novelist and poet, Pencnck (Englnnd — 1785-1860) wrote 
"Headlong Hall" (ISl.'i). His chief poems were "Palmyra" 
(ISOO); "The Genius of Ihe Thames " (isiu, 1S12); and "Rho- 
dodaphne; or, the Thessalian Spell" (181S). Peacock held an 
appointment in the India House, but found his best relaxation 
in literature. 



I saw you then, first vows forsaking, 

On rank and wealth your hand bestow ; 

Oh, then I thought my heart was breaking, — 
But that was forty years ago. 

And I lived on, to wed another: 

No cause she gave mo to repine ; 
And when I heard you were a mother, 

I did not wish the children mine. 
My own j'oung flock, in fair progression, 

Made up a pleasant Christmas row : 
My joy in them was past expression : 

But that was thirty years ago. 

Yon grew a matron plump and comely. 

Yon dwelt iu fashion's brightest blaze; 
My earthly lot was far more homely, — 

But I too had my festal days. 
No merrier eyes have ever glistened 

Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow, 
Than wlien my youngest child was christened : 

But that was twenty years ago. 

Time pas.sed. My eldest girl Avas married. 

And I am now a grandsire gray ; 
One pet of I'onr years old I've carried 

Among the wild-flowered meads to play. 
In our old fields of childish jileasure. 

Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, 
She fills her hasket's ample measure, — 

And that is not ten years ago. 

But though first love's impassioned blindness 

lias passed away in colder light, 
I still have thought of yon with kindness. 

And shall do, till our last good-night. 
The ever-rolling silent hours 

Will bring a time we shall not know. 
When onr young days of gathering flowers 

Will be an hundred vears ago! 



GO, SIT BY THE SUJIMER SEA. 

.\NONYM0rS (BUITISH — 18th CESTfRY). 

Go, sit by the summer sca,- 

Thou whom scorn wasteth. 
And let thy musing be 

Where the flood hasteth. 
JIark how o'er ocean's breast 
Rolls the hoar billow's crest : 
Such is his heart's unrest. 
Who of love tasteth ! 



AXOXTMOUS JSD MISCELLAXEOVS POEMS. 



535 



Griev'st thou that hearts shouhl cliangc ? 

Lo ! where life leigueth, 
Or the free sight doth rauge, 

What long reinaiueth? 
Spring with her llowcrs doth die ; 
Fast fades the gilded sky ; 
And the full-inoon on higli 

Ceaselessly waneth. 

Smile, then, ye sage and wise ! 

And if love sever 
Bonds which tliy sonl doth prize, 

Such does it ever! 
Deep as the rolling seas, 
Soft as the twilight breeze, — 
And yet of more than these 

Boast could it never! 



TO A BEREAVED MOTHER. 

John Quincy Aflani?, son of tlie second Presitlent of the United 
States, nnd himself President for one term, published, in 1S32, 
n lon^ composition in verse, entitled "Derniot MucMorrogh." 
'I'he followinij; tender little lyric from his pen will probably out- 
last all his other poetical productions. Ad:\nis died in the Cap- 
itol at \Vn?hinj;ton, Febru.iry 23d, 1S4S. Ilis last words were, 
'• This is the last of earth I" He was boru in Braiutree, Muss., 
July 11th, ITO". 

Sure, to the mansions of the blessed 

When infant innocence ascends. 
Some angel, brighter than the rest. 

The spotless spirit's flight attends. 
On wings of ecstasy they rise. 

Beyond where worlds material roll, 
Till some fair sister of the skies 

Receives the unpolluted soul. 
That inextinguishable beam. 

With dust united at our birth, 
Slieds a more dim, discolored gleam 

The more it lingers upon earth. 

But when the Lord of mortal breath 

Decrees his bounty to resume. 
And points the silent shaft of death 

Which speeds an infant to the tomb, 
No passiou tierce, nor low desire 

Has quenched the radiance of the flame ; 
Back-to its God the living firo 

Reverts, unclouded as it came. 
Fond mourner, be that solace tliine !. 

Let Hope her healing charm impart. 
And soothe, with melodies divine. 

The anguish of a mother's heart. 



Oil, think ! the darlings of thy love. 

Divested of this earthly clod, 
Amid unnumbered saints, above. 

Bask in the bosom of their God. 
O'er thee, with looks of love, they bend ; 

For thee the Lord of life imph^rc.; 
And oft from sainted bliss descend 

Thy wounded spirit to restore. 
Then dry, henceforth, the bitter tear; 

Their part and thine inverted see : 
Thou wert their guardian angel here, 

They guardian augels now to thee! 



AGAIX. 



Anonvmocs {British — lOxn CESTruT). 

O sweet and fair ! O rich and rare ! 

That day so long ago ; 
The autumn sunshine everywhere. 

The heather all aglow ! 
Tlie ferns were clad in cloth of gold. 

The waves sang on the shore: 
Snch suns will shine, such waves will sing. 

Forever, evermore. 

O fit and few ! O tried and true ! 

The friends who mot that day ; 
Each one the other's spirit knew ; 

And so, in earnest play. 
The hours flew past, until at last 

The twilight kissed the shore. 
We said, " Such days shall come again 

Forever, evermore." 

One day again, no cloud of pain 

A shadow o'er us cast ; 
And yet we strove in vain, in vain. 

To conjure up the past. 
Like, but unlike, the sun that shone, 

The waves that beat the shore, 
The words we said, the songs we sung — 

Like, — unlike, — evermore. 

For ghosts unseen crept in between. 

And, when our songs flowed free, 
Sang discords in an undertone. 

And marred onr harmony. 
" Tlie past is ours, not yours," they said ; 

" The w.aves that beat the shore, 
Though like the same, are not the same, 

O never, never more I" 



536 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISB AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



>'EVER DESPAIR. 

ANONT3I0US (BurnsH — 19Tn Century). 

Tlio opal-liiu'il ami nimij-perfumed Jlorn 

Froin Gloom is born ; 
From Gilt the siiUeu depth of ebon Night 

The stars shed light ; 
Gems ill the rayless caverns of the earth 

Have their slow birth ; 
From wondrous alchemy of winter-hours 

Come snnmier flowers ; 
Tho bitter waters of the restless niaiu 

Give gentle rain ; 
The fading bloom and dry seed bring once more 

The year's fresh store ; 
Jnst sequences of clashing tones aft'ord 

The full accord ; 
Through weary ages, full of strife and ruth, 

Thought reaches Truth ; 
Through efforts, long in vain, prophetic Need 

Begets the Deed : 

Nerve, then, thy soul with direst need to cope: 

Life's brightest Hope 
Lies latent in Fate's darhest, deadliest lair — 

Never despair ! 



MY PHILOSOPHY. 

ANONYsrors (Bnixisn— 19tu CENxenY). 

Bright thiugs can never die, 
Even though they fade ; 

Beauty and minstrelsy 
Deathless were made. 

What though tho sunnner day 

Passes at eve away ? 

Doth not tho moon's soft ray- 
Solace tho night ? 

Bright things can never die, 

Saith my philosophy : 

Plifphns, while passing by. 
Leaves us the light. 

Kind words can never die : 

Cherished and blessed, 
God liuows how deep they lie 

Stored in tho breast! 
Like childhood's simple rhymes, 
Said o'er a thousand times. 
Ay, in all years and climes, 



Distant and near. 
Kind words can never die, 
Saith my philosophy; 
Deep in the soul they lie, 

God knows how dear. 

Childhood can never die ; 

Wrecks of the past 
Float o'er the menmry. 

Even to the last. 
Many a happy thing, 
Many a daisied spring 
Float, on Time's ceaseless wing, 

Far, far away. 
Childhood can never die, 
Saith my pliiloso))hy ; 
Wrecks of our infancy 

Live on for aye. 

Sweet fancies never die ; 

They leave behind 
Some fairy legacy 

Stored in tho mind — 
Some happy thought or dream, 
Pure as day's earliest beam 
Kissing the gentle stream 

In the lone glade. 
Yea, though these things pass by, 
Saith my philosophy. 
Bright things can never die, 

Even though they fade. 



PROGRESS. 

AxoNYMOcs (British — IOtii Century). 

All victory is struggle, using chance 
And genius well ; all bloom is fruit of death ! 
All being, efiort for a future germ; 
All good, just sacrifice; and life's success 
Is rounded-up of integers of thrift, 
From toil and self-denial. Man must strive 
If ho would freely breathe or conquer: slaves 
Are amorous of ease and dalliance soft; 
Who rules himself calls no man nmstcr, and 
Commands success even in the throat of Fate. 
Creation's soul is thrivance from decay ; 
.And nature feeds on ruin ; the big earth 
Summers in rot, jind harvests through the frost, , 
I 'I'o fructify the world; the mortal Now 
Is pregnant with tho spring-flowers of To-come; 
And death is seed-time of Eternitv. 



ANONYMOUS AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



537 



EELIQUI-E. 

Anonymous (British — 19th Cestuht). 

A Willi, Tvct uiglit! Tlie driving sloet 
Bliii's all the lamps along the quay ; 
The ■« iiulows shake ; the busy street 
Is yet alivo with hurrying feet ; 
The ■wind raves from the sea. 



So let it rave ! My lamp burns bright ; 

My loug day's work is almost done ; 
I curtain out each sound and sight — 
Of all the nights in the year, to-uight 

I choose to be alone. 

Alone, with doors and windows fast. 

Before my opeu desk I stand. 
Alas! cau twelve long months be past, 
My hidden, hidden wealth, since last 

I held thee in my hand? 

So. there it lies ! From year to year 
I see the ribbon change ; the page 

Turn yellower ; and the very tear 

That blots the writing, disappear 
And fade away with age. 

Mine eyes grow dim when they behold 
The precious trides hoarded there — 

A ring of battered Indian gold, 

A withered harebell, and a fold 
Of sunny chestnut hair. 

Xot all the riches of the earth, 
Not all the treasures of the sea. 

Could buy these house-gods from my hearth : 

Aiul yet the secret of their worth 
Mnst live and die with me. 



FAITH. 
Anontmocs (HniTisn — 19th Century). 

Ye who think the truth ye sow 
Lost beneath the winter snow, 
Doubt not, Time's unerring law 
Yet shall bring the genial thaw^ ; 
God in nature ye can trust : 
Is the God of mind less just ? 

Read we not the mighty thought 
Once by ancient sages taught ? 



Tliongh it withered in the blight 
Of the mediieval night. 

Now the harvest we behold ; 

See ! it bears a thousand-fold. 

Workers on the barren soil, 
Yinirs may seem a thankless toil ; 
Sick at heart with hope deferred. 
Listen to the cheering word : 

Now the faithful sower grieves ; 

Soon he'll bind his golden sheaves. 

If great Wisdon\ have decreed 
Man may labor, yet the seed 
Never in this life shall grow. 
Shall the sower cease to sow f 
The fairest fruit may yet be born 
On the resurrection morn ! 



GENIUS. 

Anonymous (Beitiso — 19th Century). 

Far out at sea — the sun was high, 

While veered the wind, and tlapped the sail- 
We s.aw a snow-white butterfly 

Dancing before the litful gale, 

Far out at sea. 

The little stranger, who h.ad lost 
His way, of danger nothing knew ; 

Settled awhile upon the mast. 

Then flnttered o'er the waters blue ; 

Far out at sea. 

Above, there gleamed the boundless sky ; 

Beneath, the boundless ocean sheen ; 
Between them danced the butterfly. 

The spirit-life in this vast scene ; 

Far out at sea. 

Away he sped with shimmering glee! 

Dim, indistinct — now seen — now gone ; 
Night comes, with wind and rain — and he 

No more will dauce before the morn, 

Far out at sea. 

He dies unlike his mates, I ween ; 

Perhaps not sooner, nor worse crossed ; 
And he hath felt, and known, and seen, 

A larger life and hope —though lost, 

Far out at sea. 



538 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BIIITISH JXD AMEEICAX POETUV. 



DEIKDRfi'S FAREWELL TO ALBA. 

Anonymous (From the Gaelic). 

Deirdre, wife of Naise, the son of Usna, returning with her 
husband to Emania in Erin, laments fur Allia (Scotland), lier 
adopted country. Both the original and tlie translation aie 
anonymous. The poem is exceptionally beautiful. 

Alas! atid ala.s, niy sorrow! 

The pain tbat Lath no relief, 
Alas! for the dreadful morrow 

To dawn ou ottr day of grief! — 
Oh land in the orient glowing, 

The last of thy smiles hath shoue 
On us, for Fate's wind is blowing. 

And the wave of our doom speeds ou, 
And a lilight from the westward cotneth, and the 
bloom of our life is gone ! 

Oh land of the morn-bright mountains 

With the purple moors at their feet. 
Of the clear leaf-mirroring fountains 

And rivers of water sweet ; 
Of the fragrant wood-bowers twining. 

And the cataract's sounding roar, 
Of the lakes in their splendor shining, 

With the pine-woods whispering o'er. 
Ah ! nanglit but my lord, luy lover, could lure me 
from thy green shore ! 

Sweet is it in Daro's valley 

To list to the falling rill. 
To the breeze iu the woodland alley. 

And the goshawk's note from the hill; 
To the light-winged swallow pursuing 

His mate with a joyous cry. 
To the cuckoo's voice and the cooing 

Of doves in the pine-tops high, 
And tlie throstle's song in the thicket, and the lark's 
from the morning sky. 

Under the summer arbor 

Bj- the fresh sea-breezes fannc<l, 
Where the waters of Drayno's harbor 

Sing over the silver sand, 
Happy from morn till even 

We've watched the sea-birds play, 
And the ocean meeting the heaven. 

In the distance far away. 
And the gleam of the white-sailed galleys, and the 
Hash of the sunlit spray! 

In Masau the greeu, the blooming, 
How happy our days did pass ; 



Many its flowers perfuming 

And studding like gems the grass : 
There the foxglove pnrpled the hollow. 

And the iris flaunted its gold. 
And the iiower that waits for the swallow, 

Its dainty bloom to unfold, 
With the hyacinth blue and the primrose, laughed 
in the breezy wold. 

In Eta of sunny weather, 

'Neath our happy home-porch hid. 
Oil venison sweet from the heather 

And flesh of the mountain kid, 
Ou game from the forest cover 

And fish from the crystal stream. 
We feasted till eve was over. 

And the moon with her silver gleam 
Soared o'er the dusky pine-woods out from the realm 
of dream. 

O land of the East ! O Giver 

Of freedom from sore distress ! 
O land where no cloud came ever 

To darken our happiness! 
O hoiue of pleasure and promise 

And peace unto mine and me. 
When I see thy shores fade from ns, 

I sigh iu my misery, 
And send my voice o'er the waters crying, farewell 
to thee ! 



THE MYSTERY OF LIFE. 

By John Gambold, a Bishop among the Moravian Bretheen, 
who died in 1771. 

So many years I've seen the sun, 

And called these eyes and hands my own, 

A thousand little acts I've done, 

And childhood have and manhood known ; 

Oh what is life ? — and this dull round 

To tread, why was a spirit bound ? 

So many airy draughts and lines. 
And warm excursions of the mind. 

Have filled my soul with great designs. 
While practice grovelled far behind ; 

Oil wli.at is thought? — and where withdraw 

The glories which my fancy saw ? 

So many tender joys and woes 

Have on my quivering soul had power ; 

Plain life with heightening passions rose. 
The boast or burden of their hour : 



AXONTMOUS AXD MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



539 



OI> wbat is all wo fi'el ?— why fled 
Those pains ami pleasures o'er my heail ? 

So many human souls ilivine, — 

Some at one interview displayed, — 

Some oft and freely mixed with mine, — 
In lasting houds my heart have laid ; — 

Oh what is friendship? — wliy impressed 

Ou uiy weak, wretched, dying breast? 

So mauy wondrous gleams of light, 

And gentle ardors from above, 
Have made me sit, like seraph bright, 

Some moments on a throne of love : 
Oh, what is virtue ? — why had I, 
Who am so low, a taste so high ? 

Ere long, when sovereign wisdom wills. 
My soul an uukuowu path shall tread. 

And strangely leave, — who strangely fills 
This frame — and waft me to the dead! 

Oh, what is death? 'tis life's last shore, 

Where vanities are vain no more ; 

Where all pursuits their goal obtain. 

And life is all retouched again ; 

Where in their bright result shall rise 

Thoughts, virtues, friendships, griefs, and joys ! 



FAME. 

Paraphrase from the Gersian of Schiller {1759-1S05). 
What shall I do lest life iu silence pass ? 

Aud if it do. 
And never prompt the bray of noisy brass, 

AVliat uecd'st thou rue ? 
Eenieuiber, aye the ocean deeps are mute; 

The shallows roar ; 
Worth is the ocean, fame is but the bruit 

Along the shore. 

What shall I do to be forever known ? — 

Thy duty ever. — 
This did full many who yet slept unknown. — 

Oh ! never, never ! 
Tliink'st thou, perchance, that they remain uukuowu 

Whom thou know'st not ? 
Cy angel-trumps iu heaven their praise is blown, — 

Divine their lot ! 

What shall I do to gain eternal life 1 

Discharge aright 
The simple dues with which each day is rife ! 

Yea, with thy might ! 



E'er perfect scheme of action thou devise. 

Will life be fled : 
While he who ever acts as conscience cries, 

Shall live, though dead. 



THE CLOWN'S SOXG. 

Anontmods (British — 19th Centdrt). 

" Here I am !" — and the bouse rejoices ; 
Forth I tumble from out the slips ; 
" Here I am !" — and a hundred voices 
Welcome me on with laughing lips. 

The master, with easy pride. 

Treads the sawdust down ; 

Or quickens the liorse's stride. 

And calls for his jesting clown. 

"What, ho, Mr. Merriman ! — Dick, 
Here's a lady that wants your place." 
I throw them a somerset, quick. 
And grin iu some beauty's face. 
I tumble, aud jump, aud chaff, 
Aud fill them with wild delights; 
Whatever my sorrow, I laugh, 
Throug'h the summer and winter nights. 

I joke with the men, if I dare ; 

Do they strike, why I cringe and stoop ; 

And I ride like a bird in air, 

Aud I jump through the blazing hoop. 

Whatever they say or do, 

I am ready with joke aud jibe; 

Aud, whenever the jests are new, 

I follow, like all my tribe. 

But life is not all a jest. 
Whatever the wise ones say ; 
For when I steal home to rest 
(And I seek it at dawn of day), 

If winter, there is no fire ; 

If summer, there is no air : 

My welcome's a hungry choir 

Of children, aud scanty fare. 

My wife is as lean a scold 

As famine can make man's wife ; 

We are both of us sour and old 

With drinking the dregs of life. 
Yet, why do I sigh ? I wonder, 
Would the "Pit" or the "Boxes" sigh, 
Should I wash off my paint, and, under, 
Show how a fool must die ? 



540 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEltlCAN POETRY. 



THE SONG OF THE FORGE. 

Anonymous (BniTisn — 19th Century). 

Clang, chill'; ! tlio massive auvils viiig ; 

Clang, clang ! a liiuulred hammeis swing; 

Like tlio tlninikT-rattle of a tropic sky, 

Tlie miglity blows still multiply, — 

Clang, claug ! 

Say, brothers of the ilnsky brow, 

What are your strong arms forging now? 

Clang, clang! — we forge the coulter now, — 
The coulter of the kindly plough. 

Sweet Mary, mother, bless our toil ! 
May its broad furrow still unbind 
To genial rains, to sun and wind, 

The most beuiguant soil ! 

Clang, clang! — our coulter's course shall bo 
On many a sweet and sheltered lea. 

By many a streamlet's silver tide ; 
Amid the song of mmiiing birds. 
Amid the low of sauntering herds, 
Amid soft breezes, which do stray 
Thriuigh woodbine hedges and sweet May, 

Along the greeu hill's side. 

When regal Autumn's bounteous hand 
With wide-spread glory clothes the laud, — 

When to the valleys, from the brow 
Of each resplendent slope, is rolled 
A ruddy sea of living gold,— 

We bless, we bless the plough. 

Claug, clang! — again, my mates, what glows 
Beneath the hammer's potent blows? 
Clink, clank! — we forgo the giant chain 
Wliich bears the g.allaut vessel's strain 

'Mid stormy winds and adverse tides : 
Secured by this, the good ship braves 
The rocky roadstead, and the waves 

Which thunder on her sides. 

Anxious no more, the moichant sees 
The mist drive dark before the breeze, 

The storm-cloud ou the hill ; 
Calmly he rests, — though far away, 
In boisterous clinics, his vessel lay, — 

rfcliant ou our skill. 

Say ou what sands these links shall sleep. 
Fathoms beneath the solemn deep ? 



By Afric's iiestilential .shore? 
By many an iceberg, lone and hoar, — 
By many a palmy- western isle, 
Basking in spring's perpetual smile? 
By stormy Labrador ? 

Say, shall they feel the vessel reel, 
When to the battery's deadly peal 

The crashing broadside makes reply ; 
Or else, as at the glorious Nile, 
Hold grappling ships, that strive the while 

For death or victory ? 

Hurrah! — cling, claug! — once more, what glows, 
Dark brothers of the forge, beneath 

The iron tempest of your blows. 
The furnace's red breath ? 

Clang, clang! — a burning torrent, clear 
And brilliant, of bright sparks, is poured 

Arouud and up in the dusky air, 
As our hammers forge the Sword. 

Tiio Sword! — a name of dread; yet when 
Upon the freeman's thigh 'tis bound, — 

While for his altar and his hearth. 

While for the land that gave him birth. 
The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound, — 

How sacred is it then ! 

Whenever for the truth and right 
It flashes in the van of tight, — 
Wliether in some wild mountain pass. 
As that where fell Leonidas ; 
Or on some sterile plain and stern, 
A Marston or a Bannockburn ; 
Or amid crags and bursting rills. 
The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills; 
Or as, when sajik the Armada's pride. 
It gleams above the stormy tide, — 

Still, still, whene'er the battle word 
Is Liberty, when men do stand 
For justice and their native land, — 

Then Heaven bless the Sword ! 



SUNraSE COMES TO-MORROW. 

Anonyjious (BttlTisil— 19tii Century). 

True it is that clouds and mist 
Blot the clear, blue weather ; 

True that lips that once have kissed 
Come no more together : 



AXOyTMOUS AXD MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



5?1 



Tine that wheu we would tlo good, 

Evil often follows ; 
Tiue that green leaves quit the wooil, 

Summers lose tbeir swallows ; 
True that we must live alone, 

Dwell with pale dejections; 
True that we must often moan 

Over crushed aft'ectious; 
True that man his queen awaits — - 

True that, sad and lonely, 
Woman, through her prison-gates, 

Sees her tyrant only : 
True, the rich despise the iioor. 

And the jioor desire 
Food still from the rich man's door. 

Fuel from his fire ; 
True that, in this age of ours. 

There are none to guide us — 
Gone the grand primeval powers ! 

Selfish aims divide us : 
True the plaint ; but, if more true, 

I would not deplore it ; 
If an Eden fade from view, 

Time may yet restore it. 

Evil comes, and evil goes, 

But it moves me never ; 
For the good, the good, it grows. 

Buds aud blossoms ever. 
Winter still succeeds to Spring, 

But fresh springs are coming ; 
Other birds are on the wing, 

Other bees are humming. 
I have loved with right good-will. 

Mourned my hopes departed. 
Dreamed my golden dream — aud still 

Am not broken-hearted. 
Problems are tliere hard to solve. 

And the weak may try them — 
May review them and revolve, 

Wliile the strong pass by them. 
Sages prove that God is not ; 

But I still adore him. 
See the shadow in each spot 

That he casts before him. 
What if cherished creeds must fade ? 

Faith will never leave us ; 
God preserves what God has made. 

Nor can Truth deceive us. 
Let iu light — the holy light ! 

Brothers, fear it never; 
Darkness smiles, and wrong grows right : 

Let in light forever ! 



Let iu light ! When this shall be 

Safe aud pleasant duty, 
Men in common things sh.all see 

Gooduess, truth, and beauty; 
And as noble Plato sings — 

Hear it, lords and ladies ! — ^ 
We shall love and praise the things 

That are down in Hades. 
Glad am I, and glad will be ; 

For my heart rejoices 
Wlien sweet looks aud lips I see. 

When I hear sweet voices. 
I will hope, and work, and love, 

Singiug to the hours, 
Wliile the stars are bright above, 

And below, the flowers : — 
Apple-blossoms on the trees. 

Gold-cups in the meadows, 
Branches waviug in the breeze, 

On the grass their shadows : — 
Blackbirds whistling in the wood, 

Cuckoos shouting o'er us; 
Clouds, with white or crimson hood. 

Pacing right before us : 
Wlio, in .such a world as this, 

Could not heal his sorrow ? 
Welcome this sweet sunset bliss — 

Sunrise comes to-morrow ! 



WHERE ARE YE? 

AsoNTMous (British— 19th Centuut). 

Where are ye with whom in life I started. 
Dear companions of my golden days ? 

Ye are dead, estranged from me, or parted ; 
Flown, like moruing clouds, a thousaud ways. 

Where art thou, iu youth my friend and brother - 
Yea, iu soul my friend aud brother still f 

Heaven received thee, and on earth no other 
Can the void iu my lorn bosom till. 

Where is she whose looks were love and gladness- 
Love and gladness I no longer see ? 

She is gone, and since that hour of sadness 
Nature seems her sepulchre to me. 

Where am I ? Life's current faintly flowing, 
Brings the welcome warning of release ; 

Struck with death ! — ah ! whither am I going ? 
All is well — my spirit i)arts in peace! 



542 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



COME, SUNSHINE, COME ! 
From the Fbenxh of Charles Vincent. 

Come, Suushiue, come ! tbee Nature calls ! 

Give to the grape its vermeil hue, 
Dispel the frost, the cloud, the storm, — 

Come, Siinshiue, come! the year reuew ! 
The graiu lies tlormaut in the soil, 

The bird sings from the -n-ithered tree. 
The ice-houud brook, the buried flowers, 

Tarry, and watch, and loug for thee. 

Come, Siinshiue, come ! the torpid Earth 

Beneath thy kisses will awake ; 
Her blush, her bloom, shall truly tell — 

She loves tbee, for thy own love's sake. 
Lo, at the opened sash, the Poor ! 

Waiting for thee, their being's sum! 
Cold their abode, and scant their store — 

Come and relieve tlicni. Sunshine, come ! 

Mountain, and vale, and desert waste, 

Prairie, and wood, and sea-bound isle, 
Herb, tree, and insect, roof and spire, 

Kindle to life beueath tby smile. 
Pleasure and love thy coming wait, 

Poets and birds thy coming sing; 
Thy quickening kiss Creation needs ; — 

Come, Sunshine, come: we yearn for Spring! 



WHEN THE GRASS SHALL COVER ME. 

ANONVMOES (ASIERICAN— 19tU CeNTU(.T). 

When the grass shall cover me 
Head to foot wliere I am lying, — 
Wben not any wind that blows. 
Summer bloom or winter snows. 
Shall awake me to your sighing : 
Close above me as you pass. 
You will say, "How kind she was;"' 
You will say, " How true she was," 
When the grass grows over me. 

When the grass shall cover me, 
Holden close to earth's warm bosom. 
While I laugh, or weep, or sing. 
Nevermore for anything, — 
You will find in blade and blossom. 
Sweet small voices, odorous. 
Tender pleaders of my cause, 
Tbat shall speak me as I was,— 
When the grass grows over me. 



When the grass shall cover me ! 

Ah! beloved, in my sorrow 
Very patient can I wait. 
Knowing tbat, or soon or late, 

Tbere will dawn a clearer morrow, — 
When your heart will moan, "Alas, 
Now I know how true she was ; 
Now I know how dear she was," — 

When the grass grows over me. 



BATTLE HYMN AND FAREWELL TO LIFE. 

The foUowiug spirited translation is from tlie German of 
Theodore Korner. Born in the year 1791, he fell in battle with 
tlie French, Augnst 25th, 1S13, when he was scarcely twenty- 
two years old. 

Father of earth and heaveu, I call thj^ name ! 

Round me the smoke and shout of battle roll ; 
My eyes are dazzled with the rustling dame — 

Father, sustain an untried soldier's sonl. 

Or life, or deatb, whatever be the goal 
That crowns or closes round the struggling hour, — 

Thou knowest if ever from my spirit stole 
One deeper pr.-iyer, 'twas that no cloud might lower 
On my young fame ! Oh hear, God of eterual power ! 

Now for the fight ! Now for the cannon-peal ! 

Forward, through blood aud toil, and cloud and 
fire ! 
Glorious the shout, the shock, the crash of steel. 

The volley's roll, the rocket's blasting spire ! 

They shake ! like broken waves their squares re- 
tire ! 
On them, hussars! Now give them rein aud heel! 

Think of the orphaned child, the murdered sire : 
Earth cries for blood! In thunder on them wheel! 
This hour to Europe's fate shall set the triumph-seal ! 



My deep wound burns ; my pale lips quake in death ; 
I feel my fainting heart resign its strife ; 
And reaching now the limit of my life. 

Lord, to thy will I yield my parting breath ! 

Yet mauy a dream hath charmed my youthful eye, 
And must life's fairy visions all depart f 
Oh, surely, no ! for all that tired my heart 

To rapture here sh.all live with mo on high. 

And that fair form that won my earliest vow. 
That my young spirit prized all else above, 
And now adored as freedom, now as love, 

Stands in seraphic guise before me now ! 
And as my failing .senses fade away. 
It beckons me on high, to realms of endiess day ! 



AXOXYMOUS AXD MISCELLjyEOUS POEMS. 



543 



THE GOING OF MY BRIDE. • 

Anonyjioos (British— Wtb Century). 

By the brink of the river our parting was fonil, 
But I wliisjiered the -words soft and low ; 

For a baud of bright angels -were waiting beyond, 
And my bride of a day was to go : 

Was to go fiom our shore, with its headland of years, 
On a water whose depths were untold ; 

And the boat was to float on this River of Tears, 
Till it blent with an ocean of gold. 

Our forowell was brief as the fixU of a tear — 
The minutes lilio winged spirits flew, 

When my bride whispered low that a shallop drew 
near, 
And the beck of the boatmau she knew. 

Then I spoke in one kiss all the passion of years. 
For I knew that our parting was nigh ; 

Yet I saw not the end — I was blinded by tears, 
Aud a light had gone out fiom the sky. 

But I canght the fiiint gleam of an outdriftiug sail, 
And the dip of a silver-tipped oar ; 

And knew, by the low, rustling sigh of the gale, 
That a spirit had gone from the shore. 

All alone in my grief, I now sit on the sand. 
Where so often she sat by my side ; 

And I long for the shallop to come to the strand, 
That again I may sit by my bride. 



ERIN. 



Dr. William Drennau (1T54-1S20), .iiulinr of " Glendalloch, niid 
other Poems" (1S15), was one of tlie ablest writers among the 
Uiiited Irishmen. He was the first to bestow on Ireland the 
title of ''The Emer.-ild Isle." It occurs iu the subjoined poem 
of '* Erin," esteemed by Moore as " among the most perfect of 
modern songs." 

Wlien Erin first rose from the dark swelling flood, 
God blessed tlie dear island, and saw it was good ; 
The emerald of Europe, it .spr.rkled and shone 
In the ring of the world the most precious stone. 
In her snn, in her soil, iu her station thrice blessed. 
With her back toward Britain, her face to the West, 
Erin stands proudl}' insular, on lier steep shore, 
And strikes her high harp 'mid the ocean's deep roar. 

But when its soft tones seem to mourn and to weep, 
The dark ch.".iu of silence is thrown o'er the deep; 



At the thought of the past the tears gush from her 

eyes, 
And the pulse of her heart makes her white bosom 

rise. 
sons of green Erin ! lament o'er the time 
When religion was war, aud our country a crime, 
When man, iu God's Image, inverted bis plan, 
And moulded his God iu the image of man ; — 

Wlicn the int'rest of State wrought the general woe. 
The stranger a friend, aud tlie native a foe ; 
While the mother rejoiced o'er her children op- 
pressed. 
And clasped the invader more close to her breast ; 
When with pale for the body, aud pale for the soul. 
Church aud State joined iu compact to conquer the 

whole ; 
Aud as Shannon was stained with Milesian blood. 
Eyed each other askance aud pronounced it was 
good. 

By the groans that ascend from your forefathers' 

grave. 
For their couutrj' thus left to the brute and the slave, 
Drive the demon of Bigotry home to his den, 
Aud where Britain made brutes uow let Erin make 

men. 
Let my sons like the leaves of the shamrock unite, 
A partition of sects from one footstalk of right : 
Give each bis full share of the earth and the sky, 
Nor fatten the slave where the serpent would die. 

Alas for poor Erin! that some are still seen 
Who would dye the grass red from tlieir hatred to 

green ; 
Yet, oh ! when you're up aud they're down, let them 

live. 
Then yield them that mercy which they would not 

give. 
Ann of Erin, be strong! but be gentle as brave! 
Aud uplifted to strike, be still ready to save ! 
Let no feeling of vengeance presume to defile 
The cause of, or men of, the E.merald Isle. 

The cause it is good, and the men they are true, 
Aud the green shall outlive both the orange aud blue ! 
And the triumphs of Eriu her daughters shall share. 
With the full-swelling chest and the fair-flowing 

hair. 
Their bosom heaves high for the worthy aud brave. 
But no coward shall rest in tliat soft-swelling wave; 
Men of Erin ! arise .and make haste to be blest. — 
Rise — Arch of the OceaJi, and Queen of the West! 



544 



cycloi\i;dia of iiitini>u jsd jmekicax poetht. 



■niE SWANS UK WILTON. 

AXONVMOIS 0'>1!1T1S11 — r.' Til I'knTIBV), 

0\\ lu>\v (ho Swjuis i)f Wilton 

Twenty jiluvast tliil go, 
l..iko oonntry brides Vionml for tlio oluuvli, 

Sails sot anil all aglow I 
With pouting Vnvast in imiv wluto ilivssoil. 

SotY gliding in a ivw. 

Wlioiv tlirongli tlio wooiVs givon tloooos. 

Tlio jioivh ill lirazon coat, 
Liko g>>Ulon shuttles monnaids use 

Shot past my crimson lloat : 
Wherp swinish carp were snoring loud 

Aivnnd the anohoivd lioat,^ 

Adown the gonllo rivor 

Tlio white swans lioiv in sjul. 
Their I'nll sotY leathers puffing out 

Liko caiwas in the gale ; 
And all the kino and dappled deer 

Stoinl watching in the vale. 

The stately Swans of Wilton 

Strutte<l and puftwl along. 
Like canons in their fall white gown 

Late for the even-song. 
Whon\ up the vale the \Hwish hell 

In vain has chidcd long. 

Oh bow the Swans of Wilton 
Here down the nuliant stivam; 

As calm as holy hermits' lives 
Or a play-tired infant's dream; — 

Like fairy l>e«ls of last year's snow. 
Did those radiant civatures seem! 



HYMN" TO THE STARS. 

This r«m.irk;\blir \>oem appe;<n>d in the B.>stoii CArwfuiii Kr- 
aiKiHtr in ISi4; but whoshor it h.nl previonslv spyK':ir*»l in 
some ^)thor work, British or American, we cannot yei s;<y. 

Ay, thero yo shine, jind there h,ive shone 

In one eternal hour of prime ; 
Each ix>lling. burniugly alone. 

Through boundless stvice and countless time! 
Ay, theiv ye shine — the golden dews 

That pave the i\>j>lms by seraphs trxnl. 
There thrwugh yon echoing vault ditfuse 

The song of choral worlds to Go<l. 



Ye visible spirits! bright as erst 

Young Kden's birthniglit saw ye shine 
On all liov llowers and fountains first. 

Yet sparkling from the hand divine: — 
Yes, bright as thou ye smiled to catch 

The music of a spheiv so fair, 
Yo hold your high immortal watch ; 

Aud gird your God's pavilion there! 

l^old frets to dust, — yet there ye are ; 

Tinio rots the diamond, — there ye mil. 
Ill primal light, as if each star 

Kiishrined an everlasting soul! — 
And do they not — since you bright throngs 

One all-enlightening Spirit own. 
Praised there by pure sidereal tongues. 

Eternal, glorious, blessed, aud lone f 

Could man but see what yo have seen. 

I'lifold awhile the shrouded past. 
From all that is, to what has been. 

The glance how rich, the range how vast ! 
The birth of time — the rise, the fall 

Of empiivs, myriads, ages llow u. 
Thrones, cities, tongues, aits, worships — all 

The thiugs whoso echoes are not goue. 

Y'e saw rapt Zoroaster send 

His soul into your mystic reign ; 
Y'e saw the adoring Sabian bend — 

The living hills his mighty fane! 
Beneath his blue and beaming sky 

lie worshipped at your lotty shrine, 
Aud deemed he saw. with gifted eye. 

The Godhead in his works divine. 

And thci-e ye shine, as if to mock 

The childi-eu of a mortal sire ! 
The storm, tlio bolt, the earthquake's shock, 

The red volcano's cataract lire. 
Drought, faiuino. plague, aud flood, aud flame, 

All Xaturv's ills (aud Life's worst woes). 
Are naught to yon — ye smile the same, 

And scorn alike their dawn and close. 

Ay. thoi-e ye roll — emblems sublime 

Of Him. whoso spirit o'or ns moves, 
IWyond the clouds of grief and crime. 

Still shining on the world he loves; — 
Xor is one scene to mortals given, 

That more divides the soul and so«l, 
Thau yon proud hentldry of heaven — 

Yon burning blazonry of God! 



AXONTMOrS AND MISCELLAXEOUS POEMS. 



545 



SUMMER DAYS. 

Anonymous (Bbitisu— IOth Centcbt). 

Ill suuimer, when tlie days were long, 
\Vc walked together in the wood ; 

Oiir heart was li^lit, our step was strong, 
Kweut flutterin;;s were in our hlood, 

In summer, when the days were loug. 

We strayed from morn till evening came ; 
We gathered flowers, and wove us crowns ; 

AVe walked 'mid poppies red as flame, 
Or sat upon the yellow downs; 

And always wished our life the same. 

In summer, when the days were long. 
We leaped the hedge-row, crossed the hrook ; 

And still her voice flowed forth in song. 
Or else she read some graceful hook. 

In summer when the days were long. 

\\u\ then we sat hcncith the trees. 
With shadows lessening in the noon ; 

And in the twilight and the breeze 
We feasted many a gorgeous June, 

While larks were singing o'er the leas. 

In summer, when the days were long, 
On dainty chicken, snow-white bread. 

We feasted, with no grace but song ; 
AVe plucked wild strawberries, ripe ami red. 

In summer, when the days were loug. 

We loved, and yet we knew it not, — 
For loving seemed like breathing then ; 

We found a heaven in every spot ; 
Saw angels, too, in all good men ; 

And dreamed of God in grove and grot. 

In summer, when the days are loug, 
Alone I wander, muse alone ; 

I see her not ; but that old song 
Under the fragrant wind is blown, 

In summer, when the days are long. 

Alone I wander in the wood : 
But one fair spirit hears my sighs; 

And half I see, so glad and good. 
The honest daylight of her eyes, 

That charmed me under earlier skies. 

In summer, when the days are long, 
I love her as we loved of old ; 
2o 



My heart is light, my step is strong ; 

For love brings back those hours of gold. 

In summer, when the days are long. 



WITH A ROSE IN HER HAIR. 

Anonymous (Beitisii — IDth CENxnnY). 

My own, it is time you were coming. 
For the ball-room is flooded with light. 

And the leader impatiently humming 
The raise they begin with to-night! 

But the music, the flowers, and the lustre 
Lack completeness when you are not there. 

So hasten to join Beauty's muster 

With a, rose in your hair. 

'Twas thus I first saw you, my own one I 
As adown the long terrace you paced. 

You had plucked the white rose — a full blown one — 
Which amid your dark tresses was placed. 

Then my heart blossomed forth like the flower. 
To see you so young and so fair. 

As you stood in the shade of the tower 

With a rose in your hair. 

And for aye, since that moment enchanted, 

My life, both in sun and its storm. 
In sorrow and joy, has been haunted 

By an angel in feminine form. 
Yet I can't — though 'tis constantly nigh me — 

Describe all its loveliness rare; 
But I know thif? — it always floats by me 
With a rose in its hair. 

And then you remember — (come nearer, 
A word in that car — like a shell ! — ) 

When yon whispered me none could be dearer 
Thau one — but his name I'll not tell — 

Ah ! your hair — of its flower who bereft it ? 
For you had none, I vow and declare. 

On regaining the house ; though you left it 
With a rose in your hair. 

But why waste we moments of pleasure ? 

Hark ! the music invites ns above : 
Soon our feet shall beat time to the measure. 

As our hearts beat the measure of love. 
Come, queen of the poet's rich fancies — 

My qneen, with whom none may compare. 
Come and glide in your grace through the dances 
With a rose in your hair. 



546 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEBICAN POETRY. 



A HUNDRED YEARS TO COME. 
William Goldsotth Bbown (lOin Centcrt). 

Where, where will be the birds that sing, 

A huuilred years to come ? 
The flowers that now iu beauty siiring, 

A hundred years to come ? 
The rosy lips, the lofty brow, 
The heart that beats so gayly now, 
Oh, where will be love's beaming eye, 
Joy's pleasant smile, and sorrow's sigh, 

A hundred years to come ? 

Who'll press for gold this crowded street, 

A hundred years to come ? 
Who'll tread yon church with willing feet, 

A hundred years to come ? 
Palo trembling age, and fiery youth, 
And childhood with its brow of truth. 
The rich, the poor ; on land and sea, — 
Where will the mighty millions be 

A hundred years to come ? 

We all within our graves shall sleep, 

A hundred years to come ; 
No living soul for lis will weep, 

A hundred years to come. 
But other men our lands shall till, 
And others then our streets will fill, 
AVhile other birds will sing as gay, — 
As bright the sunshine as to-day, 

X hundred vears to come 1 



LINES ON A SKELETON. 

The MS. of the following piece was found in the Mnsenni of 
the Royal College of Sargeons, London, placed near one of the 
skeletons, nbont the year 1807. The secret of its .nnthorship has 
not been divulged, thongh a reward was oflfcrcd for it. 

Behold this ruin ! 'Twas a sl;ull, 
Once of ethereal sjiirit full. 
This narrow cell was Life's retreat, 
Tliis space was Thought's mysterious seat. 
Wliat beauteous visions filled this .spot. 
What dreams of pleasures long forgot! 
Nor hope, nor love, nor joy, nor fear. 
Have left one trace of record here. 

Beneath this mouldering canopy 
Once shone the briglit and busy eye; 
But — start not at the dismal void — 
If social love that eyo employed ; 



If witli no lawless fire it gleamed, 

But through the dews of kindness beamed, 

That eye shall be forever bright 

When stars and suns are sunk in night. 

Within this hollow cavern hung 

The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue. 

If Falsehood's honey it disdained, 

And where it could not praise, was chained ; 

If bold iu Virtue's cause it spoke, 

Yet gentle concord never broke. 

This silent Tongue shall plead for thee 

When time unveils Eternity. 

Say, did these fingers delve the mine? 
Or with its envied rubies shine? 
To hew the rock or wear the gem. 
Can little now avail to them. 
But if the page of truth they sought, 
Or comfort to the mourner brought, 
These hands a richer meed shaH claim 
Thau all that wait ou wealth or fame. 

Avails it whether bare or shod, 
These feet the paths of duty trod ? 
If from the bowers of Ease they fled, 
To seek Affliction's humble shed ; 
If Grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned, 
And home to A'irtue's cot returned ; 
These feet with angel's wings shall vie. 
And tread the palace of the sky. 



SONNET: THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN.' 
AxosYsiors (BKiTisn— IDtd Centcrt). 

It is a spectral show — this wondrous world — 

And all things iu it are a spectral show. 

In everything is something else infiirled : 

And in the known lurks what we cannot km>w 

And from decay outgrowths stupendous grow : 

And naught coheres. The hardest iron hurled 

From catapult is not a solid ; no ! 

Its atoms teem with tinier atoms whirled 

Within ; distinct as they who walk the pave 

Of crowded cities, or the stars whoso course 

Wo watch at midnight. For in tossing wave, 

In dense deposit, or pneumatic source, 

We find no substance — naught enduring — save 

The mutable results of hidden Force. 

' From "Light Lending uuto Light." 



AXOXYMOVS AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



547 



THOU WILT NEVER GKOW OLD. 

Mr3. Howarth (Pcblished 1865). 

Thou wilt never grow olil, 

Nor ^yea^y, nor sad, iu tlie homo of tliy birth : 
My beautiful lily, thy leaves will uufokl 

In a climo that is piirer ami brighter than earth. 
Oh, holy and tiiir! I rejoice thou art there, 

Iu that kingdom of light, with its cities of gold. 
Where the air thrills with angel hosannas, and where 

Thou wilt never grow old, sweet, — 
Never grow old ! 

I am a pilgrim, with sorrow and sin 

Haunting my footsteps wherever I go ; 
Life is a warfare my title to win ; 

Well will it be if it end not in woe. 
Pray for me, sweet ; I am laden with care ; 

Dark are mj^ garments with mildew and mould: 
Thou, my bright angel, art sinless and fair, 

And wilt never grow old, sweet, — 
Never grow old ! 

Now canst thou hear from thy home in the skies 

All the fond words I am whispcri[ig to thee f 
Dost thou look down ou me with the soft eyes 

Greeting me oft ere thy spirit was free ? 
So I believe, though the shadows of time 

Hide the bright spirit I yet shall behold: 
Thou wilt still love me, and (pleasure sublime!) 

Thou wilt uever grow old, sweet, — 
Never grow old ! 

Thus wilt thou be when the pilgrim, grown gray, 
Weeps when the viues from the hearthstone are 
riven ; 
Faith shall behold tliee as pure as the day 

Thou wert torn from the earth, and transplanted 
iu heaven : 
Oh, holy and fiiir ! I rejoice thou art there, 

Iu that kingdom of light, with its cities of gold, 
Where the air thrills with angel hosauuas, and where 
Thou wilt never grow old, sweet, — ■ 
Never grow old ! 



HAPPIEST DAYS. 
Anokyjiocs {British — 19th Centtht). 

They tell us, love, that you and I 
Our happiest days are seeing. 

While yet is shut from cither's eye 
The change that waits on beiiijr. 



Ah ! life, they say, is a weary way, 

With less of joy than sorrow, 
For where the sunlight falls to-day 

There'll be a shade to-morrow. 

If ours be love that will not bear 

The test of change and sorrow. 
And only deeper chaunels wear 

In passing to each morrow ; 
Then better were it that to-day 

We fervently were praying 
That what we have might pass away 

AVhile we the words were saying. 

The heart has depths of bitterness. 

As well as depths of pleasure ; 
And those who love, love not, unless 

They both of these can measure. 
There is a time, and it will come, 

Wheu this they must discover ; 
And woe if either then be dumb 

To power that moved the lover. 

There are some spots where each may fall. 

And each will need sustaiuiug; 
And suffering is the lot of all. 

And is of God's ordaiuiug ; 
Theu wherefore do our hearts unite 

In bonds that none can sever. 
If not to bless each changing light. 

And strengthen each endeavor ? 

Then, while these happy days we bless. 

Let us no doubt be sowing; 
God's mercy never will be less. 

Though he should chauge the showing. 
Such be our faith, as ou we tread, 

Each trusting and obeying, 
As two who by his hand are led. 

And hear what he is saying. 



I AM THE LORD; I CHANGE NOT.' 

Chauge not, change not to me, my God, 

I would that thou shouldst be 
To farthest worlds what thou hast been 

Ou this sad earth to me : 
Though thou hast baffled sore my life. 

Though thy swift-scourging rod 
Hath left me spirit-scarred, I cry, 

Chauge not to me, my God ! 

' Fioiii " The New Minnesinger, nnd otlier Poems," by Ai rah 
Leigli, London, 1S75. 



r)43 



CycLOI\EDIA OF BRITISH AXD JMEKICAX FOKTRY. 



Clmiige nut to me for any cUange 

Tbat o'er my soul may come, 
AVlieu lips that tlearly love tliy praise 

111 bitterness are dumli ; 
Yea, wben I love thee not at all, 

When from thy face I flee, 
Let thy compelling love pnrsnc, — 

My God, change not to me ! 

Wlion Death has wrought his awful change. 

And left me spirit-bare, 
Thou, who didst hide me 'neatli tliy wings. 

Til}- mantling love prepare. 
I am no otlicr than I was 

AVhen most Thou didst befriend ; 
I trust thee. Lord, for what thou wert : 

Be changeless to tbe end. 

I do not ask with sudden step 

Thy purest heaven to win ; 
l!e still. Most Merciful, all love. 

Relentless to my sin ; 
Yea, Lord, make wholly beautiful 

What thou bast loved so well ; 
Burn out in me wbate'er defiles, — 

Burn out in fire of hell. 

Let me but know thy voice, its word 

I will in all obey ; 
In outer darkness still most sure 

That tbou wilt find a way 
To bring thy banished to thyself. 

As tbou didst bring of old, 
When tby siii-wearied child but thought 

On the forsakeu fold. 

Change not to me in those far worlds, 

Where all is strange and new ; 
Where can my stranger spirit rest. 

If thou art changdd too ? 
As turns the child from alien crowd 

To the one kindred face, 
To find that mother-eyes make home 

In unfamiliar place, — 

So, trembling, must I turn to tliee. 

The God whom I have known, 
Tlie God who, iu this lonely world, 

Hath never left mo lone. 
Do w ith me. Lord, whate'er thou wilt. 

So only thou wilt be. 
Forever and for evermore. 

What thou hast been to me. 



IXVOCATION OF E.A.RTH TO MORNING. 

AS0NY3I0CS (BriTISU — 19tH CeNTUKT). 

Wake from tby azure ocean-bed, 

Oh ! beautiful sister. Day ! 
Uplift thy gcm-tiaraed bead. 
And, in thy vestal robes arrayed. 

Bid twilight's gloom give way ! 
Wake, dearest sister! the dark-browed night 
Delayeth too long her drowsy flight. 

Most glorious art thou, sister Day, 

Upon thy chariot throne. 
While, sitting supreme in regal sway. 
Thou boldest thy high eS'ulgeut way, 

In majesty alone ; 
Till into thy cloud-pavilioned home 
In the burning west thy footsteps come. 

When last thy parting look I caught. 
Which turned to smile good-night. 
With all a lover's fondness fraught — 
There seemed not iii the universe aught 

So precious in thj' sight. 
As thy own dear Earth, while to her breast 
She folded her slumbering babes to rest. 

I hear the sparkling midnight spheres 

Rehearse the choral liymu. 
Which yet, ere Earth was stained with tears. 
Burst on the joy-entrancdd ears 

Of holy seraphim : 
While the lofty blue empyreau rang. 
As the morning stars together sang. 

Oh. many a joyous mountain rill. 

And many a rustling stream. 
Calm lake and~ glassy fountain still. 
Tall grove and silent mist-clad hill. 

Long for thy coming beam ! 
Uprouse thee, then, fairest sister, dear ! 
For all are pining thy voice to hear. 

With tvembling and impatient wing. 

My birds on every spray 
Await, thy welcome, forth to sing 

With many a melting lay; 
Then wherefore, beautiful, linger so long ? 
Earth sighs to greet thee with shout and .sonj 

The sunflower her vigil lone hath kept, 
With love's untiring care; 



jyOXYMOCS JXD MLSCELLJXSOrS POEMS. 



549 



ThoiigU loMiid luT piuks and violets slept, 
-SUe wakefally hath watched and wept, 

Unto tlie dewy air ; 
And, like a desolate bride, she waits 
For the opening of her lover's gates. 

Oh, then arise, fair sister, dear! 

Awake, beloved Day ! 
For many a silent trembling tear 
Falls ou my breast like diamond clear, 

In grief for thy delay, 
From the rosy bowers of the orient skies. 
Then up, sweetest sister, arise, arise ! 



ODE TO WASHINGTON. 

Mrs. Annis Boiulinot Stockton, of New Jersey, muhor of 
"The Triumph of MiUlness," and who wrote in the hitter half 
of the eighteenth centnrj', jxddressed some of her poetry to 
Washington, whose reply, from which the followhig is an ex- 
tract, shows he was not so anstere tliat he could not indulge, 
uu occasion, in the playful gallantry of the old school : 

*' Rocky Hill, September 2.i, 1783. 

"You apply to me, my dear madam, for absolution, as th<nigli 
I were your father-confessor. If it is a crime to write elegant 
pocli-y, and if yon will come and dine with me on Thursday, 
and go through the proper course of penitence, I will strive 
hard to acquit you of your poetical trespasses. 

'• Your most obedient and obliged servant, 

"George Wasuinoton. 
"To Me9. Stockton." 

The following lines, though they may lack the ideal graces 
of the modern school, are superior to much that passed as 
poetry a hundred years ago, when Darwin and Ilayley ruled 
the popular taste. 

With all thy country's blessings on thy head, 

And all the glory that encircles man, — 
Tliy deathless fame to distant nations spread. 

And realms unblessed by Freedom's genial plan ; — 
Addressed by statesmen, legislators, kings, 

Revered by thousands as you pass along, 
While every muse with ardor sxireads her wings, 

To greet our hero in immortal song : — 
Say, cau a woman's voice an audience gain, 

.\nd stop a moment thy trinitiphal car? 
xVnd wilt thou listen to a peaceful strain, — 

Unskilled to paint the horrid wrack of war ? 
For what is glory ? What are martial deeds, 

Unpurifled at Virtue's awful shrine ? 
Full oft remorse a glorious day succeeds — 

The motive only stamps the deed divine. 
Bnt thy last legacy, renowuM cliief, 

Hath decked thy brow with honors more sub- 
lime : — 
Twined iu thy wreath the Christian's firm belief, 

And nobly owned thy faith to future time ! 



REQUIESCAM. 

This remarkable little poem, said to have been found under 
the pillow of a wounded soldier near Port Royal (1SG4), is the 
production of an American lady, Mrs. Robert S. Howland. 

I 1,'iy me down to sleep, 
With little thought or care 

Whether my waking find 
Me here or there. 

A bowing, burdened head. 

That only asks to rest, 
Unquestioning, upou 

A loving breast. 

My good right haiiil forgets 

Its cunning now — 
To march the weary inarch 

I know not how. 

I am not eager, bold, 

Nor strong — all that is past; 

I am ready not to do 
At last, at last. 

My half day's work is done, 

And this is all my part ; 
I give a patient God 

My jiatieut heart, — 

And grasp his banner still, 
Though all its blue be dim ; 

These stripes, no less than stars. 
Lead after Him. 



THE DEPARTED GOOD. 

Isaac WitiiAMs (England— 1802-18G5). 

The good — they drop arouud us, one by one, 

Like stars when morning breaks ; though lost to sight 

Around us are they still iu Heaven's own light. 

Building their mansions iu the purer zone 

Of the invisible : when round are thrown 

Shadows of sorrow, still serenely bright 

To faith they gleam ; and blessed be sorrow's night 

That brings the o'erarchiug heavens in silence down, 

A mautlo set with orbs unearthly fair ! 

Alas! to us they are not, though they dwell, 

Divinely dwell iu memory; while life's sun 

Declining, bids us for the night prepare; 

That we, with urns of light, and our task done. 

May stand with them in lot unchangeable. 



550 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BUITISU JXV AilERICAX VOETRY. 



A SPRING SONG. 

Edward Yon, {l/otcitt's Londoii Jfagazine — 1847). 

Laud the first spi'iug daisies ; 

Chaut aloud their luaiscs ; 

Send tlie childieu up 

To the high hill's top ; 

Tax uot the strength of their young hauds 

To increase your lauds. 

Gather the iiriun^oses ; 

Make handfnls into iiosies ; 

Take them to the little girls nvho are at Tvork in 

mills : 
Pluck the violets blue, — 
Ah, pluck not a few ! 
Kuowest thou what good thoughts from heaven the 

violet instils ? 

Give the children holidays 

(And let these be jolly days) ; 

Grant freedom to the children iu this joyous spring: 

Better men, hereafter, 

Shall we have, for laughter 

Freely shouted to the woods, till all the echoes ring. 

Send the children up 

To the high hill's top. 

Or deep into the wood's recesses, 

To woo Spring's caresses. 

See, the birds together. 

In this splendid weather, 

AVorship God (for he is God of birds as well as men) ; 

And each feathered neighbor 

Enters on his labor, — 

Sparrow, robin, redpole, finch, the linnet, and the 
wren. 

As the year advances, 

Trees their naked branches 

Clothe, and seek your ideasure in their green apparel. 

Insect and mild beast 

Keep no Lent, but feast ; 

Spring breathes upon the earth, and their joy is in- 
creased. 

And the rejoicing birds break forth iu one loud carol. 

Ah, come and woo the spring ! 
List to the birds that sing ; 
Pluck the primroses ; pluck the violets ; 
Pluck the daisies. 
Sing their praises ; 

Friendship with the flowers some noble thought be- 
gets. 



Come forth aud gather these sweet elves 
(More witching are they tliau the fays of old). 
Come forth and gather them yourselves. 
Learn of these gentle flowers, whose worth is more 
than gold. 

Come, come into the wood ; 

Pierce into the bowers 

Of these gentle flowers, 

Which not iu solitude 

Dwell, but with each other keep society ; 

And, with a simple piety, 

Are ready to be woven into garlands for the good. 

Or, upon summer earth. 

To die, in virgin worth. 

Or to bo strewn before the bride, 

And the bridegroom, by her side. 

Come forth on Sundays ; 

Come forth on Mondays ; 

Come forth on any day ; 

Children, come forth to play : — 

Worship the God of nature iu your childhood ; 

Worship him at your tasks with best endeavor; 

Worship him iu your sjiorts; worship him ever; 

Worship him iu the wild wood ; 

Worship him amid the flowers ; 

In the greenwood bowers; 

Pluck the buttercups, aud raise 

Your voices in his praise. 



MY TREASURES. 

ANONYMors (British — 19th Century). 

Let me count my treasures, all my soul holds dear. 
Given me by dark spirits whom I used to fear : — 
Through long daj-B of anguish and sad nights did 

Pain 
Forge my shield Endurance, bright and free from 

stain. 
Dnul.it, in misty caverns, 'raid dark horrors sought. 
Till my peerless jewel, Faith, to me she brought. 
Sorrow (that I wearied should remain so long). 
Wreathed my starry glory, the bright Crown of 

Song ! 
Strife, that racked my spirit without hope or rest, 
Left the blooiniug flower, Patience, ou my breast. 
Suflering, that I dreaded, ignorant of her charms, 
Laid the fair child, Pity, smiling iu my arms. 
So I count my treasures, stored iu days long past ; 
And I thank the givers, whom I know at hast ! 



ANONYMOUS AND MISCELLANEOVS POEMS. 



551 



" I AVOULD NOT LIVE AL WAY."— Job vii. 16. 

The Rev. 'William Augustus Muhlenberg, a great -Ki-andson 
of Heury Melchoir Muhleuberg, who was the fouudei- of the 
Gevmau Lutheran Church iu America, was boru in Philadel- 
lihia in 1T96, and died in 1S77. The great charities of St. Luke's 
Hospital and St. Johuland remain as enduring monuments of 
his untiring energy and Christian spirit His "Life and Works" 
were published by the Messrs. Harper in ISSn. We subjoin his 
popular hymn as it appears in his latest revision. 

I would not live alway : I ask uot to stay, 
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er tlie way: 
Wliere, seeking for rest, I bttt hover around. 
Like the patriarch's bird, aud uo resting is found ; 
Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air. 
Leaves her brilliance to fade iu the night of despair, 
Aud Joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray. 
Save the gloom of the plumage that bears him away. 

I would not live alway — thus fettered by sin, 
Teuiptation without, and corruption within ; 
In a moment of strength if I sever the chain, 
Scarce the victory's mine ere I'm captive again. 
E'eu the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears, 
Aud my cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears. 
The festival trump calls for jubilant songs, 
But my spirit her own miserere prolongs. 

I would not live alway : no, welcome the tomb ; 
Immortality's lamp burns there bright 'mid the 

gloom. 
Tliere too is the pillow where Christ bowed his 

head — 
Oh, soft be my slumbers ou that holy bed ! 
And then the glad morn soon to follow that night, 
AVhen the sunrise of glory shall beam ou my sight. 
When the full matin-song, as the sleepers arise 
To shout iu the morning, shall peal through the 

skies. 

Who. who would live ahvay, away from his God, 
Away from you heaven, that blissfnl abode, 
Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright 

lilains, 
Aud the noontide of glory eternally reigus ; 
Where the saints of all ages iu harmony meet. 
Their Saviour aud brethren transported to greet ; 
While the authems of rapture unceasingly roll. 
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul ? 

That lieaveuly music ! what is it I hear ? 
The notes of the harpers ring sweet ou my ear. 
Aud see, soft unfolding, those portals of gold, 
The King all arr.ayed iu his beauty behold ! 



Oh, give me — oh, give me the wings of a dove ! 
Let uie hasten my flight to those mansions above ; 
Ay, 'tis now that my sotil ou swift pinions wonld 

soar, 
Aud in ecstasy bid earth adieit evermore. 



THE BEAUTIFUL. 

E. If. BuRRiNGTON {BniTisn — 19th Centdby). 

Walk with the Beautiful aud with the Grand, 
Let nothing on the earth thy feet deter ; 

Sorrow may lead thee weeping !)}• the hand. 
But give not all thy bosom thoughts to her : 

Walk with the Beautiful. 

I hear thee say, " The Beautiful ! what is it ?" 
Oh, thou art darkly ignoraut : be sure 

'Tis uo long weary road its form to visit. 

For thou canst make it smile beside thy door; 
Then love the Beautiful. 

Ay, love it; 'tis a sister that will bless, 

Aiul teach thee patience when the heart is lonely ; 

The angels love it, for they wear its dress, 
And thou art made a little lower only ; 

Then love the Beautiful. 

Some boast its presence m a Grecian face. 
Some, iu a favorite warbler of the skies ; 

But be not fooled ! whate'er thine eye may trace. 
Seeking the Beautiful, it will arise ; 

Then seek it everywhere. 

Thj' bosom is its mint ; the workmen are 

Thy thoughts, aud they must coin for thee: be- 
lieving 
The Beautiful exists iu every star, 

Tliou mak'st it so, and art thyself deceiving 
If otherwise thy faith. 

Dost thou see beauty in the violet's cup? 

I'll teach thee miracles : walk ou this heath. 
And say to the neglected flowers, " Look up. 

And bo ye beautiful !" — if thou hast faith. 

They will obey thy word. 

One thing I warn thee: bow no kuee to gold; 

Less innocent it makes the guileless tongue ; 
It turns the feelings prematurely old, 

And they who keep their best atfections young. 
Best love the Beautiful ! 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEIIICAN POETRT. 



THE JOY OF INCOMPLETENESS. 

AS0NT5I0DS (Unknown — 19Ta Centcrt). 

If all our life were oue broad glare 

Of suuligbt, clear, unclouded ; 
If all our path vrere smooth and fair, 

By no deep gloom enshrouded ; — 

If all life's flowers were fully blown 

Without the slow uufoldiug, 
And happiness mayhap were thrown 

On hands too weak for holding ; — 

Then we should miss the twilight hours, 

The intermingling sadness. 
And pray, perhaps, for storms and showers 

To break the constant gladness. 

If none were sick, and none were sad, 
What service could we render? 

I think if we were always glad. 
We hardly could be tendei'. 

Did our belovdd never need 

Our loving ministration. 
Life would grow cold, and miss, indeed, 

Its finest cousolation. 

If sorrow never smote the heart, 
And every wish were granted, — 

Then faith would die, and hope depart, 
And life be disenchanted. 

And if in heaven is no more night, 
In heaven is no more sorrow, — 

Snch nniniagined, pure delight 

Fresh grace from pain will borrow. 



UNCROWNED KINGS. 

Bekkelet Aiken (British— about 1S34). 

O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! 

Made royal by the brain and heart ; 

Of all earth's wealth the noblest part, 

Yet reckoned nothing in the mart 

Where men know naught but sordid things, — 

All bail to you, most kingly kings! 

O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! 
Whose breath and words of living flame 
Have waked slaved nations from their shame. 
And bid them rise in manliood's name. — 



Swift as the curved bow backward springs, — 
To follow you, most kingly kings ! 

O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! 
Whose strong right arm hath oft been bared 
Where fires of righteous battle glared, 
And where all odds of wrong ye dared ! — 
To think on you the heart upsprings, 
O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! 

O ye uncrowned but kingly kings! 
Whose burning songs, like lava poured. 
Have smitten like a two-edged sword 
Sent forth by heaven's avenging Lord 
To purge the earth where serfdom clings 
To all but you, O kingly kings ! 

yc uncrowned but kingly kings ! 
To whose ecstatic gaze alone 
The beautiful by heaven is shown. 
And who have made it all your own ; 
Your lavish hand around us flings 
Earth's richest wreaths, O noble kings ! 

O ye uncrowned but kingly kings! 
The heart leaps wildly at your thought, 
And the braiu fires as if it caught 
Shreds of your mantle ; ye have fought 
Not vainly, if your glory brings 
A lingering light to earth, O kings! 

O ye uncrowned but kingly kings! 
Whose souls on Marah's fri\it did snp, 
And went in fiery chariots up 
When each had drained his hemlock cup, — 
Ye friends of God, but tyrants' stings. 
Uncrowned, but still tlie kingliest kings ! 



WONDERLAND. 
Cradock Newton (English— 1851). 

Mournfully listening to the waves' strange talk, 
And marking, with a sad and moistened eye, 
The summer days sink down behind the sea, — 
Sink down beneath the level brine, and fall 
Into the Hades of forgotten things, — 
A mighty longing stealeth o'er the soul ; 
As of a man who panteth to behold 
His idol in another land — if yet 
Her heart bo treasured for him, — if her eyes 
Have yet the old love in them. Even so, 
With passion strong as love and deep as death, 
Yearueth the spirit after Wonderland. 



AXONTMOUS AND MISCELLANEOVS POEMS. 



553 



All, happy, bappj' laiul ! Tlie busy soul 
Calls up iu pictures of the half-shut eye 
Thy shores of splendor : as a fair blind girl, 
Who thinks the roses must bo beautiful, 
But cannot see their beauty. Olden tones, 
Borne on the bosom of the breeze from far, — 
Angels that came to the young heart iu dreams. 
And then, lilce birds of passage, ilew away, — 
Return. The rugged steersman at the wheel 
Softens into a cloudy shape. The sails 
Move to a music of their own. Brave bark. 
Speed well, and be.ar us nnto Wouderlaud ! 

Leave far behind thee the vexed earth, where uieu 
Spend their dark days in weaving their own 

shrouds ; 
And Fraud and Wrong are crowndd kings ; and Toil 
Hath chains for hire ; and all creation groans, 
Crying, in its great bitterness, to God; 
And Love can never speak the thing it feels, 
Or save the thing it loves, — is succorless. 
For, if one say " I love thee," what poor words 
They are ! While they are spoken, the beloved 
Travellcth, as a doomed lamb, the road of death ; 
And sorrow blanches the fair hair, and pales 
The tinted cheek. Not so iu Wouderlaud! 

There larger natures sport themselves at case 
'Neath kindlier suns tliat nurture fairer flowers, 
And richer harvests billow in the vales, 
And passionate kisses fall on godlike brows 
As summer rain. And never know they there 
The passion that is desolation's prey ; 
The bitter tears begotten of farewells ; 
Endless renunciations, when the heart 
Loseth the all it lived for; vows forgot, 
Cold looks, estranged voices, — all the woes 
That poison earth's delight. For lovo endures. 
Nor fades, uor changes, iu the Wouderlaud. 

Alas ! the rugged steersman at tJie wheel 
Comes back agaiu to vision. The hoarse sea 
Speaketh from its great heart of discouteut, 
And in the misty distance dies away. 
The Wonderland ! — 'Tis past and gone. O sonl ! 
While yet unbodied thou didst summer there, 
God saw thee, led thee forth from thy green haunts. 
And bade thee know another world, less fair, 
Less calm ! Ambition, knowledge, and desire 
Drove from theo thy first worship. Live and 

learn ; 
Believe and wait ; and it may be t'.iat be 
Will guide thee back again to Wonderland. 



MISCHIEVOUS WOMAN. 

Br "TuE Ettrick Shefheed" {see Page 277). 

Could this ill warld ha'e been contrived 

To stand without mischievous »vo.mau, 
How peacefii' bodies might ha'e lived. 

Released frae a' the ills sae common ! 
But since it is the waefu' case 

That man maun ha'e this teasing cronj-. 
Why sic a sweet bewitching face ? 

O had she no been made sae bonny ! 

I might lia'o roamed wi' cheerfu' mind, 

Nae sin or sorrow to betide me. 
As careless as the wandering wind. 

As happy as the lamb beside me : 
I might ha'e screwed my tunefu' pegs. 

And carolled mountain-airs fu' gayly, 
Had we but wanted a' the Megs, 

Wi' glossy ecu sae dark an' wily. 

I saw the danger, feared the dart, 

The smile, the air, au' a' sae taking ; 
Yet open laid my wareless heart. 

An' gat the wound that keeps me waking. 
My harp waves on the willow green, — 

Of wild witch-notes it has nae ouy 
Sin e'er I saw that pawky quean, 

Sae sweet, sae wicked, au' sae bonnj- ! 



THE WATER-DRINKER. 

Edward Johnson, M.D. {London Metropolitan Magazine — 1837). 

Oh, water for me ! Bright water for me ! 

And wine for the tremulous debauchee ! 

It cooleth the brow, it cooleth the brain. 

It m.aketh the faiut one strong agaiu ; 

It comes o'er the sense like a breeze from the sea, 

All freshness, like infant purity. 

Oh, water, bright water, for me, for me ! 

Give wine, give wine to the debauchee ! 

Fill to the brim ! Fill, fill to the brim ! 
Let the tlowiug crystal kiss the rim ! 
For my hand is stead}', my eye is true. 
For I, like the flowers, drink naught but dew. 
Oh ! water, bright water's a mine of wealth, 
And the ores it yieldeth are vigor and health. 
So water, pure water, for me, for me ! 
And wine for the tremulous debauchee ! 



G54 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



1 



Fill again to the brim ! again to the brim ! 
For water strengtlieuetli life aud limb ! 
To tlio (lays of the ag^d it addetU leugtb, 
To tbo migbt of tbe strong it addeth strength. 
It fiesbeus the heart, it brighteus the sight, 
'Tis like quaffing a goblet of morning light : — 
So, water! I will drink naught but thee, 
Thou parent of health aud energy ! 

When o'er the hills, like a gladsome bride, 
Morning walks forth in her beauty's pride, 
Aud, leading a band of laughing hours, 
Brushes the dew from the nodding flowers, — 
Oh, cheerily then my voice is heard. 
Mingling with that of the soaring bird, 
Who flingeth abroad his matins loud. 
As he freshens his wing in the cold gray cloud. 

But when eveuiug has quitted her sheltering yew, 

Drowsily flying, and weaving anew 

Her dusky meshes o'er laud aud sea — 

How gently, O sleep ! fall thy jjoppies on me ; 

For I drink water, pure, cold, and bright. 

And my dreams are of heaven the livelong night ; 

So, hurrah for thee, water ! hurrah, hurrah ! 

Thou art silver and gold, thou art ribbon aud star! 

Hurrah for bright water ! hurrah, hurrah ! 



GLEXLOGIE. 

Smith's Scoitisu Minstrel (ISth CENTrny). 

Tlireeseore o' nobles rade up the king's ha'. 
But bonnie Glenlogie's the flower o' them a' ; 
Wi' his uiilk-whito steed, aud his bonnie black e'e, 
"Glenlogie, dear mither, Glenlogie for me!" 

" O hand your tongue, daughter, ye'll get better than 

he ;" 
" O s.ay nae sae, mither, for that canna be ; 
Though Doumlie is richer and greater than he, 
Yet if I maun tak him, I'll certaiuly dee. 

"Where will I get a bonnie boy, to win hose aud 

shoon. 
Will gao to Glenlogie, and come again soon V 
" here am I a boiniio boy, to win hose and shoon, 
Will gae to Glenlogie, and come again soon." 

When he gaed to Glenlogie, 'twas "Wash and go 

dine :'' 
'Twas " Wash ye, my pretty boy, wash and go dine." 



" O 'twas ne'er my father's fashion, and it ne'er shall 

be mine, 
To gar a lady's hasty errand wait till I dine. 

" But there is, Glenlogie, a letter for thee :" 
Tbe lirst line that he read, a, low smile gave he ; 
The next line that he read, the tear blindit his e'e ; 
But the last line that he read, ho gart the table flee. 

" Gar saddle the black horse, gar saddle the brown : 
Gar saddle the swiftest steed e'er rade frae a town." 
But king ere the hor.se was drawn and brought to 

the green, 
O bonnie Glenlogie was twa mile his lane. 

When he came to Glenfeldy's door, little mirth was 

there : 
Bonnie Jean's mither was tearing her hair ; 
" Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, ye're welcome," said she ; 
" Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, your Jeanie to see." 

Palo aud wan was she when Glenlogie gaed ben, 
But red and rosy grew she whene'er he sat down ; 
Slie turned awa' her head, but the smile was iu her 

e'e, 
" biuna feared, mither, I'll maybe no dee." 



THE PLACE TO DIE. 
Michael Josefu Barry {Dublin Nation, 1846). 

How little recks it wlierc men die, 

When once the moment's past 
In which the dim and glazing eye 

Has looked on earth its last ; 
Whether beneath the sculptured urn 

The coffined form shall rest. 
Or, in its n.akedness, return 

Back to its mother's breast. 

Death is a common friend or foe. 

As different men may hold, 
And at its summons each must go. 

The timid and the bold ; 
But when the spirit, free and warm. 

Deserts it, as it must. 
What matter whei-e the lifeless form 

Dissolves again to dust ? 

The soldier falls 'mid corses piled 

Upon the battle plain. 
Where reinless w.ar-steeds gallop wild 

Above the gory slain : 



AXOyYMOUS AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



555 



But tboiigli liis corse be grim to sec, 
Hoof-trampled ou the sod, — 

What recks it Avlieu the spirit free 
Has soared aloft to God ! 

The cow ard's dying eye may close 

Upon his dowuy bed, 
And softest hands his limbs compose, 

Or garments o'er him spread : 
But ye who shun the bloody fray 

Where fall the mangled brave. 
Go strip his coffiu-lid away, 

And see him in his grave! 

'Twere sweet indeed to close our eyes 

With those we cherish near, 
And, wafted u^iward by their sighs. 

Soar to some calmer sphere : 
But whether on the scaffold high. 

Or in the battle's van. 
The fittest place where man can die 

Is where he dies for man. 



TO MY WIFE. 

William Smith (England— 1809-1871). 

Oh! vex me not with needless cry 

Of what the world may think or claim : 

Let the sweet life pass sweetly by, 

The same, the same, and every day the same. 

Thee, Nature, — thought, — that burns in me 

A living and consuming flame, — 
These must suffice : let the life be 

The same, the same, and evermore the same. 

Here find I task-work, here society. 

Thou art my gold, thou art my fame : 
Let the sweet life pass sweetly by. 

The same, the same, and every day the same. 



LOVE AND ABSENCE. 

From " The Pelican Papees," by James Ashcroft Noble, Lon- 
don, 1873. 

Let it not grieve thee, dear, to hear me say 
'Tis false that absence maketh the foud heart 
More fond ; that when alone, and far apart 
From thee, I love thee more from day to day. 
Not so ; for then my heart would ever pray 
For longer separation, th.at I might 
In absence from thee gaiu the utmost height 



Of love unrealized ; nor would I stay 
In my swift course, but ever onward press, 
Until mine eager baud should touch the goal 
Of possible passion. Did I love thee less, 
Then might I love thee more ; but now my soul 
Is filled throughout with perfect tend#r»css ; 
No part of me thou hast, but the full whole. 



DREAMS. 

Anontsiocs (British— lOxn Century). 

Oh, there's a dream of early youth, 

And it never comes agaiu : 
'Tis a vision of light, of life, of truth, 

That flits across the brain : 
And love is the theme of that early dream. 

So wild, so warm, so new, 
Tliat in all our after-life, I deem. 

That early dream we rue. 

Oh, there's a dream of maturer years, 

More turbulent by far; 
'Tis a vision of blood and of womau's tears. 

And the theme of that dream is war : 
And we toil in the field of danger and death. 

And we shout in the battle-array, 
Till we find that fame is a bodiless breath 

That vauisheth away. 

Oh, there's a dream of hoary age : 

'Tis a vision of gold in store ; 
Of sums noted down on a figured page, 

To be counted o'er and o'er: — 
And we fondly trust in our glittering dust 

As a refuge from grief and pain, — 
Till our limbs are laid on that cold bed 

Where the wealth of the world is in vain. 

And is it thus from man's birth to his grave, 

In the path that we all are treading? 
Is there naught in his wild career to save 

From remorse and self-upbraiding ! 
Oh yes ! there's a dream so pure, so bright, 

That the being to whom it is given 
Hath bathed iu a sea of living light. 

And the theme of that dream is heaven. 



EPIGRAM BY S. T. COLERIDGE. 

Swans sing before they die : 'twere no bad thing 
Did certain persons die before they sing. 



556 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BlilTlSB AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THE FIRST SPRING DAY. 

John ToDursTER, Autbor of " Laorellj, and other Toems," 
London, 1S76, 

But one sliort week ago the trees were bare ; 
Aud -sviuds were keen, aiul violets ijiucbed with frost ; 
Winter was with us ; but the larches tossed 
Lightly their crimson buds, and here and there 
Rooks cawed. To-day the Spring is in the air 
Aud in the blood : sweet suu-gleanis come and go 
Upon the hills ; in lanes the wild flowers blow. 
And tender leaves are bursting everywhere. 
About the hedge the small birds peer and dart, 
Each bush is full of auiorons flutterings 
And little raptnrous cries. The thrush apart 
Sits throned, and loud his ripe contralto rings. 
Mnsic is ou the wiud, — aud, in my heart, 
Intinite love for all created thiugs ! 



UNBELIEF. 

Anonymous (British — 19th Century). 

There is no unbelief: 
Whoever plants a seed beneath the sod 
And waits to see it push away the clod, — 
He trusts in God. 

Whoever says, when clouds are iu the sky, 
" Be patient, heart ; light breaketh by-aud-by," 
Trusts the Most High. 

Whoever sees, 'neath Winter's field of snow, 
Tlie silent harvest of the future grow, — 
God's power must know. 

Whoever lies down on his conch to sleep. 
Content to lock each sense in slumber deep, 
Knows God will keep. 

Whoever says, " To-morrow," " Tlie Unknown," 
'•The Future," trusts that Power alone. 
He dares disown. 

The heart that looks on when the eyelids close, 
And dares to live when life has only woes, 
God's comfort knows. 

Tlicre is no unbelief: 

And day by day, and night, unconsciously, 
The heart lives by that faitli tlie lips deny — 
God knoweth why ! 



ON A VIRTUOUS YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN 
WHO DIED SUDDENLY. 

These lines, given in some collections as anonymons, were 
written by William Cartwright, born in England iu ICll, and 
educated at Oxford. He took orders, and in 1C43 became junior 
proctor and reader in metapliysics at tbe University, but died 
the same year of a malignant fever. A collected edition of his 
" Comedies, Tragi-Coraedies, and other Poems,'' appeared in 
1G47, and again in 1651. He seems to have been a favorite with 
his conteuipornries ; aud Ben Jonson remarked of him, " My son 
Cartwright writes all like a man." He must have cultivated 
poetry iu his youth, for he was only tweuty-six at tbe time 
of the death of Jonson, whose loss he mourued in a eulogy of 
which the following Hues are a specimen : 

"But thou still pntt'st true passion on; dost write 
With the same courage that tried captains fight; 
Giv'st the right blush aud color unto things ; 
Low without creeping, high without loss of wings ; 
Smooth yet not weak, aud, by a thorough care, 
Big without swelling, without painting, fair." 

When the old flaming Prophet climbed the sky. 
Who at one glimpse did vanish, and not die. 
He made more preface to a death than this : 
So far from sick she did uot breathe ami.ss. 
Site who to Heaven more heaven doth annex, 
Whose lowest thought was above all our sex, 
Accounted nothing death but t' be reprieved, 
And died as free from sickness as she lived. 
Others are dragged away, or must be driven ; 
She ouly saw her time, and stepped to Heaven, 
Where Seraphiins view all her glories o'er 
As one returned, that had been -there before. 
For while she did this lower world adorn. 
Her body seemed rather assumed than born : 
So rarefied, advanced, so pnre aud whole, 
That body might have been another's soul ; 
And equally a miracle it were 
That she could die, or that she could live here. 



THE WAY. 

William S. Suurtleff (Asierican — 1877). 

First, find thou Truth, and then- 

Altbough she strays 
From beaten paths of men 

To untrod ways — 
Her leading follow straight, 

And bide thy fate ; 
And whether smiles or scorn 

Thy passing greet. 
Or fitid'st thou flower or thoiu 

Beneath tliy feet, — 
Fare on ! uor fear thy fate 

At Heaven's gate. 



THOMAS SABIXGTOX MAC JUL AY. 



(Lljoinas Cabingtou iUataulati. 

One of the most brilliant and estimable of England's 
men of letters, Maeaulay (lSOO-1859), who became Lord 
Macaulay in 1S57, was born October 5tli, at Rothley Tem- 
ple, in Lincolnshire. His fiither was Zachary Macaulay, 
a Scottish Presbyterian. Tliomas was educated at Trin- 
ity College, Cambridge, and in 1819 gained the Chan- 
cellor's Medal for a poem entitled "Pompeii" — hardly 
above the average of similar prize poems. He was a 
devoted student, however, and his improvement was 
rapid. He wrote the best of his poems, "The Battle of 
Ivry," in his twenty-fourth year; and was only twenty- 
five when he contributed his brilliant article on Milton 
to tlie Edinburgh Jieview. It was the first of a series of 
remarkable papers on distinguished characters. Having 
been admitted to the Bar, iu 1830 he became a Member 
of Parliament. His speeclies, which are very able, were 
carefully studied, and usually committed to memory, 
which was an easy task to him. 

Iu 1834 he proceeded to India, as legal adviser to the 
Supreme Council of Calcutta. He returned to England 
in 1838; represented Edinburgh in Parliament up to the 
year 1847; hold seats in the Cabinet; aud in 1849 pub- 
lished the first two volumes of his great "History of 
England." It commanded a larger and more rapid sale, 
both iu England and America, than any historical work 
known to the trade. His "Lays of Ancient Rome" liad 
appeared in 1842; eighteen thousand copies were sold in 
ten years. It was his last attempt at poetry. "Like a 
wise gamester," he writes, " I shall leave off while I am 
a winner, and not cry ' Double or Quits.' " In the ex- 
tract which we give from the " Lay of Horatius," thirty- 
one of the stanzas are omitted. Wordsworth denied 
that the "Lays" were poetry at all; and Leigh Hunt, 
iu a letter asking Macaulay to lend him money, wrote 
him that he lamented that his "verses wanted the true 
poetical aroma w hich breathes from Spenser's ' Faery 
Queene,' " Upon which Macaulay says: "I am much 
pleased with liim for having the spirit to tell me, in a 
begging letter, how little he likes my poetry." 

Great as he was in literary execution, Macaulay, in one 
of his letters, remarks : " I never read again the most 
popular passages of my own works witliout painfully 
feeling how far my execution has fallen short of the 
standard which is in my mind." It was as an essayist 
and a writer of history tluit his contemporary laurels 
were gained. His poetry is quite overshadowed by his 
prose ; but had he been unknown as a prose writer, he 
would have enjoyed no ordinary fiime as a poet. His 
memory was wonderfully quick and tenacious, and his 
conversational powers were the wonder of his hearers. 
He has beeu accused of talking too much ; and Sydney 
Smith once said of him : " He is certainly more agreeable 
since his return from India. His enemies might perliaps 
have said before (though I never did so) that he talked 
rather too much; but now he has occasional flashes of 
silence that make his conversation perfectly delightful." 

Take him for all in all, Macaulay was one of the noblest 
characters in English literature; generous to the needy, 
warm iu the family affections, self-sacrificing and mag- 
nanimous, irreproachable in his habits and his life. He 



was never married. His mortal remains were deposited 
in Westminster Abbey, in Poets' Corner, his fiivorite 
haunt. An interesting "Life" of him, by his nephew, 
G. 0. Trevelyan, who has also edited a volume of selec- 
tions from his writings, appeared in 1877. 



FROM THE LAY OF "HORATIUS." 

Lar.s Porsena of Cliisinm 

liy the Nine Gods lie swore 
That the great house of Tanjniu 

Should suffer wrong no more. 
By the Nine Gods he swore it, 

Anil named a trysting-day ; 
And bade his messengers ride forth, 
East and west, and south and north, 

To summon his array. 

East and west, and south and north 

The messengers ride fast, 
Aud tower, and town, and cottage 

Have heard the trumpet's blast. 
Shame on the fiilse Etruscan 

Who lingers iu his home, 
Wlien Porsena of Clusinm 

Is on the march for Rome. 

The horsemen and the footmen 

Are pouring in amain 
From many a stately market-place ; 

From many a fruitful plain; 
From many a lonely hamlet, 

Which, hid by beech and pine, 
Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest 

Of purple Apenuiue. 

There be thirty chosen prophets, 

The wisest of the hand. 
Who alway by L.ars Porsen.a 

Both morn and eyeniug stand : 
Evening aud morn the Thirty 

Have turned the verses o'er, 
Traced from tlie right on linen white ' 

By mighty seers of yore. 

And with one voice the Thirty 

Have their glad answer given : 
" Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena ; 

Go forth, beloved of heaven ; 
Go, and return in glory 

To Clnsinm's royal dome ; 
And hang round Nnrscia's altars 

The golden shields of Rome." 



558 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BEITISE AXD AMEHICAX POETRY. 



Aud liiiw liatli every city 

Sent np lier tale of meu ; 
The foot are fourscore thousand, 

The horse are thousands ten. 
Before the gates of Sutrium 

Is met the great array, 
A proud man was Lars Porseua 

Upon the trysting-day. 

Now, from the rock Tarpeian, 

Could the wau burghers spy 
The Hue of blaziug villages 

Red in the midnight sky. 
The Fathers of tlie city. 

They sat all night aud day. 
For every hour some horseman came 

With tidings of dismay. 

To eastward and to westward 

Have spread the Tuscan bauds : 
Nor house, nor fence, nor dove-cote, 

III Criistnmeriiim stands. 
Verbenna down to Ostia 

Hath wasted all the plain; 
Astur bath stormed Jauiculum, 

And the stout guards are slain. 

I wis, in all the Senate, 

There was no heart so bold. 
But sore it ached, and fast it beat, 

When that ill news was told. 
Forthwitli up rose the Consul, 

Up rose the Fatliers all ; 
In haste they girded up tlieir gowns, 

,'Vud hied them to the wall. 

They held a council standing 

Before the River Gate; 
Sliort time was there, ye well may guess, 

For musiug or. debate. 
Out spake the Consul roundly : 

" The bridge must straight go down ; 
For, since Jauiculum is lost, 

Naught else can save the town." 

Just then a scout came flying. 

All wild with baste and fear: 
" To arms ! to arms ! Sir Cousul ; 

Lars Porscna is here." 
On tlie low bills to westward 

The Cousul fi.'ied his ej-e, 
Aud saw the swarthy storm of dust 

Rise fast along the sky. 



Aud nearer fast and nearer 

Doth the red whirlwind come ; 
Aud louder stiU aud still more loud. 
From nuderueatli that rolling cloud. 
Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud. 

The trampling and the hum. 
And plainly and more plainly 

Now through the gloom appears, 
Far to left aud far to right, 
In broken gleams of dark-blue light. 
The long array of helmets bright, 

The long array of spears. 

Fast by the royal standard, 

O'erlooking all the war, 
Lars Porsen.a of Clusium 

Sat in his ivory car. 
By the right wheel rode Mamiliiis, 

Prince of the Latian name ; 
And by the left false Sextus, 

That wrought the deed of shame. 

But the Consul's brow was sad, 

Aud the Cousul's speech was low. 
And darkly looked he at the wall. 

And darkly at the foe. 
" Their van will be upon us 

Before the bridge goes down ; 
And if they once may wiu the bridge. 

What hope to save the town ?" 

Then out spake brave Horatius, 

The Captain of the gate : 
" To every man upon this earth 

Death cometh soon or late. 
Aud how can man die better 

Than facing fearful odds, 
For the ashes of his fatliers, 

Aud the -temples of his gods ? 

"Hew down the bridge. Sir Cousul, 

Witli all the speed ye may ; 
I, with two more to help me. 

Will hold the foe in play. 
In yon strait path a thousand 

May well be stopped by three. 
Now who will stand ou either liaiid. 

And keep the bridge with me f" 

Then nut spake Spurius Lartiiis; 

A Ramnian proud was lie : 
" Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, 

And keep the bridge with thee !" 



THOMAS BABINGTOy MACAVLAT. 



Ami out spako strong Herminius ; 

Of Titian Wood was lie : 
'• I will abide ou thy left side, 

Aud keep the bridge with tliec." 

"Horatius," qnotli the Consul, 

" As thou sayest, so let it be." 
And straight against that great array 

Forth went the dauntless Three. 
For Romans iu Rome's quarrel 

Spared neither land nor gold, 
\or sou nor wife, nor limb nor life, 

In the brave days of old. 

Then uoue was for a part}' ; 

Then all were for the State : 
Then the great man helped the poor. 

And the poor man loved the great ; 
Then lands were fairly portioned ; 

Then spoils were fairly sold : 
The Romans were like brothers 

In the brave days of old. 

Now, while the Three were tightening 

Their harness on their backs, 
The Consul was the foremost man 

To take in hand an axe ; 
Aud Fathers mixed with Commons 

Seized hatchet, bar, aud crow. 
And smote upon the plauks above, 

And loosed the jirops below. 

Meanwhile the Tuscan army, 

Riglit glorious to behold. 
Came flashing back the noonday light, 
Rank behind rank, like surges bright 

Of a broad sea of gold. 
Four huudred trumpets sounded 

A peal of warlike glee. 
As that great host, with measured tread, 
Aud spears advanced, and ensigns spread. 
Rolled slowly toward the bridge's head. 

Where stood the dauntless Three. 

The Three stood calm and silent, 

And looked upon the foes. 
And a great shout of laughter 

From all the vanguard rose ; 
And forth three chiefs came spurring 

Before that de^p array ; 
To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, 
And lifted high their shields, aud tlew 

To win the narrow way. 



Herminius smote down Aruns ; 

Lartius laid Ocuus low : 
Eight to the heart of Lausulus 

Horatius sent a blow. 
" Lie there," he cried, " fell pirate ! 

No more, ajjhtist and pale. 
From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark 
The track of thy destroying bark. 
No more Campania's hinds shall fly 
To woods and caverns when they spy 

Thy thrice-accursed sail." 

But now no sound of laughter 

Was heard among the foes : — 
A wild aud wrathful clamor. 

From all the vanguard rose ! 
Six spears' length from the entrance 

Halted that deep array, 
Aud for a space no man came forth 

To wiu the narrow way. 

Yet oue man for one moment 

Strode out before the crowd; 
Well known was he to all the Three, 

Aud they gave him greeting loud. 
" Now welcome, welcome, Sextus ! 

Now welcome to thy home ! 
Why dost thou stay, and turn away ? 

Here lies the road to Rome." 

Thrice looked he at the city ; 

Thrice looked he at the dead ; 
Aud thrice came ou iu fury. 

And thrice turned back iu dread ; 
And, white with fear aud hatred. 

Scowled at the narrow way 
Where, wallowing iu a pool of blood, 

The bravest Tuscans lay. 

But meanwhile axe and lever 

Have manfully been plied. 
And now the bridge hangs tottering 

Above the boiling tide. 
" Come back, come back, Horatius !" 

Loud cried the Fathers all. 
''Back, Lartins! back, Herminius! 

Back, ere the ruiu fall !'' 

Back darted Spurius Lartius; 

Herminius darted back ; 
And, as they passed, beneath their feet 

They felt the timbers crack. 



5G0 



CYCLOI'JEDIA OF BRITISH AXD JMERICJX rOETRY. 



But when they turned their faces, 

Aiul on tho farther .shore 
Saw bravo Horatins stand ahine, 

They would have crossed once more. 

But with a crash like thunder 

Fell every loosened beam, 
And, like a dam, the mighty -n-reck 

Lay right athwart the stream: 
And a long shout of, triumph 

Eose from tho walls of Rome 
As to the highest turret-tops 

Was splashed the yellow foam. 

And, like a horse unbroken 

When first he feels the rein, 
The furious river struggled hard, 

And tossed his tawny mane ; 
And burst tho curb and bounded, 

Rejoicing to bo free ; 
And whiiliug down, in fierce career, 
Battlement, and jdank, and pier, 

Rushed headlong to the sea. 

Alono stood brave Horatins, 

But constant still in mind ; 
Til rice thirty thous.aud foes before. 

And the broad flood behind. 
" Down with him !" cried false Sextns, 

With a smile on his pale face. 
"Now yield thee," cried Lai's Porseua, 

"Now yield thee to our grace." 

Round turned ho, as not deigning 

Tlioso craven ranks to see ; 
Naught spake ho to Lars Porseua, 

To Sextus naught spake he ; 
But he saw on Palatinus 

The white porch of his home ; 
And he spake to the noble river 

That rolls by tho towers of Rome. 

"O Tiber! Father Tiber! 

To whom tho Romans pray, 
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms. 

Take thou in charge this day !" 
So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed 

The good sword by his side. 
And, with his harness on his back, 

I'luuged headlong iu the tide. 

No sound of joy or sorrow 

\\'as heard from either bank ; 



But friends and foes iu dumb surprise, 
With parted lips and straining eyes. 

Stood gazing where he sank : 
And when above tho surges 

They saw his crest appear, 
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry. 
And even the rauks of Tuscany 

Conid scarce forbear to cheer 

But fiercely ran the current. 

Swollen high by months of rain ; 
And fast his blood was flowing ; 

And he was sore iu pain. 
And heavy with his armor. 

And spent with changing blows ; 
And oft they thought him siukiug, 

But still again ho rose. 

Never, I ween, did swimmer. 

In such an evil case. 
Struggle tlu'ongh such a raging flood 

Safe to the landing-place. 
But his limbs were borue up bravely 

By the brave heart within, 
And our good Father Tiber 

Bare bravely up his chin. 

" Curse on him !" qnoth false Sextus ; 

" Will not the villain drown ? 
But for this stay, ere close of day 

Wc should have sacked the town !" 
"Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porseua, 

" And bring him safe to shore ; 
For such a gallant feat of arms 

Was never seen before." 

And now he feels the bottom ; 

Now on dry earth ho stands ; 
Now round him throng the Fathers 

To press his gory hands; 
And now with shouts and clapping. 

And noise of weeping loud, 
Ho enters through tho River Gate, 

Borue by the joyous crowd. 

Tliey gave him of tho corn-land 

That was of public right 
As much as two strong oxen 

Could jdough from nnu'n till night ; 
And they made a molten image. 

And set it up on high, 
And there it stands nuto this day 

To witness if I lie. 



THOMAS BABIXGTON MACAVLAT. 



5t)l 



THE BATTLE OF NASEBV. 

liy OBADIAII BIND-TIIKIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR- 
NOBLES-WITH-LINKS-OF-IliON, SERGEANT IN IRETON'S 
REGIMENT. 

Oil, wlierefoi-e come yc fortli, in tviunipli fioiii the 
North, 
With your liamls and your feet ami your raiment 
all retl 1 
AniT wherefore iloth your ront send forth a joyous 
shout ? 
Aud whence bo the grapes of the wiuo- press 
which ye tread ? 
Oh, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, 
And crimson was the juice of the vintage that 
we trod ; 
For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and 
the strong 
Who sat in the high places, aud slew the saints 
of God. 
It was about the noon of a glorious day of June 
That we saw their banners dance, aud their cui- 
rasses shine, 
And the Man of Blood was there, with his long 
es.seuced hair. 
And Astley and Sir JIarmaduke and Rupert of 
the Rhine. 

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his 
sword. 



Stent Skippon hath a w ound ; the centre hath given 
ground : 
Hark, liark ! what means the trampling of horse- 
men on our rear ? 
Whose banner do I see, boys ? 'Tis he, thank God, 
'tis he, boys !' 
Stand up another minute : brave Oliver is here. 
Tlicir heads all stooping low, their points all in a row, 
Like a whirlwind ou the trees, like a deluge on 
the dikes, 
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Ac- 
cursed, 
And at a shock have scattered the forest of his 
pikes. 

Fast, fast the gallauts ride, in sonic safe nook to 
hide 
Their coward heads iircdcstined to rot on Tem- 
ple Bar ; 
And he — he turns, he flies; shame on those cruel eyes. 
That bore to look on torture, and dare not look 
ou war. 
Ho ! comrades, scour the plain ; and, ere yc strip the 
sl.'iin. 
First give another stab, to make your search 
secure. 
Thou shake from sleeves and pockets their broad- 
pieces and lockets. 
The tokeua of the wanton, the plunder of the poor. 
Fools ! your doublets shcuie with gold, and your 



hearts were gay and bold. 
When a mnrmuriug sound broke out, and swelled i When you kissed your lily hands to your lenians 



I 



into a shout, [right. 

Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's 
And hark ! like the roar of the billows on the shore, 
The cry of battle rises along their charging line ! 
For God, for the Cause, for the Church, for the Laws ! 
For Charles, King of Englaud, and Rupert of the 
Khiue ! 
The furious German comes, with his clarious and 
his drums, 
His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall; 
They are bursting on our flanks: grasp your pikes, 
close your ranks ; 
For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall. 

They are here ; they rush on ; we are broken ; we are 

gone ! 

Our left is borne before them like stubble on the 

blast: [right! 

Lord, pnt forth thy might; Lord, defend the 

Stand back to back in God's name, and tight it 

to the last. 

36 



to-day ; 
And to-morrow shall the fo.v, from her chambers in 
the rocks. 
Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey. 

Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven 
aud hell and fate. 
And the fingers that once were so busy with your 
blades, 
Your perfumed satin clothes, yonr catches and your 
oaths, 
Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds 
and your spades ? 
Down, down, forever down with the mitre and the 
crown, 
With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammou 
of the Pope : 
There is woe in Oxford halls ; there is wail in Dur- 
ham's stalls ; 
The Jesuit smites his bosom ; the bishoji rends 
his cope. 



562 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BlilTlSH ASD AMEEICAX rOETRT. 



Aud she of the seven hills shall mourn her chil- 
dren's ills, 
Aud tremble when she thinks on the edge of 
England's sword ; 
And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when 
they hear 
What the hand of God liath wrought for the 
Houses and the Word.' 

1 Sir Thomas Fairfax (1C12-1CT1\ who commanded the army 
of the Pai-Hameiit during Engiaud's Civil Wars, was the trne 
hero of the Battle of Naseby. His -^allaut charge at the liead 
of the right wing of his army insured tlie success of Cromwell's 
division. George Villiers, the Dake of IJuckiugham (l(j-27-168S), 
author of "The Rehearsal." and other dramatic pieces, who 
married Fairfax's daughter Mary, was one of the wildest of the 
gay aud dissolute courtiers of the period : but that he appreci- 
ated the noble qualities of his father-iu-law is evident from the 
following eulogistic lines: 

EPIT.'^PU ON FAIRFAX BY THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. 
1. 
Under this stone doth lie 
One born for victory, — 
Fairfax tiie valiant, and the only He 
Who ere for tliat alone a conqueror would be. 



Both sexes' virtues were in him combined : 
He had the fierceness of the manliest mind, 
And all the meekness too of womankind. 



He never knew what envy was, nor hate: 
His soul was filled with worth and honesty. 

And with another thing besides, quite out of dale. 
Called modesty. 



When all the nation he had won. 

And with expense of blood had bought 

Store great enough, he thought. 
Of fame and of renown, — 
He then his arms laid down, 

Wilh fall as lillle pride 

As if he'd been the other, conquered side. 
Or one of them could be that were undone. 



He neither wealth nor pl.ices sought: 
For others, not himself, lie fought; 

He was content to know 

(For he hail found it so) 
That when he pleased to conquer he was able, 
And left the spoil aud plunder to the rabble. 

VIII. 

He might have been a king, 

IJut that he understood 
How much it is a meaner thing 

To be unjustly great than honorably good. 



This from the world did admiration draw. 
And fr(»m his friends both love and awe, 
Hemembering what he did in fight before. 
Nay, his foes loved him too. 
As they were bound to do. 
Because he was resolved to light uo more. 



"So, blessed of all he died, but far more blessed were we 

If we were sure to live till we could see 

A man as great iu war, us just in peace as he. 



THE ARMADA. 

Attend, all ye who list to hear our uohle England's 

])i'aise : 
I tell of the thrice famous deeds she ivrought iu 

ancient days. 
When that great fleet invincible agaiust her bore, 

iu vain, [Spain. 

The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of 

It was about the lovely close of a warm summer 

day. 
There eame a g.illant merchant -ship full sail to 

Plymouth Bay ; — 
Her crew hiid seen Castile's black fleet, beyoml Au- 

riguy's isle, 
At earliest twilight, on the waves, lie heaving many 

a mile. 
At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial 

grace, 
And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close 

in chase. 
Forthwith a guard, at every gun, was placed .along 

the wall; [ty hall; 

The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecomb's lof- 
Mauy a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the 

coast ; 
Aud with loose reiu aud bloody spur rode iulaud 

many a post. 

With his white hair nnbcmneted the stout old sher- 
itt' comes, 

Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound 
the drums ; 

His yeomen round the market-cross make clear an 
ample space, 

For there behooves him to set up the standard of 
her Grace : 

And haughtily the trumpets peal, aud gayly dance 
the bells. 

As slow upon the laboring winil the royal blazon 
swells. 

Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient 
crown, [down ! 

And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies 

So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that 
famed Picard field, 

Bohemia's plume, aud Genoa's bow, and C'a'sai's 
eagle shield : 

So glared he when, at Agincourt, in wratli he turn- 
ed to bay, 

Aud crushed and torn, beueatU his claws, the prince- 
ly hunters lay. 



TBOMAS BABIXGTON MACAULAT. 



563 



Ho! strike tlie fl:igstaif ilee[), sir kuiylit ! bo! scat- 
ter flowers, fair luaiils ! 

IIii, guuuers ! fire a loiiil salute! lio, gallants I ilraw 
your blades ! 

Thiiu sun, sliiue ou her joyously ! ye breezes, wal't 
lier wide ! 

Our glorious Sejipek Eadem ! tbe bauner of our 
pride ! 

Tlie freshening breeze of eve unfurled tbat banner's 
massy fold — 

Tbe parting gleam of siinsbine kissed tbat haughty 
scroll of gold : 

Night sank upon the dusky beach, and ou tbe pur- 
l)lo sea : 

Sucb night in England ne'er hath beeu, nor e'er 
again shall be. 

From Eildystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to 
Milford Bay, 

That time of slumber was as bright and busy as 
tbe day ; 

For swift to east, and swift to west, the ghastly 
war-flame spread ; 

High on St. Michael's Monut it shone : it shone ou 
Beacby Head : 

Far on the deep the Spauiard saw, along each south- 
ern shire. 

Cape beyond ca|ie, in endless range, those twinkling 
points of iire. 

The fisher loft his skiff to rock on Taniar's glitter- 
ing waves, 

The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip's 
sunless caves ; 

O'er Lougleat's towers, o'er C'raubourue's oaks, the 
fiery herald flew, 

And roused the shepherds of Stoueheuge, the rang- 
ers of Beanlieu : 

Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out 
from Bristol town ; 

And, ere the day, three hundred horse bad met ou 
Clifton Down. 

The sentinel ou Whitehall gate looked forth iuto 

the night, 
And saw o'erbanging Richmond Hill the streak of 

blood-red light ; 
Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death-like 

silence broke, [woke. 

And with one start, and with one cry, tbe royal city 
At once, ou all her stately gates, arose the auswer- 

ing fires ; 
At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling 

spires ; 



From all tbe batteries of the Tower pealed loud tlie 

voice of fear, 
And all the thousand masts of Tlianies sent back a 

louder cheer : 
And from the fart>hest wards was heard the rush 

of burryii^g feet, 
And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed 

dowu each roaring street : 
And broader still became the blaze, and louder still 

the din, [spurring in ; 

As fast from every village round tbe borse came 
And eastward straight froui wild Blackheatb the 

warlike errand went, 
And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant 

squires of Kent. 
Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flow those 

bright couriers forth : 
High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor thoy 

started for the North ; 
And oil and on, without a pause, untired they 

bounded still ; 
All night from tower to tower they sprang, they 

sprang from bill to hill ; 
Till the proud Peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's 

rocky dales ; [of Wales ; 

Till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills 
Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's 

lonely height ; 
Till streamed in crimson on the wind tbe Wrekin's 

crest of light ; 
Till, broad and fierce, the star came forth ou Ely's 

stately fane, 
And town and bamlet rose in arms o'er all tbe 

boundless plain ; 
Till Belvoir's lordly terraces tbe sign to Lincoln sent. 
And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale 

of Trent ; 
Till Skiddaw saw tbe fire that burned ou Gaunt's 

embattled pile. 
And the red glare on Skiddaw roused tbe burghers 

of Carlisle. 



THE BATTLE OF IVRY. 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all 

glories are ! 
And glory to our sovereign liege. King Henry of 

Navarre ! [dance. 

Now let there be tbe merry sound of music and tbe 
Through thy cornfields green and sunny vines, O 

pleasant laud of France ! 



564 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAX POETRY. 



And tUoM, RocUelle, our own Roclielle, iironJ city of 

tlie waters, 
Again let rapture liglit the eyes of all tliy nuiuru- 

ing ilaiiglitcrs. 
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our 

j"y, 

Fur colli, auil stifl", and still arc they who wrought 
thy walls anuoy. 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field hath turned the 
chance of war ; 

Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Heury of Na- 
varre ! 

Oh, how our hearts were heating, when, at the dawn 

of day, 
Wo saw the army of the League drawn out in long 

array ; 
Witli all its priest-led citizeus, and all its rebel jieers, 
And Appeuzel's stout iufautry, and Egmont's Flem- 
ish spears. 
There rode the brood of false Lorraiue, the curses 

of our land ! 
And dark JIaycnne was iu the midst, a trunchcou 

in his hand ; 
And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's 

euipnvpled flood, [blood; 

And good Coligui's hoary hair all dabbled with his 
And we cried unto the living God, who rules tlie 

fate of war, [varre. 

To fight for his own holy name, aud Heury of Na- 

Tlie King is come to marshal us, in all his armor 

dressed ; 
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his 

gallant crest. 
He looked upon his people, and a tear was iu his eye ; 
Ho looked upon the traitors, aud his glance was steru 

and high. 
Kight graciously ho smiled on us, as rolled from 

wing to wing, 
Down all our line, iu deafening shout, "God save 

our lord the King !" 
"Aud if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he 

may, — 
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray — 
Press where ye see my white plume shine amid the 

ranks of war ; [varre." 

And be your oriflammc to-day the helmet of Na- 

Hurrah! the foes arc moving! hark to the miuglcd 
din 

Of fife, and steed, aud trump, aud drum, aud roar- 
ing culveriu ! 



The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. Andre's 

plain, [mayne. 

"With all the hireling chivalry of Gnelders and Al- 
Now, by the lips of those ye love, fair geutlemeu of 

France, 
Charge for the golden lilies now — upon them with 

the lance! 
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousaud 

spears in rest ; 
A thousaud knights are pressing close behind the 

snow-white crest ; 
Aud in they burst, aud on they rushed, while, like 

a guiding star, [Navarre. 

Amid the thickest carnage blazed tlie helmet of 

Now, God be praised, the day is ours ! Mayeune liatli 

turned his rein. 
D'Aumalohath cried for quarter; the Flemish Count 

is slain. 
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a 

Biscay gale ; 
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, aud flags, 

and cloven mail. 
Aud then wo thought ou vengeance, aud all along 

our van, 
" Remember St. Bartholomew !" was passed from 

man to man ; 
But out spake geutle Heury then, "No Frenchman 

is my foe ; 
Down, down with every foreigner; but let your 

brethren go !" 
Oh! was there ever such a kuight in friendship or 

in war, [Navarre ! 

As our sovereign lord. King Heury, the soldier of 

Ho! maidens of Vienna ; ho! matrons of Lucerne ! 
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never 

slj.all return. 
Ho ! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles. 
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for tliy poor 

spearmen's souls ! 
Ho! gallaut nobles of the League, loidc that your 

arms be bright ! 
Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watcli and 

ward to-night ! 
For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath 

raised the slave, 
And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor 

of the brave. 
Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories 

are ; 
Aud glory to our sovereign lord. King Henry of 

Navarre ! 



SIR HENRY TATLOH. 



Sf).-, 



Sir f)cnnj (Taijlor. 



Taylor (1800-18. . ) was a nalivc of the County of Dur- 
ham, England. lu 1837 appeared liis play of "Isaac Com- 
nemis," Hiiicli, says SouUiey, " met with few readers, and 
was Iiardly heard of." In 1834 his great dramatic poem 
of " Philip Van Arteveldc " gave him at once an assured 
rank in English literature. It has gone through eight 
editions. Some of his other works are " Edwin the Fair," 
a historical drama, 1S43; "The Eve of the Conquest, 
and other Poems," 1847; "Notes from Life," 1847; "A 
Sicilian Summer, and Minor Poems," 1868. A baronetcy 
was bestowed on him, and he was known as Sir Henry 
Taylor. Cr.ibb Robinson says of him: "His manners are 
shy, and he is more a man of letters than of the world." 



IN EEMEMBRA>X'E OF THE HON. EDWARD 

ERNEST VILLIEUS. 

I. 

A grace thongli inelauclioly, manly too, 
Moulded Iiis being: pensive, grave, sereue, 
O'er his habitual bcaiiug and bis mieu 
Uuceasiug pain, by patience tempered, threw 
A shade of sweet austerity. But seen 
In happier hours and by the friendly few, 
That curtain of the spirit was withdrawn, 
And fancy light and playful as a fawn. 
And reason imped with inquisition keen. 
Knowledge, long sought with ardor ever new, 
And wit love-kindled, showed in colors true 
What genial joys with sufferings can consist. 
Then did all sternness melt as melts a mist 
Touched by the brightness of the golden dawn. 
Aerial heights disclosing, valleys green. 
And sunlights thrown the woodland tufts between. 
And flowers and spangles of the dewy lawn. 

n. 

And even the stranger, though he saw not these. 

Saw what would not be willingly passed by. 

In his deportment, even when cold and shy, 

Was seen a clear eoUectedness and ease, 

A simple grace and gentle dignity. 

That failed not at the fir.st accost to please ; 

And as reserve relented by degrees, 

So winning was his asjiect and address, 

His smile so rich in sad felicities. 

Accordant to a voice which charmed no less, 

That who but saw him once remembered long, 

And .some in whom such images are strong 

Have hoarded the impression in their heart 

Fancy's fond dreams and Memory's joys among, 

Like some loved relic of romantic song, 

Or cherished masterpiece of ancient art. 



His life was private; safely led, aloof 

From tlio loud world, which yet he understood 

Largely and wisely, as no worldling could. 

For be by privilugfe of his nature proof 

Against false glitter, from beneath the roof 

Of jirivacy, as from a cave, surveyed 

With steadfast eye its flickering light and shade. 

And gently judged for evil and for good. 

But while he mixed not for bis owu behoof 

In public strife, his spirit glowed with zeal, 

Not shorn of action for the imblic weal, — 

For truth and justice as its warp and woof. 

For freedom as its signature and seal. 

His life thus sacred from the world, discharged 

From vain ambition and inordinate care. 

In virtue exercised, by reverence rare 

Lifted, and by humility enlarged. 

Became a temple and a place of prayer. 

In latter years be walked not singly there ; 

For one was with him, ready at all hours 

His griefs, his joys, his inmost thoughts to share, 

Who buoyantly his burdens helped to bear. 

And decked bis altars daily with fresh flowers. 



But iiirther may we pa.ss not ; for the ground 

Is holier than the Muse herself may tread; 

Nor would I it should echo to a sound 

Less solemn tliau the service for the dead. 

Mine is inferior matter, — my owu loss, — 

The loss of dear delights forever fled. 

Of reason's converse by affection fed. 

Of wisdom, couuscl, solace, that across 

Life's dreariest tracts a tender radiance shed. 

Friend of my youth ! though younger, yet my guide; 

How much by thy nnei-ring insight clear 

I shaped my way of life for many a yeai', 

What thoughtful friendship on thy death-bed died ! 

Friend of my youth, while thou wast by my side 

Autumnal days still breathed .a vernal breath ; 

How like a charm thy life to me supplied 

All waste and injury of time and tide. 

How like a diseucbantraeut was thy death ! 



WHAT MAKES A HERO? 

What makes a hero ? — not succes.s, not fame. 
Inebriate merchants, and the loud acclaim 
Of glutted avarice — cai)S tossed np in air, 
Or pen of journalist, with flourish fair. 



r.G6 



CYCLOPJ^DIA OF BItlTISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Bells pcalcil, stars, ribbons, and a titnlar name — 

These, tliongh liis rightful tribute, he can spare ; 
His rightful tribute, not liis end or aim. 

Or true reward ; for never yet did these 
Refresh the soul, or set the heart at ease. 
■\Vliat makes a hero ? — au heroic mind, 
Expressed in action, in endurance proved ; 
And if there be iire-eniineuce of right, 
Derived through pain, well sufl'ered, to the height 
Of rank heroic, 'tis to bear unmoved, 
Not toil, not risk, not rage of sea or wind, 
Not the brute fury of barbarians blind, — 
But worse — ingratitude and poisonous darts, 
Launched by the country he had served ami loved; 
This, with a free, unclouded spirit pure, 
Tliis in the strength of silence to endure, 
A dignity to noble deeds imparts. 
Beyond the gauds and trapjiings of renown ; 
This is the hero's complement and crown ; 
Tliis missed, one struggle had been ■wanting still — 
Cue glorious triumph of the heroic will. 
One self-approval in his heart of hearts. 



EXTRACT FROM "PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE." 

Adriana. Oh, Artevelde ; 
What can have made you so mysterious ? [soon 
What change hath come since morning ? Oh ! how 
The words and looks which seemed all confidence. 
To me at le.ast — how soon are they recalled ! 
But let them be — it matters not ; I, too. 
Will cast no look behind — Oh, if I should, 
5Iy heart would never hold its wretchedness. 

Arterehk: My gentle Adriana, you run wild 
In false conjectures; liear me to the cud. 
If hitherto wo have not said we loved, 
Yet hath the heart of each declared its love 
By all the tokens wherein love delights. 
Wo heretofore have trusted in each other, 
Too wholly have wo trusted to have need 
Of words or vows, pledges or protestations. 
Let not such trust be hastily dissolved. 

Adri. I trusted not. I hoped that I was loved, 
Hoped and despaired, doubted and hoped agiiin, 
Till this day, when I first breathed freelier. 
Daring to trust — and now — O God, my heart ! 
It was not made to bear this agony — 
Tell me you love me, or yon love me not. 

Arin: I love thee, dearest, with as large a love 
As e'er was compassed in the breast of man. 
Hide then those tears, bolov(5d, where thon wilt. 
And find a resting-place for that so wild 



And troubled heart of thine ; sustain it here, 
And be its ilood of passion wejit away. 

Adri. What was it that you said then ? If you 
love. 
Why have you thus tormented me ? 

Arter. Be calm ; 
And let me warn thee, ere thy choice be fixed, 
Wh.at fate thou niay'st be wedded to with me. 
Tliou hast beheld me living heretofore 
As one retired in staid tranquillity : 
The dweller iu the mountains, on whose ear 
The accustomed cataract thunders unobserved ; 
The seaman who sleeps sound upoii the deck, 
Nor hears the loud lamenting of the blast. 
Nor heeds the weltering of the plangent wave, — 
These have not lived more undisturbed than I: 
But build not upon this; the swollen stream 
May shake the cottage of the mountaineer. 
And diive him forth ; the seaman roused, at length 
Leaps from his slumber on the wave-washed deck ; — 
.\nd now the time comes fast when here iu Ghent 
He who would live exempt from injuries 
Of armi5d men, must be himself iu arms. 
This time is near for all, — nearer for me: 
I will not wait upon necessity, 
And leave myself no choice of vantage giound, 
But rather meet the times where best I may, 
And mould and fashion them as best I can. 
Reflect, then, that I soon may bo embarked 
In all the hazards of these troublesome times, 
And in your own free choice take or resign nie. 

Adri. Oh, Artevelde, my choice is free no nujre. 
Be mine, all mine, let good or ill betide. 
In war or pe.ace, in sickness or in health, 
In trouble and in danger and distress. 
Through time and through eternity I'll love thee ; 
In youth and age, in life and death I'll love thee. 
Here and hereafter, with all my soul and strength. 
So God accept m6 as I never cease 
From loving and adoring thee next him : 
And oh, may he pardon me if so betrayed 
By nu)rtal frailty as to love thee more. 

AytiT. I fear, my Adriana, 'tis a rash 
And passionate resolve that thou li.ast made; 
But how should 1 admonish thee, my.self 
So great a winner by thy desperate play ? 
Heaven is o'er all, and unto Heaven I leave it. 
That which hath made me weak shall make me 

strong. 
Weak to resist, strong to requite thy love; 
.\ud if some tax thou payest for that love, 
Tliou shalt receive it back from Love's exchequer. 
Now must I go; I'm waited for ere this. 



SIR HEXRY TAYLOR. 



567 



Adri. Upon tliis fiugcr be the first tax laiseJ. 

[Draics off a rinij, which she ghes him. 
Now wliat sball I receive ? 

Artev. The like from miue. 
I had forgot — I have it not to-day : 
But iu its stead wear this around thy neck. 
And on thy liiis this iinpress. Now, good-night. 



GREATNESS AND SUCCESS. 

Frosi " Philip Van Artevelde." 
He was one 
Of many tliousand sncli that die betimes, 
Whose story is a fragment known to few. 
Then comes the man who has the luck to live. 
And he's a pro<ligy. Conipnte the chances, 
And deem there's ne'er a one in dangerous times 
Who wins the race of glory, but than him 
A thousand men more gloriously endowed 
Have fallen upon the course ; a thousand others 
Have had their fortunes foundered by a chance. 
While lighter barks irashed past them ; to whom add 
A smaller tally of the singular few. 
Who, gifted with predominating powers, 
Bear yet a temperate will and keep the peace, — 
The world knows nothing of its greatest men ! 



ARTEVELDE'S SOLILOQUY. 
From " Thilip Van Artevelde." 
To bring a clond upon the summer day 
Of one so happy and so beautiful, — 
It is a hard condition. For myself, 
I know not that the circumstance of life 
In all its changes can so far afflict nie, 
As makes anticipation much worth while. 
But she is yonnger, — of a sex beside 
Whose spirits are to ours as flame to fire, 
More sudden and more perishable too ; 
So that the gust wherewith the one is kindled 
Extinguishes the other. Oh, she is fair! 
As fair as heaven to look upon ! as fair 
As ever vision of the Virgin blessed 
That weary pilgrim, resting at the fount 
Beneath the palm, and dreaming to the tune 
Of flowing waters, duped his soul withal. 
It was permitted in my pilgrimage, 
To rest beside the fount beneath the tree. 
Beholding there no vision, but a maid 
Whose form was light and graceful as the palm. 
Whose heart was pure and jocund as the fount, 
And spread a freshness and a verdure round. 
This was permitted iu my pilgrimage, 



And loth I am to take my staff again. 

Say that I fall not in this enterpri.se — 

Still must my life be full of hazardous turns, 

And they that house with me must ever live 

In imminent p^ril of some evil fate. 

— Make fast the doors ; heap wood upon the fire ; 

Draw iu your stools, and pass the goblet round, 

And be the prattling voice of children heard. 

Now let us make good cheer ; but what is this ? 

Do I not see, or do I dream I see, 

A form that midmost in the circle sits 

Half visible, his face deformed with scars. 

And foul with blood? — Oh yes, I know it — there 

Sits Daxger, with his feet upon the hearth. 



ARTEVELDE AND ELENA. 
From '' Philip Van Artevelde." 
Elena. I cauuot — no — 
I cannot give you what you've had so long; 
Nor need I tell you what you know so well. 
I must be gone. 

Arter. Nay, sweetest, why these tears ? 
Elena. No, let me go — I cannot tell — no — no ; 
I want to be alone. 

Oh, Artevelde, for God's love let me go! [Ejcit. 

Artev. (after a pause). The night is far advanced 
upon the morrow. 

if ^ * * *f * 

— Yes, I have wasted half a summer's uiglit. 
W^as it well spent ? Successfully it was. 
How little flattering is a woman's love! 
Wortli to the heart, come how it may, a world ; 
Worth to men's measures of their own deserts. 
If weighed in wisdom's balance, merely nothing. 
The few hours left are precious — who is there ? 
Ho! Nieuverkerchen ! — when we think upon it. 
How little flattering is a woman's love ! 
Given coramouly to whosoe'er is nearest. 
And propped with most advantage ; outward grace 
Nor iuward light is needful; day by day 
Men wanting both are mated with the best 
And loftiest of God's feminiue creation, 
Whose love takes no distinction but of gender. 
And ridicules the very name of choice. 
Ho! Nieuverkerchen! — w'jat, then, do we sleep? 
Are noue of you awake ? — and as for me, 
The world says Philip is a famous man — 
What is there woman will not love, so taught ? 
Ho! Ellert ! by your leave though, you must wake. 

lEnter an officer. 
Have me a gallows built upon the mount. 
And let Van Kortz be hung at break of day. 



568 



crCLOrjEDIA OF BRITISH ASD AMEKICAX^ POETRY. 



illaria 3aue i^cnisburt)] Jlctcljer. 

Miss Jewsbury (lSOO-1833) was si native of Warwick- 
sliire, England. Slie was married (18o3) to tlie Rev. Wil- 
liam FlftcUcr, missionary to India, and died soon after 
arrivinsjin Bombay. She wrote "Lays of Leisure Hours" 
and "Letters to the Young." Her poetical vein was del- 
ieate and genuine. She was an amiable, accomijlished 
woman. 

BIRTII-DAY BALLAD. 

Thou art iilncUing sirring roses, Genie, 

AikI a little reel rose art thou I 
Thou Last unfolded to-day, Genie, 

Another bright leaf, I trow : 
But the roses -will live and die. Genie, 

Many and many a time. 
Ere thou hast unfolded quite, Genie — 

Growu into niaideu iirinie. 

Thou art looking now at the birds, Genie; 

But, oil! do not wish their wing! 
That wouhl only tempt the fowler, Genie : 

Stay thou on earth and sing; 
Stay iu the uursiiig nest. Genie; 

Bo not soon thence beguiled. 
Thou wilt ne"er find a second. Genie, 

Never bo twice a child. 

Thon art building towers of pebbles. Genie, 

Pile them up brave and high. 
And leave them to follow a bee. Genie, 

As ho waudereth singing by ; 
But if thy towers fall down. Genie, 

And if the brown bee is lost. 
Never weep, for thou must learn. Genie, 

How soon life's schemes are crossed. 

Thy hand is iu a bright boy's, Genie, 

And ho calls theo his sweet wee wife. 
But ht not thy little heart think, Geuie, 

Childhood the prophet of life; 
It may bo life's minstrel, Genie, 

And sing sweet songs and clear. 
But minstrel and prox)het now, Genie, 

Are not united hoie. 

What will thy fiitnre fate be. Genie, 

Alas! shall I live to see? 
For thou art scarcely a sapling. Genie, 

And I am a moss-grown tree : 
I am shedding life's loaves fast. Genie, 

Thciii art in Vilo.ssom sweet; 
But think of the grave betimes. Genie, 

Where voung and old oft meet. 



ifamcs (!?orlion Srooks. 

AMERICAN. 

Brooks (1S01-1S41), the son of u Revolutionary oflieer, 
was a native of Clavcraek, N. Y., on the Hudson. He 
was graduated at Union College in 1S19, studied law, and 
began to write poetry under the signature of "Florio." 
He removed in 1823 to the city of New York, where he 
became eonnected as editor with various journals. In 
1838 he married Mary Elizabeth Akin, of Pouglikeepsie, 
N. Y.,who wrote under the signature of "Noma," and 
shared the poetical gift, as the following lines from her 
pen attest : 

PSALM CXXXVII. 

*' Come, sweep the harp ! one thi'illing rush 

Of all that wnrraed its' chords to song, 
And then the strains fui-ever Inisli 

That oft have breathed its wires alonj; ! 
The ray is quenched that lit our mirtli. 

The shrine is j,'onc that claimed the prayer, 
And exiles o'er the distant earth, — 

How can we wake the carul there ? 

*' One sigh, my harp, and then to s'.eep ! 

For all that loved thy son? have flown: 
Why shonldst thou lonely vij^ils kecj), 

F(n-s:iken, broken, and alone? 
Let this sad ninrmur be thy last, 

Nor e'er again iu music swell; 
Thine hours ofjoyonsness are past, 

And thus we sever: — fare thee well 1" 

In 1839 the Messrs. Harper published "The Rivals of 
Este, and other Poems," by Mr. and Mrs. Brooks. In 
1830 husband and wife removed to Winchester, Va., to 
take charge of a newspaper; hut in 1839 they took up 
their residence in Albanv, N. Y., where Mr. Brooks died. 
He was esteemed for his many good qualities, and held 
a high social position, though hardly favored by fortune 
in his various editorial enterprises. 



GREECE :— 1822. 

Laud of the brave! where lie inurned 

The shrouded forms of mortal clay. 
In whoni the fire of valor burned 

And blazed upon the battle's fray; — 
Laud whore the galhiut Spartan few 

Bled at Thermopyhe of yore, 
When death his purple garment threw 

Ou Hollo's consecrated shore; — 

Land of the Muse! within thy bowers 

Her sonl-entraucing echoes rang. 
While ou their course the rapid hours 

Paused at the melody she sang, — 
Till every grove and every hill. 

And every stream that flowed Jilong, 
From morn to night repeated still 

Tho winning harmony of song ! 



JAMES GORDON BROOKS.— MRS. ARCHER {WIGLEY) CLIVE. 



5{il> 



Laud of lU'ad heroes! living slaves! 

Shall glory gild thy clime no more? 
Her banuer float above thy waves, 

Where proudly it hath swept before? 
Hath not remembrance then a charm 

To break the fetters and the chain, 
To bid thy children nerve the arm, 

And strike for freedom once again? 

No! coward souls! the light which shoue 

On Leuetra's war-empurpled day, 
The light which beamed on Marathon, 

Hath lost its splendor, ceased to play: 
And thou art but a shadow now. 

With helmet shattered, spear in rust : 
Thy honor but a dream — and thou 

Despised, degraded — in the dust! 

Where sleeps the spirit, that of ohl 

Dashed down to earth the Persian plume, 
When the loud chant of triumph told 

How fatal was the despot's doom ? — 
The bold tliree hundred — where are they. 

Who died on battle's gory breast? 
Tyrants have trampled on the clay 

Where death has hushed them into rest. 

Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill 

A glory shines of ages fled ; 
And fame her light is pouring still, 

Ni)t on the living, but the dead! 
But 'tis the dim sepulchral light 

Which sheds a faint and feeble ray, 
As moonbeams on the brow of night, 

When tempests sweep upon their way. 

Greece ! yet awake thee from thy trance ! 

Behold, thy bauner waves afar; 
Behold, the glittering weapons glance 

Along the gleaming front of war! 
A g.allant chief, of higli emprise. 

Is urging foremost in the field, 
Who calls upon thee, Greece, to rise 

In might, in majesty revealed. 

In vain, in vain the hero calls — 

In vaiu he sounds the trumpet loud! 
His banner totters — sec! it falls 

In ruin, freedom's battle-shroud! 
Thy children have no soul to dare 

Such deeds as glorified their sires; 
Their valor's but a meteor's glare 

Which flames a moment, aud expires. 



Lost land ! where genius made his reign, 

And reared his golden arch on high, — 
AVhere science raised her sacred fane, 

Its summits peering to the sky, — 
Upon thy clime the midnight deep 

Of ignck'ance hath brooded long, 
And in the tomb, forgotten, sleep 

The sons of science aud of song. 

Thy sun hath set — the evening storm 

Hath passed in giant fury by. 
To blast the beauty of thy form, 

Aud spread its pall upon the sky! 
Gone is thy glory's diadem, 

And Freedom never more shall cease 
To ponr her mournful requiem 

O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece! 



illvs. arcljcr (lUtglnj) Clitjc. 

Miss Wigley (1S01-18T3), author of the novel of " Paid 
FerroU" (1855), was a native of England. She became 
Mrs. Clive, and published, under the signature of V, 
poems wliich were collected in a volume in 1873. While 
sitting before the Are at Whittiekl her dress ciiught, aud, 
hefore help could be rendered, she was so burnt tliat 
she died other injuries in a few hours. Her poems were 
highly praised by Lockhart. But he could not accord 
Ids approval to the "spirit which animates" the follow- 
ing lines. Is not the spirit, however, that of one confi- 
dent of the future? The lines are remarkable as fore- 
shadowing the actual manner of her death. 



THE WISH. 

Forbid, O Fate ! forbid that I 

Should linger long before I die ! 

Ah ! let me not, sad day by day. 

Upon a djMug bed decay ; — 

And lose my love, my hope, my strength. 

All save the baser part of man ; 
Concentring every wish, at length, — 

To die as slowly as I can ! 

# # ir # * * 

I'd die in battle, love, or glee. 
With spirit wild and body free: 
With all my wit, my soul, my heart, 
Burning away in every part ; — 
That so more meetly I might fly 
Into mine Immortality : 
Like comets, when th(dr race is run. 
That end by rushing on the sun! 



570 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



llUlliam lUilson. 



Wilson (1801-1S60) was a native of Crieff, Scotland. 
While ret a child, he lost his father, a respectable mer- 
chant, and thenceforward was obliged to rely chiefly on 
his own ellbrts for education and advancement. He be- 
came an editor at twenty-two; moved to Ediuburgh.and 
wrote for the leading periodicals. In 1S33 he emigrated 
to the United States, settled at Poughkeepsie, and estab- 
lished himself in the bookselling and publishing busi- 
ness. It was not till after his death that his poems were 
collected and published. General James Grant Wilson, 
of New York, born (1833) in Ediubnrgh, author of a 
'■ Life of Ilallcck " and other works, also editor of " The 
Poets and Poetry of Scotland" (Harper & Brothei-s), in 
two elegant volumes, was his son. 



SABBATH MORNING IN THE WOODS. 

O blessfid morn ! wlio.so ruddy beam 
Of gladness mantles fount and stream, 
And over all created things 
A golden robe of glory flings ! 

On every tendril, leaf, and spray, 

A diamond glistens in the ray, 

And from a, thousand throats a shout 

Of adoration gushes out ; 

A glad but sweet prelusive psalm 

Which breaks the hallowed morning's calm. 

Each winipling Ijrook, each wiiuling rill 
That slugs and murmurs on at will, 
Seems vocal with the blessed refrain, 
" The Lord has come to life again !" 

And from each wild flower on the wold, 
In purple, sajiphiri', snow, or gold, 
I'ink, amethyst, or azure hue, 
Beauteous of tint and bright with dew, 
There breathes an incense offering, borne 
Upon the wakening breath of morn 
To the Creator, all divine, — 
Meet sacrifice for such a shrine ! 

Far down those lofty forest aisles, 
Where twilight's solemn hush prevails, 
The wind its balmy censer swiugs, — 
Like odors from an angel's wings. 
Who, passing swift to earth, had riven 
Their fragrance from the bowers of heaven ! 

And through each sylvan tangled hall, 
Where slanting bars of sunlight fall, 



Faint sounds of hallelujahs sweet 
The tranc<?d ear would seem to greet, 
As if the holy seraphim 
Were choiring here their matin hymu. 

God of all nature ! here I feel 

Thy awful presence, as I kneel. 

In humble heart-abasemeut meet, 

Thus lowly at thy mercy-seat! — 

And while I tremble, I adore. 

Like him by Bethel's stone of yore ; — 

For thus thy vouchsafed presence given 

Hath made this place the Gate of Heaven! 



Corb Kiuloci). 



William Penney (lSOl-1872) was a native of Glasgow, 
the son of a respectable merchant. Educated at the 
University he studied law, and in 1858 was ajipointed a 
judge of the Court of Session, taking the title of Lord 
Kiuloeh. In publishing his " Devout Thoughts " (1863), 
he remarks: "I otter this volume as a collection of 
thoughts rather than poems. The object is not an ex- 
hibition of poetic fancy, but an expression of Christian 
life." 



THE STAR IN THE EAST. 

I sought for wisdom in the morning time, 
Wlien the sun cleared the hills; and strove to climb 
Where I could farther .see; but all in vain 
The eft'orts made! 'twas but unwearying strain 
At truth, nor had of knowledge save the pain. 

There rose a star iu the East before 'twas night, 
And spoke of God ; but only spoke of might 
And height and distance; in a gathering mist 
I lost (he star: I could not but persist 
To seek, but how to find it, nothing wist. 

I journeyed long and darkly ; but at last 
The star appeared; and now its beams were cast 
On a poor stable, where, in swaddling bands, 
An infant lay in virgin mother's hands; 
Fixed there it stood, and fixed for me still stands. 

I found whore wisdom dwelt; and in my joy 
Brought forth my gifts: gidd, though it held alloy. 
Which dimmed its worth ; incense from fortli a 

breast 
Warm with new love; myrrh, through all life 

possessed, 
Fragraut to make the couch of earth's l.ist rest- 



SAMUEL CARTER HALL.— JOHN EENRY NEWMAX. 



571 



Samuel (Uttvtcr fiall. 

A native of Englautl, Hall (1801-lS..) was editor of the 
London Art Journal, and of several illustrated works of 
a liigh cbaracter: "The Book of Gems," "The Book of 
British Ballads," ete. He has also written, both in prose 
and verse, in behalf of the temperance and other great 
reforms. The poem we quote is from "Hereafter," pro- 
duced in his eightieth year, and prefaced with the fol- 
lowing passage from the "Life of the Prince Consort" 
by Theodore Martin : 

"Dcnlh in his view wns but the portal to a farther life, in 
which he might hope for a cnuiiiimnice, under happier coudi- 
tiims, of all that was best in himself and iu those he loved, uu- 
cln;^ged by the weaknesses, and nnsaddeiied by the failures, the 
misuuderstandiugs, nud the sorrows of earthly existence." 

Hall was married in 1824 to Miss Fielding, a native of 
Wexford, Ireland (1804), who, as Mrs. S. C. Hall, won 
reputation by her "Lights and Shadows of Irish Life," 
and other successful works. 



NATURE'S CREED. 

Science may sneer at Faith ; and Reason frown ; 

May 2»'oi'e there are no .souls — to live or die ! 
May scorn anil seont the creed they argue down, 

And give the Great Ouniipoteut the lie: — 

They limit Him — who made all worlds — to acts 
That Science calls " the possible ;" and thus, 

Bounding the Infinite by rules and facts, 
Explain the "fable of the soul" to us. 

Ten thousand thousand tilings exist, wc know, 
By Science tested and by Reason tried, 

With no conclusive issue : save to sliow 

How much wo need a better light and guide ! 

Can Science gauge the influence that draws 
The needle to the magnet? Cau it see 

Tlie perfume of the rose ? or measure laws 
By which the flower gives honey to the bee? 

In spite of Scieueo and its five poor tests, 
It may be but a jiart of "Nature's" plan 

To people other spheres with other guests, 
Ascending (as deseemling) np from man. 

.\nd beings not of earth, or mortal birth, 
The first-born of Creation, mai/ have been, — 

And may be — ministers of love to earth — 
"A cloud of witnesses," though yet unseen: 

And those we call "the dead" (who are not dead— 
Death was their herald to Celestial Life!) 



May soothe the aching heart, and weary head, 
In pain, in toil, iu sorrow, and iu strife. 

That is the pith of every natural creed, — 
(Instinctive teachings of an after-state 

When from earth-manacles the soul is freed !) — 
Poor sceptics strive iu vain to dissipate ! 

And there are many ways to Heaven that lead : 
Woe to the "prophets," foul and false, who teach 

The narrow, cruel, cold, and selfish creed, 

That there are souls His voice can never reach. 

In tortuous, tangled paths we tread ; but trust 
One Guide to lead us forth and set us free ; 

Give us. Lord God All Mighty and All Just ! 
The Faith that is but Confidence iu thee ! 



3ol)u fjcnrj) Nciumau. 

The son of a banker, Newman (1801-18..) was a native 
of London. He graduated at Trinity College, Oxford, in 
1830. Seceding from the Established Church, he became 
a jiriest of the Oratory of St. Philip Ncri, and in 1878 was 
made a Cardinal. His collected works form twenty-two 
volumes. His poems appeared in 18()8, under the title of 
"Verses on various Occasions." They are mostly on 
religious topics, though some arc playful in tone. His 
brother, Francis AVilliam Newman, born in 180.5, resigned 
an Oxford fellowship because he could not subscribe the 
Thirty-nine Articles for his Master's degree. His ethi- 
cal and theological writings have been very numerous, 
and his religious faith would seem to be that of a pure 
theism, free from the adulteration of any historical creed. 
The two brothers appear to have been diametrically op- 
posed in their religious notions. 



FLOWERS WITHOUT FRUIT. 

Prune thou thy words, the tlionglits control 
Tliat o'er theo swell and throng ; 

They will condense within thy soul, 
And change to purpose strong. 

But he who lets his feelings run 

In soft luxurious flow, 
Shrinks when hard service must be done. 

And faints at every woe. 

Faith's meanest deed more favor bears, 
W^here hearts and wills are weighed. 

Than brightest transports, choicest prayers, 
Which bloom their hour and fade. 



572 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISS AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



A VOICE FROM AFAR. 

Weep not for me; — 
Be blithe as wout, uor tinge witli gloom 
Tlie stream of love tbat circles home, 

Light hearts and free ! 
Joy iu the gifts Heaveirs bounty lends; 
Nor miss my face, dear friends! 

I still am near; — 
Watching the smiles I prized on earth, 
Your converse mild, your blameless mirth ; 

Now too I hear 
Of whispered sounds the tale complete, 
Lo%v prayers, and musings sweet. 

A sea before 
The Throne is spread ; — its pure still glass 
Pictures all earth-scenes as they pass. 

We, on its shore, 
Share, in the bosom of our rest, 
God's knowledge, and are blessed. 



GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

My oldest friend, mine from the hour 
When tirst I drew my breath ; 

My faithful friend, that .shall be mine, 
Unfailing, till my death; — 

Thou hast been ever at my side: 

My Maker to thy trust 
Consigned my soul, what time he framed 

The infant child of dust. 

No beating heart in holy prayer. 

No faith, informed aright, 
Gave me to Joseph's tutelage, 

Or Michael's concpiering might. 

Nor patron saint, nor Mary's love, 

The dearest and the best. 
Has known my being, as thou hast known, 

And blessed as tliou hast blessed. 

Thou wast my sponsor at the font; 

And thou, each budding year, 
Diilst whisper elements of truth 

Into my childish ear. 

And when, ere l)oyho(id yet was gone, 
My rebel .spirit fell, 



Ah ! thou didst see, aud shudder too. 
Yet bear each deed of hell. 

And then in turn, when judgments came. 

And scared me back again, 
Thy quick soft breath was near to soothe. 

Aud hallow every pain. 

Oh ! who of all thy toils and cares 

Can tell the tale complete, 
To place me under Mary's smile, 

And Peter's royal feet. 

And thou wilt hang about my bed 

When life is ebbing low ; 
Of doubt, impatience, and of gloom. 

The jealous sleejiless foe. 

Mine, when I stand before the Judge; 

And mine, if spared to stay 
Within the golden furnace, till 

My siu is burned away. 

And niiue, oh brother of my soul, 
When my release .shall come; 

Thy gentle arms shall lift me then, 
Thy wings shall waft me home. 



Oiuarb (Eoate ITuiliiicij. 

AMERICAN. 

Pinkucy (1S03-182S) was bora in Loiulon wliile liis 
fatlier was American Commissioner at the Court of f-t. 
J:nucs. He entcrccl the navy os a miilsliipnian, hut ;il- 
lcrw.ird became a lawyer. A volume of his poems was 
publislicd in Baltimore in 182.5, and a second edition in 
1838. 



A HEALTH. 

I fill this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone ; 
A wom.an, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon ; 
To whom the better elements 

And kindly stars have given 
A form so fair that, like the air, 

'Tis less of earth than heaven. 

Her every tone is nnisic's own, 
Like those of morning birds, 

Aud something nnu-o than melody 
Dwells ever iu her words; 



EDWARD CO ATE PINKNEY.— ROBERT MACNISU. 



The coinage of lior lieart are tliey, 

And from her lips eacli flows 
As one may see the bnrilencd bee 

Forth issue from the rose. 

Afl'cctions are as thonghts to lier, 

Tlie measures of her hours ; 
Her feelings have the fragrancy, 

Tlie freshness of young flowers ; 
And lovely passions, changing oft, 

So fill her, she ajipears 
The image of themselves by turns, — 

The idol of past yeai's. 

Of her bright face one glance will trace 

A picture on the brain, 
And of her voice iu echoing hearts 

A sound must long remain ; 
But memory such as mine of her 

So very much endears, 
When deatli is nigh, my latest sigh 

Will not be life's, but hers. 

I fill this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness aloue ; 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon. 
Her Lealth! and would on earth there stood 

Some more of such a frame. 
That life might be all poetry. 

And weariness a name. 



SONG: WE BREAK THE GLASS. 

We break the glass, whose sacred wine 

To some beloved healtli we drain, 
Lest future pledges, less divine, 

Should e'er the hallowed toy profane ; 
And thus I broke a heart that jtoured 

Its tide of feeling out for thee, 
In draughts, by after-times deplored, 

Yet dear to memory. 

But still the old impassioned ways 

And habits of my mind remain, 
And still unhappy light displays 

Thine image cliambered iu my brain. 
And still it looks as when the hours 

Went by like flights of singing birds, 
On that soft cbain of spoken flowers, 

And airy gems, thy words. 



Hobcrt :aiacui6lj. 



Macnisli (1S03-1S37) was a native of Glasgow, Scotland, 
lie studied medicine, and wlica eighteen received the de- 
gree of Master of Surgery. He manifested marked tal- 
ents for literary pursuits; contributing some graceful 
poems to Blacldixjod' s ilayazine, also the striking story 
of "The Metempsychosis" (1825). He was tlie author 
of "The Anatomy of Drunkenness," "The Philosophy 
of Sleep," and other approved works. After eighteen 
months of country practice in Caitliuess, where liis health 
failed, he went abroad and spent a year in Paris; attended 
tlie lectures of Broussais and Dupuytrcn.nict Cuvier, and 
became acquainted with Gait, the plircnologist. On liis 
return to Scotland he settled in Glusgow,but died young, 
beloved and lamented. His literary writings wei-e collect- 
ed, and published iu a volume by his friend, D. M. Moir. 



MY LITTLE SISTER. 

Thy memory as a spell 

Of love conies o'er my mind; 
As dew npon the purple bell, 

As perfume ou the wind ; 
As music ou the sea, 

As sunshine ou the river, 
So hath it always been to mo, 

So shall it be forever. 

I hear thy voice in dreams 

Upon me softly call. 
Like echo of the mountain streams 

In sportive w.ater-fall. 
I see thy form as when 

Thou wert a living thiug, 
And blossomed iu the eyes of men 

Like .any flower of spring. 

Thy soul to heaven hath fled, 

From earthly thraldom free ; 
Yet 'tis not as the dead 

That thou appear'st to me. 
In slumber I behold 

Thy form, as when on earth ; 
Thy locks of waving gold. 

Thy sajiphire eye of mirth. 

I hear, iu solitude, 

The prattle, kind and free, 
Thou utteredst in joyful mood 

While seated ou my knee. 
So strong each vision seems, 

My spirit that doth till, 
I think not tliey are dreams, 

But that thou livest still. 



574 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMElUCA2f POETRY. 



lUiutljrop illaclnuorti) Uracil. 

The son of a sergeant-at-law, Praed (1802-18o9), a na- 
tive of London, was cdueated at Eton and at Trinity 
CoIIesro, Cambridge. He studied for tlie Bar, but enter- 
ed political life, and became a member of the House of 
Commons. While at Eton, in conjunction with Moul- 
trie, William Sidney Wallicr, Chauncey Hare Townsbend, 
and others, he edited that remarkably clever college 
magazine. The L'loiiiau, of wliich Praed was the life. His 
poems are what have been styled vers de societe ; but they 
are sprightly, original, and witty, and liave had hosts of 
imitators. His charades, too, are the best of their kind. 
On the maternal side Praed was related to the well- 
kuon'n Winthrop family of Boston, U. S. A. 



MY LITTLE COUSINS. 
"E voi ridete?— Certe Ridiamo." — Cnsi fan tctte. 

Langli on, fair cousins, for to you 

All life is joyous yet ; 
Your hearts have all things to pursue, 

Aud nothing to regret ; 
And every dower to you is fair, 

And every month is May: 
You've not been introduced to Care — 

Laugh on, laugh on, to-day ! 

Old Time will fling his clouds ere long 

Upon those sunny eyes ; 
The voice, whose every word is song, 

Will set itself to sighs ; 
Y'onr quiet slumbers, — hopes aud fears 

Will chase their rest away : 
To-morrow you'll be shedding tears — 

Laugh on, laugh on, to-day ! 

Oh yes ; if any truth is found 

In the dull schoolman's theme, 
If friendship is an empty sound, 

And love an idle dream, — 
If mirtli, youth's pl.-iyuiate, feels fatigue 

Too soon on life's long way, 
At least he'll run with you a league; — ■ 

Laugh on, laugh on, to-day ! 

Perhaps your eyes may grow more bright 

As childhood's hues depart; 
Y'ou may be lovelier to the sight, 

And dearer to the heart; 
You nuiy be sinless still, and see 

This earth still green and gay : 
But wliat you are you will not be — 

Laugh on, laugh on, to-day ! 



O'er nie have many winters crept. 

With less of grief than joy ! 
But I have learned, and toiled, and wept ; 

I am no more a boy! 
I've never had the gout, 'tis true, 

My hair is hardly gray ; 
But now I cannot laugh like you — - 

Laugh on, laugh on, to-day ! 

I used to have as glad a face, 

As shadowless a brow : 
I once could run as blithe a race 

As you are running now; 
But never mind how I behave ! 

Don't interrupt your play ; 
And though I look so very grave. 

Laugh ou, laugh ou, to-day ! 



AVHERE IS MISS MYRTLE? 

Am: " Sweet Kitty Clover." 

Where is Miss Myrtle ? cau any one tell ? 

Where is she gone, where is she gone ? 
She flirts with another, I know very well ; 

Aud I — am left all alone ! 
She flies to the window when Arundel rings, — 
Slie's all over smiles when Lord Archibald sings, — 
It's plain that her Cupid has two pair of wings: 

Where is she gone, w here is she gone f 
Her love and my love are different things ; 

Aud I — am left all alone ! 

I brought her, one morning, a rose for her brow ; 

Where is she gone, where is she gone ? 
She told me such horrors were never worn now : 

And I — am left all alone ! 
But I saw her at uight with a rose iu her hair. 
And I guess wliT> it came from — of course I don't 

care. 
We all know that girls are as false as they're fair: 

Where is she gone, where is she gone f 
I'm sure the lieutenant's a horrible bear : 

Aud I — am left all alone ! 

W'henever we go on the Downs for a ride, — 

Where is she gone, where is she gone t 
Slie looks for another to trot by her side : 

Aud I — am left all alone ! 
And whenever I take her down-stairs from a ball. 
She nods to some puppy to put on her shawl : 
I'm a peaceable man, aiul I don't like a brawl ; — 
Where is she gone, where is she gone f 



WINTHSOP MACKWOHTB PEAED. 



r^75 



But I'd give a triflo to horsewliip tliem all ; 
Aud I — am left all alone ! 

Sbe tells me her mother belongs to the sect 

Where is she goue, where is she gone ? 
Which holds that all waltzing is quite incorrect : 

Aud I — am left all alone ! 
But a fire's in my heart, aud a fire's in my brain, 
When she waltzes away with Sir Phelim O'Shane ; 
I don't think I ever can ask her again ; 

Where is she goue, where is she goue ? 
Aud, Lord ! since the summer she's grown very 
plain ; 

And I — aui left all alone ! 

She said that she liked me a twelvemonth ago ; 

Where is sbe gone, where is slie goue ? 
Aud how should I guess that she'd torture me so ? 

Aud I — am left all alone ! 
Some day she'll find out it was uot very wise 
To laugh at the breath of a true lover's sighs ; 
After all, Fanny Myrtle is not such a prize : 

Where is she gone, where is she gone ? 
Louisa Dalrymple has exquisite eyes ; 

Aud I'll — be no longer alone ! 



TELL HIM I LOVE HIM YET. 

Tell biui I love him yet, as in tliat joyous time; 
Tell him I ne'er forget, though memory uow be 

crime ; 
Tell him, when sad moonlight is over earth aud sea, 
I dream of him by night, — he must uot dream of me ! 

Tell him to go where Fame looks proudly on the 

brave ; 
Tell him to win a name by deeds on land and wave ; 
Green, green upon his brow the laurel-wreath shall 

be; 
Although the laurel uow may uot be shared with me. 

Tell him to smile again in pleasure's dazzling throng, 
To wear another's chaiu, to i)raise another's song: 
Before the loveliest there, I'd have him beud the 

knee, 
Aud breathe to her the i^rayer he used to breathe 

to me. 

.A.ud tell him, day by day life looks to me more dim ; 
I falter when I pray, although I pray for him. 
Aud bid him, when I die, come to our favorite tree; 
I shall uot hear him sigh, — then let him sigh for me! 



APKIL-FOOLS. 

This day, beyoiul all coutradiction. 

This day is all thine own. Queen Fiction! 

And thou art building castles boundless 

Of grouudl^sii joys, and griefs as groundless : 

Assuring beauties that the border 

Of their new dress is out of order. 

And school-boys that their shoes want tying, 

And babies that their dolls are dying. 

Lend me — lend me some disguise : 

I will tell jirodigions lies; 

All who care for what I say. 

Shall be April-fools to-day ! 

First I relate how all the nation 
Is mined by Emancipation ; 
How honest men are sadly thwarted, 
How beads aud fagots are imported. 
How every parish church looks thinner, 
How Peel has asked the Pojie to dinner : 
Aud how the Duke, who fought the duel, 
Keeps good King George on water-gruel. 
Then I waken doubts aud fears 
In the Coniuions and the Peers ; 
If thcj- care for what I say. 
They are April-fools to-day ! 

Next I announce to hall and hovel 
Lord Asterisk's unwritten novel ; 
It's full of wit, and full of fashion. 
And full of taste, and full of passion ; 
It tells some very curious histories, 
Elucidates some charming mysteries, 
And mingles sketches of society 
With precepts of the soundest piety. 
TIius I babble to the host 
Who adore the Morning Post; 
If thej' care for what I say, 
They are April-fools to-day ! 

Then to the artist of my raiment 

I hint his bankers have stopped payment: 

And just suggest to Ladj' Locket 

That somebody has picked her pocket ; 

And scare Sir Thomas from the City 

By murmuring, in .a tone of pity. 

That I am sure I saw my Lady 

Drive through the Park with Captain Grady. 

Oft' my troubled victims go, 

Very pale and very low ; 

If they care for what I say. 

They are April-fools to-day ! 



CYCLOPEDIA OF UlllThSU AM) AilEUICAN POETRY. 



I've sent the learned Doctor Trepan 
To feel Sir Hubert's broken knee-pan : 
'Twill lout tlie Doctor's seven senses 
To iiuil Sir Hubert cliarjjiug fences ! 
I've sent a sallow parchnieut-scraper 
To put Miss Trim's last will on paper: 
He'll see her, silent as a niunnny, 
At whist, with her two uuiitls and tlunnn\ . 

Man of brief, and man of pill, 

TUey will take it very ill ; 

If they care for wliat I say. 

They arc April-fools to-ilny ! 

And to the world I publish gayly 
That all things are improving daily: 
Tliat suns grow warmer, streamlets clearer. 
And faith more warm, and love sincerer : 
Tliat children grow extremely clever, 
That sin is seldom known, or never; 
Tliat gas, and steam, and education. 
Are killing sorrow and starvation ! 
Pleasant visions! — bnt alas, 
How those pleasant visions pass I 
If you care for what I say. 
You're an April-fool to-day! 

Last, to myself, when night comes round inr. 
And the soft chain of thought has bound im-. 
1 whisper, " Sir, your eyes are killing : 
Von owe no mortal man a shilling ; 
You never cringe for Star or Garter : 
You're much too wise to be a martyr: 
And, since you must bo food for vermin. 
You don't feci much desire for ermine 1" 

Wisdom is a mine, no doubt, 

If one can but find it out; 

But, whatc'er I think or say, 

I'm an April-fool to-day ! 



GOOD-NIGHT. 

(iood-night to thee, lady! — though many 

Have joined in the dance to-night, 
'I'hy form was the fairest of any, 

Where all was seducing and bright ; 
Thy smile was the softest and dearest. 

Thy form the most sylph-like of all. 
And thy voice the most gladsome and clearest 

That e'er held a partner in thrall. 

Good-night to tbee, lady! — 'tis over — 

The waltz — the quadrille, aud the song — 



The whispered farewell of the lover. 

The heartless ailieu of the throng ; 
The heart that was thiolibing with pleasure, 

The eyelid that longed for repose — 
The beaux that were dreaming of treasure. 

The girls that were dreaming of beaux. 

'Tis over — the lights are all dying, 

The coaches all driving away ; 
And many a fair one is sighing, 

And many a false one is gay ; 
And beauty counts over her numbers 

Of conquests, as homeward she drives — 
Aud some are gone home to their slumbers, 

And some are gcme home to their wives. 

And I, while my cab in the shower 

Is waiting, the last at the door, 
Am looking all round for the flower 

That fell from your wreath on the floor. 
I'll keep it — if but to remind me. 

Though withered and faded its hue — 
Wherever next season may find me — 

Of England — of Almack's — aud you ! 

There are tones that will liauut us, though lonely 

Our path be o'er mountain or sea; 
There are looks that will part from us only 

When memory ceases to be; 
There are hopes which our burden can Iight4?n. 

Though toilsome and steep be the way ; 
Ami dreams that, like moonlight, can brighten. 

With a light that is clearer than day. 

There are names that we cherish, though nameless 

Kor aye on the lip they may be ; 
There are hearts that, though fettered, are tameless, 

Aud thoughts unexpressed, but still free I 
Aud some are too grave for a rover. 

And some for a husband too light. 
— The ball and my dream are all over — 

Good-night to thee, hulv! good-night! 



CHARADE. 

CAMP-BELL. 

Come fiom my First, ay, come ; 

The battle dawn is nigh ; 
And the screaming trump and the thundering drum 

Are calling thee to die ; 
Fight, as thy father fought ; 

Fall, as thy father fell; 



WINTHEOP MACETVORTH PRAED.—LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDOy. 



Thy task is tanglit, tliy sliroud is •n-ronglit — 
So, forward ! and farewell ! 

Toll ye my Secoud, toll ; 

Fling high the flambeau's light ; 
And siug the hymn fur a parted soul 

Beneath the silent night ; 
The helm upou his head, 

The cross upon Iiis breast, 
Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed : 

Xow take him to his rest ! 

Call ye my Whole, go, eall — 

The Lord of lute and lay. 
And let him greet the sable pall 

With a noble song to-day : 
Ay, call him by bis name ; 

Xo fitter hand may crave 
To light the tlame of a soldier's fame. 

On the turf of a soldier's grave. 



I EEMEMBER, I REMEMBER, 

I remember, I remember 

How my childhood fleeted by,— 
The mirth of its December, 

And the warmth of its July; 
On nij- brow-, love, on my brow, love, 

There are no signs of care ; 
But my i)leasures are not now, love. 

What childhood's pleasures were. 

Then the bowers, then the bowers, 

Were blithe as blithe could be; 
And all their radiant iiowers 

Were coronals for me : 
Gems to-night, love — gems to-night, love. 

Are gleaming iu my hair ; 
But they are not half so bright, love. 

As childhood's roses were, 

I was singing — I was singing. 

And my songs were idle words; 
But from my heart was springing 

Wild music like a bird's: 
Now I sing, love — now I sing, love, 

A fine Italian air ; 
But it's not so glad a thing, love, 

As childhood's ballads wei'C ! 

I was merry — I was merry. 
When my little lovers came, 
37 



With a lily, or a cherry. 

Or ,a new invented game ; 
Now I've you, love — now I've you, love. 

To kneel before mo there ; 
But you know you're not so true, love, 

As chiUlhood's lovers were I 



Cctititt (JrlinibctI) £aui)on. 

Miss Landou, the daughter of an army agent, was born 
in Clielsea, England, in 1803, and died in 1S3S. She began 
to write verses at an early age, and, under tlie signature 
of L, E, L,, contributed largely to the Loiuhm JAterary 
Gazette. Her father died, and she supported herself and 
some of her relatives by her pen. In 1S38 she was mar- 
ried to George Maclean, Governor of Cape Co.ast Castle, 
and sailed for her new home. There, in October of the 
same year, she died from an over-dose of prussie aeid, 
wliieli slie was in the Ijabit of taking for an liystcrieal 
affection. Her poems, popular in tlicir day, show, witli 
some Hashes of genius, the "fatal facility" wliicli rests 
in medioerity. Perhaps she could not afford to blot, so 
long as lier most trifling productions brouglit the much- 
needed money. Her "Poetical Sketches" appeared in 
1821; "The Improvisatriee, and otlier Poems," in 1824, 
Her "Life and Literary Remains" were published by 
Laman Blanehard in 1841, Her collected poems, edited 
by W, B. Scott, appeared in 1873. Slie wrote several 
novels, the reputation of which was eplicmeral. 



SUCCESS ALONE SEEN. 

Few know of life's beginnings — men behidd 

The goal achieved; — the warrior, when his sword 

Flashes red triumph in the noonday sun ; 

The iioet, when his lyre hangs <mi the palm ; 

The statesman, when the crowd proclaim his voice, 

And mould opinion, on his gifted tongue : 

They count not life's first steps, and never think 

Upon the many miserable hours 

When hope deferred was sickness to the heart. 

They rcekiui not the battle and the march. 

The long privations of a wa.sted youth; 

They never see the banner till unfurled. 

What are to them the solitary nights 

Pas.sed, pale and anxious, by the sickljf liinip. 

Till the young iioet wins the world at last 

To listen to the music long his own ? 

The crowd attend the statesman's fiery mind 

That makes their destiny; but they do not trace 

Its struggle, or its long expectancy. 

Hard are life's early steps ; and, but that youth 

Is buoyant, confident, and strong in hope. 

Men would behold its ihroshold, and despair. 



578 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



DEATH AND THE YOUTH. 

" Not yet, — the flowers aie in my path, 

The suu is in the sky ; 
Not yet, — my heart is full of hojje, 

I cannot hear to <lic. 

" Not yet, — I never knew till now 
How precious life could be ; 

My heart is full of love, O Death ! 
I cannot eomo with thee!" 

But Love anil Hope, enchanted twain, 
Passed in their falsehood by; 

Death came again, and then he said, 
" I'm ready now to die !" 



Albert (Norton Greene. 

AMERICAN. 

Greene (180a-18fi8) was a native of Providence, R. I., 
and graduated at Brown University. He became a law- 
yer, and filled various municipal otHces. He was the au- 
thor of "The Baron's Last Banquet," quite a spirited bal- 
lad, and of several fugitive poems, not yet collected in a 
volume. 



OLD GRIMES. 

Old Grimes is dead; that good ohl man 

We never shall see more ; 
Ho used to wear a long black coat. 

All buttoned down before. 

His heart was open as the day, 

His feelings all were true; 
His hair was some inclined to gray. 

He wore it in a queue. 

Whene'er ho heard the voice of pain, 
His breast with pity burned ; 

Tlie largo round head upon his cane 
From ivory was turned. 

Kind words he ever had for all; 

He knew no base design ; 
His eyes were daik, and rather small; 

His uose was aquiline. 

He lived at peace with all mankind. 

In friendship lie was true ; 
His coat bad pockcf-holes behind, 

His pantaloons were blue. 



Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes. 

He passed securely o'er, 
And never wore a pair of boots 

For thirty years or more. 

But good old Grimes is now at rest, 
Nor fears misfortune's frown ; 

He wore a donble-breasted vest. 
The stripes ran up and down. 

He modest merit sought to find, 

And pay it its desert; 
Ho had no nnilice in his mind. 

No ruffles on his shirt. 

His neighbors he did not abuse. 

Was sociable and gay ; 
He wiire large buckles on his shoes. 

And changed them every day. 

His knowledge, hid from public gaze. 
He did not bring to view, — 

Nor make a noise town-meeting days. 
As many people do. 

His worldly goods he never threw 
In trust to fortune's chances ; 

But lived (as all his brothers do) 
In easy circumstances. 

Thus undisturbed by anxious cares, 

His peaceful moments ran ; 
And everybody said ho was 

A flue old gentleman. 



(!3cor!je Dcnison |3rcntirc. 

AMERICAN. 

Prentice {180!J-1870) was a native of Preston, Conn., 
and gi'aduated at Brown University in 183:1 From 1838 
to 18:30 he was editor of the New England \\'nkhj lievkir. 
In 18B1 he became editor of the Louisville (Viy.)JuHr>ii<t, 
and retained that position until his death, lie was quito 
celebrated lor his editorial witticisms. 



TO AN AB,SENT WIFE. 

'Tis morn ; the sea-breeze seems to bring 
Joy, health, and freshness on its wing; 
Bright flowers, to me all strange and new, 
Are glittering in the early dew; 



GEORGE DEXISOX PRENTICE. 



579 



And perfiimi's rise from many a grove 
As incense to the clouds that move 
Like spirits o'er you welkiu clear; 
Bnt I am sad — tliou art not here. 

'Tis noon ; a calm, unbroken sleep 
Is on the blue waves of the deep ; 
A soft haze, like a fairy dream, 
Is lloating over hill and stream ; 
And many a broad nuiguolia flower 
Within its shadowy woodland bower 
Is gleaming like a lovely star; 
But I am sad — thou art afar. 

'Tis eve ; on earth the sunset skies 
Are painting their own Eden dyes; 
The stars come down, and trembling glow 
Like blossoms in the ■waves below ; 
And, like some unseen sprite, tlie breeze 
Seems lingering 'mid the orange-trees. 
Breathing in music round the spot ; 
But I am sad — I see tliee not. 

'Tis midnight; with a soothing spell 
Tlie far toiie.s of the ocean swell. 
Soft as a mother's cadence mild, 
Low bending o'er her sleeping eliild; 
And on each wandering breeze are heard 
The rich notes of the mocking-bird 
In many a wild and wondrous lay ; 
But I am sad — thou art away. 

I sink iu dreams, low, sweet, and clear; 
Thy own dear voice is iu my ear; 
Around uiy cheek thy tresses twine. 
Thy own loved hand is clasped in mine, 
Tliy own soft lip to mine is pressed, 
Tliy head is pillowed on my breast. 
Oh! I have all my heart holds dear; 
And I am hapiiy, — thou art here. 



LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN. 

Historic mount! baptized iu flame and blond, 

Tliy name is as immortal as the rocks 

That crown thy thunder-scarred but royal brow. 

Thou liftest up thy ag^id head iu pride 

In the cool atmosphere, but higher still 

Within the calm and solenni atmosphere 

Of an immortal fame. From thy sublime 

And awful summit I can gaze afar 

Upon inuumerous lesser piunacle-s, 



And oh! my winged spirit loves to fly, 

Like a strong eagle, 'mid their up-piled crags. 

But most on thee, imperial mount, my soul 

Is chained as by a spell of power. — I gaze 

Where Death held erst high carnival. The wavis 

Of the mysterious death-river moaned ; 

The tramp, the shout, the fearful thunder-roar 

Of red-breathed caunou, and the wailing cry 

Of myriad victims, filled the air. The smoke 

Of battle closed above the charging hosts. 

And, when it passed, the grand old flag no more 

Waveil in the light of heaven. The soil was wit 

And miiy witli the life-blond of the brave. 

As with a drencliing rain ; and yon broad stream, 

The noble and majestic Tennessee, 

Ran reddened toward the deep. 

But thou, O bleak 
And roekj" mountain, wast tlie theatre 
Of a yet fiercer struggle. On thy height, 
Where now I sit, — a proud and gallant host, 
The chivalry and glory of the South, 
Stood up awaiting battle. Sombre clouds, 
Floating afar beneath them, shut from view 
The stern and silent foe, who.se storied flag 
Bore on its folds our country's monarch-bird, 
Wliose talons grasp the thnnder-bcdt. Uii, up 
Thy rugged sides they came with measured tramp. 
Unheralded hy bugle, drum, or sliont; 
And though tlie clouds closed round them with the 

gloom 
Of double night, tlie,y paused not in their march 
Till sword and plume and bayonet emerged 
Above tlie spectral shades that circled round 
Tliy awful breast. Then suddenly a storm 
Of flame and lead and iron downward burst 
From this tall pinnacle, like winter hail. 
Long, fierce, and bloody was the strife, — alas ! 
The noble flag, our country's hope and pride, 
Sank down beneath the surface of the clouds. 
As sinks the pennon of a shipwrecked bark 
Beneath a stormy sea, and naught was heard 
Save the wild cries and moans of stricken men. 
And the swift rush of fleeing warriors down 
Thy rugged steeps. 

But .soon the trumpet-voice 
Of the bold chieftain of the routed host 
Resounded through the atmosphere, and pierced 
The clouds that hung around thee. With high words 
He quickly .summoned his brave soldiery back 
To the renewal of the deadly fight : 
Again their stern and measured tramp was heard 
By the flushed Southrons, as it echoed up 
Thy bald, majestic cliffs. Again they burst. 



GSO 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BEITISH AND AMERICAN POEfRT- 



Ijike spirits of tlesfiuctioii, tlirough tbo clouds, 
And 'raid a tbousaud Imrtling missiles swept 
'I'lieir foes before tbeiu as tbe wliiihviud sweeps 
Tlio strong oaks of tbe forest. A'ictory 
I'ercbed with her sister-eagle oil the scorched 
And torn and blackened banner. 

Awfnl monnt ! 
The staius of blood have faded from thy rocks; 
The cries of mortal agouy have ceased 
To eclio from thy hollow clifl's, tbe smoke 
Of battle long since melted into air, 
And yet thou art unchanged. Ay, thou wilt lift 
In majesty thy walls above the storm, 
Mocking the generations as they pass ; 
And pilgrims of the far-off centuries 
Will sonnUinies linger in their wanderings, 
To ponder, with a deep and sacred awe, 
The legend of the tight above the clouds. 



illrs. Cou'tsa 3ane C)all. 

AMERICAN, 

Mi-s. Hall was born in Newburyport, Mass., in 1802. 
She was the daughter of Dr. James Park, who estab- 
lished a nourishing school for young ladies in Boston. 
She married the Rev. Dr. Edward B. Hall, of Providence, 
R. I. She was the author of "Miriam," a dramatic 
poem, illustrative of the early conflicts of the Christian 
Church; "Jo.inna of Naiiles," a historical tale; and 
other works. But her "Waking Dreams" will probably 
outlive licr longer productions. 



GROW NOT OLD. 

Never, my heart, wilt thou grow old ! 
My hair is %vhite, my blood runs cold. 
And one by one my powers depart ; 
But youth sits sudling in my heart. 

Downhill the jiath of age? Oh no! 
Up, up, with patient steps I go; 
I watch the skies fast brigliteuiug there, 
I breathe a sweeter, purer air. 

Beside my road small ta.sks spring up, 
Though but to hand the cooling cup, 
Speak the true word of hearty cbeer, 
Tell the lone soul that God is near. 

Beat on, my heart, and grow not old ! 
And when thy pulses all ai'c told, 
IjCt me, though working, loving still, 
Kneel as 1 meet my Father's will. 



WAKING DREAMS. 

Of idle bopes and fancies wild, 
O Father, dispossess thy child ; 
Teacli me that wasted thouglit is sin, 
Teach me to rule this world within. 

While waking dreams the mind contnd, 
There is no growth in this poor soul ; 
And visions hold me back from deeds, 
And earth is dear, and heaven recedes. 

Oh, with one flash of heavenly light 
Rouse me, although with jiain and fright ! 
Show me the siu of wasted powers, 
Scourge me from useless, dreaming hours. 



«JI)Oinas vlirb. 



Aird (1803-18T6) was a native of the village of Bowden, 
Scotland. He went through a course of study at the 
University of Edinburgh, whore he made the acquaint- 
ance of Wilson, Moir, and other literary men. He wrote 
for 2jfackwoo(VR Magazine^ and became editor of the Dttin- 
fries Ileyahl. In 1848 he collected and ])ublisbed his 
poems ; of which a new edition appeared in 18.56, and a 
fifth edition in ISTS. 



THE SWALLOW. 

The little comers coming, the comer o'er the sea. 
The comer of tbe summer, all the sunny days to be ; 
How pleasant, through the pleasant sleep, thy early 

twitter beard — 
O swallow by the lattice ! glad days be thy reward ! 

Thine be sweet nuirning, with the bee that's out for 
honey-dew, 

And glowing be the noontide, for the grasshopper 
and yon ; 

And mellow shine, o'er day's decline, the sun to lighf 
thee borne — 

What can molest thy airy nest ? Sleep till the mor- 
row come. 

The river bine that lapses through the valley, licius 
thee sing, 

And murmurs much beneath the touch of thy liglil, 
dipping wing; 

The thunder-cloud, over us bowed, in deeper gloom 
is seen, 

When quick relieved it glances to thy bosom's sil- 
very sheen. 



niCBARD HENCrlST HOBNE.—LAMAN BLANCBABD. 



581 



The silent PoTver tliat brings tlico back, with Icail- 

ing-strings of love, 
To haunts where first the snniiner sun fell on thee 

from above, 
Siuill bintl thee more to come aj-e to the music of 

our leaves ; 
For here thy young, whcro thou hast sprung, shall 

glad thee in our caves. 



liitljavi) tjciuViGt t)oruc. 

Horne, born in London in 1S03, wns educated at Sand- 
hurst College, ife entered the Mexican navy as a mid- 
shipman in the war against Spain, and when peace came 
returned to England, and devoted liimself to literature. 
He is the author of three tragedies, of wliich lie regarded 
"Gregory the Seventh" as his host; has written stories 
hn- children, disquisitions, ballads and romances, hiog- 
rapliies and essays. His most successful work, " Orion, 
an Epic Poem" (1843), had reached a ninth edition in 
1874. The price of the first edition was pUiccd at a far- 
thing, " as a sarcasm upon tlic low estimation into wliich 
epic poetry has fiillen." Three large editions were sold 
at a farthing a copy ; the fourth was raised to a shilling, 
and the tilth to half a crown. In his "Literati" Foe 
gives an elaborate and eulogistic review of "Orion." 
Tlie poem contains some lieantiful pass.ages, hut lacks 
tlie human, normal interest which a successful epic must 
have. 



MORNING. 



Tkom " Orion.' 



O'er meadows green or solitary lawn. 
When birds appear earth's sole inhabitants, 
Tlie long, clear shadows of the morning difi'er 
From those of eve, which are more soft and va 
Suggestive of past days and mellowed grief. 
The lights of morning, even as her shades, 
.\re architectural, and pre-eminent 
In quiet freshness, 'mid the pause that holds 
Prelusive energies. All life awakes: 
.Morn conies at tirst with white, nucertaiu ligh 
Then takes a faint red, like an opening bud 
Seen throngh gray mist ; the mist clears off; tho 
I'lifoids; grows ruddy; fakes a crimson flush 
Puts forth bright sprigs of gold, — which .soon 

panding 
In .saffron, thence pure golden shines the mi>rii 
I'ldifrs its clear, bright fabric of white clouds, 
-\11 tinted, like a shell of polished pearl. 
With varied glanciugs, vi<det gleam and blusli 
ICiiiliraces nature ; and then passes on. 
Leaving the sun to perfect his great work. 



t; 

sky 
cx- 



SUMMER NOON. 

From " OnioN.'* 
There was a slumbrous silence in the air, 
By noontide's sultry murmurs from without 
Ma<le more al)livious. Not a i)ipe was heard 
From field or wood ; but the grave beetle's drone 
Passed near the entrance : once tlio cuckoo called 
O'er distant meads, and once .a horn began 
Melodious plaint, then died away. A sound 
Of murmnrons music yet was in the breeze, 
For silver gnats that harp on glassy strings, 
And rise and fall in sparkling clouds, sustained 
Their dizzy dances o'er the .seething meads. 



£ainan Slaiuljtivi). 



Samuel Laman Blanehard (1803-1845) was a native of 
Great Yarmouth, England. His father, a painter and gla- 
zier, gave him a good classical edncation, but could not 
afford to send him to college. Laman liad a week's ex- 
perience on the stage, and was disenchanted of liis theat- 
rical aspirations. He then thought of joining Lord By- 
ron in Greece, in company with Jerrold. This plan was 
abandoned, and at the .age of twenty he married. He 
engaged editoriallj' in literature and politics; was con- 
nected successively with the Munthhj Magazine, La Belle 
Axscmblee, the True Sun, the Court Journal, Ainsworth's 
Magazine, and the Examiner. In 1838 lie published "Lyr- 
ic Offerings," a volume cordially praised by Lord Lytton, 
tlien Sir Edward BuUvcr Lytton, and editing the S'eiu 
Monthly Magazine; who called attention to "the follow- 
ing exquisite lines" in a sonnet on Noon : 
"This is sweet, 
To see the heavens all open, and the hood 
Of cryi<tal Xoon filing hack! the earth meanwhile 
Filling her veins with sunshine— vital blood 
Of all that now from her fall breast doth smile 
(Caetinj^ no shadow) on that pleasant flood 
Of light, where every mote is some small minstreVs inle.'^ 

Laman Blanehard died by his own hand, while he was in 
a state of great uervotis excitement, bordering on insan- 
ity. Six months before, he had expressed his horror of 
suicide. " How dreadful," he said, " it would be for the 
children ! If nothing else would deter me, that would." 
In 1846 appeared "Sketches from Life, by the late La- 
man Blanehard: with a Memoir of the Author by Sir 
Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart.;" who says of Blanehard: 
"lie was thoroughly honest, true, and genuine; ever 
ready to confer a kindness; and of a grateful disposi- 
tion, which exaggerated into obligation the most com- 
monplace returns to his own affectionate feelings and 
ready friendship." 

THE ELOQUENT PASTOR DEAD. 

He taught the cheerfulness that still is ours. 
The sweetness that still Inrks in liuinan powers: 
If heaven be full of stars, the earth has flowers! 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



His was tbe searcliiiig tlioiigbt, tlio <;l"^^'iig niiiul ; 
The gentle will to otliers' soon resigned ; 
lint, more than all, the feeling jnst ami kind. 

His pleasnres were as melodies from reeds — 
Sweet books, deep nuisic, and nnselfisli deeds, 
Finding iniinin-tal tlowers in linman weeds. 

'I'rne to liis kind, nor of liimself afraid. 

Me deemed that love of God was best arrayed 

In love of all the things that God has made. 

He deemed man's life no feverish dream of care, 

I!nt a high patlnvay into freer air, 

Lit np with golden hopes and dnties fair. 

He showed how wisdom turns its hours to years, 
Keidiug the heart <m joys instead of fears, 
And worships God in smiles, and not in tears. 

His thoughts were as a pyramid up-piled. 

On whose far top an angel stood and smiled — 

Vet in his heart was he a simple child. 



THE BIRD-CATCHER. 

Gently, gently yet, young stranger. 

Light of heart and light of heel ! 
Ere the bird perceives its danger, 

Ou it slyly steal. 
Silence! Ah! your scheme is failing! 

No ; pursue your pretty- prey ; 
See, your .slmdow on tbe paling 
Startles it away. 

Caution! now you'ie nearer creeping; 

Nearer yet — how still it seems ! 
Sure, the wingdd creature's sleeping 

AVraiiped iu forest-dreams! 
Golden sights that bird is seeing — 

Nest of green or mossy bough ; 
Not a thought it has of tleeing; 
Yes, you'll catch it now. 

How your eyes begin to twinkle! 
Silence, and you'll scarcely fail ; 
Now stoop down and softly sprinkle 

Salt upon its tail. 
Yes, you have it in yonr tether. 

Never more to skim the skies; 
Lodge the salt on that long feather: 
Ila! it Hies! it flies! 



Hear it, hark ! among tbe bushes, 

Laughing at your idle lures! 
Boy. tbe self-same feeling gushes 

Through my heart aud yours. 
Baffled sportsman, childish Mentor, 

How have I been — hapless fault! — 
Led, like you, my hopes to centre 
Ou a grain of salt! 

On what captures I've been counting, 

Stooping here and creeping there, 
All to see my bright hopes mounting 

High into tlie air! 
Tims have children of all ages, 
Seeing bliss before them fly. 
Found their Iicarts but empty cages, 
And tlieir hopes — ou high! 



SONNET: HIDDEN JOYS. 

Pleasures lie thickest where no pleasnres seem: 
Tliere's not a leaf that falls upon the ground 
But holds some joy, of silence or of sound. 
Some sprite begotten of a summer dream. 
The very meanest things are made sujireme 
With innate ecstasy. No graiu of sand 
But moves a bright and million-peopled Ian<l, 
And bath its Eden, and its Eves, I deem. 
For Love, though V)lind liimself. a curious eye 
Hath lent me, to behold tbe hearts of things, 
And touched mine ear with power. Thus far or nigh, 
Sliunte or luighty, fixed, or free with wings, 
Delight from many a nameless covert sly 
Peeps sjiarkling, and in tones familiar slugs. 



SONNET.: WISHES OF YOUTH. 

Gayly and greenly let my seasons run : 

And slionld the war-winds of the world uproot 

Tlie sanctities of life, ami its sweet fruit 

Cast f<utb as fuel for the fiery sun, — 

Tlic dews bo turned to ice, — fair days begun 

In peace wear out in pain, ami sounds that suit 

Despair and discord keep Hope's harp-string nint( 

Still let me live as Love aiul Life were one: 

Still let me turn on earth a cbildliko gaze. 

And trust the whispered charities that bring 

Tidings of human truth ; with inward praise 

AVatch the weak motion of each common thing, 

Aud find it glorious — still let me raise 

On wintry wrecks an altar to the Spring. 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAX.— DOUGLAS JERROLD. 



58:i 



5aval) f)clcn llUjitiiian. 

AMERICAN. 

The maiden name of Mrs. Whitman (1803-1878) was 
Power, and she was a native of Providence, R. I. In 
1828 she married Jolm Winslow Wliitnian, a Boston law- 
yer, who died in 1883, after wliieh she resided in Provi- 
dence. For a sliort period during lier widowhood she 
was betrothed (1848) to Poe, the poet, and one of liis 
most impassioned poems is addressed to her. In 1853 
she published " Hours of Life, and other Poems ;" and in 
1859, "Ediiar Poe and His Critics." Among tlio many 
obvious allusions to Poe in her poems is the following: 

"Oh ! when thy faults are all forgiven, 

When nil my sins aie pursued awrty, 
May our freed spirits meet iu heaven. 

Where darkness melts to perfect day ! 
'J'here mjiy thy wondrous harp awake. 

And there my rnusomed soul with thee 
Behold the eterti.al morning break 

In glory o'er the jasper sea." 

" Both the verse and prose of Mrs. Wliitman," says Mr. 
George W. Curtis, "have a distinctive attraction from 
tlie same pure and fresh earnestness, combined with 
sweet and grave restraint, which was the basis of her 
character." A complete edition of her poems, revised 
in the last year of lier life, was published in Boston in 
1879. The pieces which we quote have an obvious ref- 
erence to Poe. 



THE LAST FLOWERS. 

Do.st thou remember that autumnal day 

When by the Seekonk's lonely wave we stood, 

.\tid marked the languor of repose that lay, 
Softer than sleep, ou valley, wave, and wood ? 

A trance of htily sadness seemed to lull 
The cliarmtSd earth and circumambieut air, 

And the low murmur of the leaves seemed full 
Of a resigned and passionless despair. 

Though the warm breath of Summer lingered still 
In the lone paths where late her footsteps passed, 

The pallid star-flowers on the i)nr|ilo hill 

Sighed dreamily, " We are the last — the last !" 

I .•stood beside thee, and a dream of heaven 

Around me like a golden halo fell! 
Then the briglit veil of fantasy was riven. 

And my lips murmured, "Faro thee well! fare- 
well!" 

I dared not listen to thy words, nor turn 
To meet the mystic language of thine cye.s ; 

I only fdt their power, and iu the urn 

Of memory treasured their sweet rhapsodies. 



We parted then, forever — and the hours 

Of that bright day were gathered to the past — 
But, through long, wintry nights, I heard the flowers 

Sigh dreamily, " We are the last! — the last!" 



SONNETS : TO E. A. P." 



When first I looked into thy glorious eyes. 
And saw, with their unearthly beauty pained. 
Heaven deepening within heaven, like the skies 
Of autumn nights without a shadow stained, — 
I stood as one whom some strange dream inthralls; 
For, far away, iu some lost life divine, 
Some land which every glorious dream recalls, 
A spirit looked on me with eyes like thine. 
E'en now, though death has veiled their starry light, 
Ami closed their lids in his relentless night — 
As some strange dream, remembered iu a dream. 
Again I sec in sleep their tender beam ; 
Unfading hopes their clotulless azure till. 
Heaven deepening within heaven, serene and still. 



If th.v sad heart, pining for human love, 
In its earth-solitude grew dark with fear, 
Le.st the high Snn of Heaven it.sclf should prove 
Powerless to save from that phantasmal sphere 
Wherein thy sjiirit wandered — if the flowers 
That pressed around th.y feet seemed but to bloom 
In lone Gethsemanes, through starless hours, 
When all who loved had left thee to thy doom: — 
Oh, yet believe that in that hollow vale 
Where thy soul lingers, waiting to attain 
So much of Heaven's sweet grace as shall avail 
To lift, its burden of remorseful pain, — 
M,v soul shall meet thee, and its heaven forego 
Till God's great love on both one hope, one Heaven, 
bestow. 



Doufllaa iJcrroli). 



Jerrokl (1803-1857) was a native of London. His early 
days were passed in Sheerncss, where his father, ati actor, 
was lessee of the theatre. Before he had completed his 
tenth year, Douglas served two years at sea as a midship- 
man. Then he removed with his parents to London, be- 
came apprentice to a printer, and gave every spare mo- 
ment to solitary self-instrnetiou. He took early to dra- 
matic writing. His nautical drama, " Blaek-cyed Susan," 
was brought out at the Surrey Theatre in 1829, and had 
a run of three hundred nights, though Jerrold got from 

' Edgar A. Poe. 



584 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMIiRICAN POETRY. 



it only about £70. Other dramas followed, abounding 
in pointfd and witty sayings. He contributed largely to 
/"««<■/!, and in 18.53 became editor oi LlvycVs irtcW// Xeirs- 
paper at a salary of £1000 per annum. lie died in 18.57, 
after a sliort illness, and a fund of £2000 was raised by 
liis friends for the benefit of liis family. Jerrold's wit 
was neat and l)rilliant. Here are specimens: "Dogma- 
tism is llic maturity of puppyism." "A friend of an un- 
fortunate lawyer met Jerrold, and said : ' Have you beard 

about poor R ? His business is going to tlie devil.' 

Jerruld: ' That's all right; then he is sure to get it back 
again.'" "Some member of a club, hearing a certain 
melody mentioned, said : 'That always carries me away 
when I hear it.' 'Can nobody whistle itV exclaimed 
Jerrold." Though his poetical effusions arc few in num- 
ber, they are always sensible and pithy. 



THE DRUM. 

Yoniler is a little ilriini, hanging on the wall; 
Dusty wreaths anil tattered tlag.s round about it fall. 
A shepherd youth on Cheviot's hills watclied the 

sheep whose skin 
A cunning workman wrought, and gave the little 

drum its din ; 
And happy was the slicphcrd-hoj- while tending of 

his fold, 
Nor thought he there was iu the world a spot like 

Cheviot's wold. 

And so it was for many a day; lint change willi 

time will come. 
And he (alas for him the day I) — he heard the little 

drum. 
"Follow," said the drummer-Ijoy, "would you live 

ill story ! 
For he who strikes a foenian down wins a wreath 

of glory." 
^'Riib-a-diih ! and ruh-a-duh '.'' the drunnner heats 

away— 
The shepherd lets his Ideating flock on Clieviot 

wildly stray. 

On Egypt's arid wastes of sand (ho sheidurd now 

is lying; 
Around liim many a parching tongu(^ for "water'' 

faintly crying. 
Oh that he were on Cheviot's hills, with velvet 

verdure sprca<l, 
Or lying 'mid the blooming heath where oft he 

made his bed ; 
Or could ho drink of those sweet rills that trickle 

to its vales. 
Or hri'allu' once more the balminess of Cheviot's 

mountain gales ! 



At length upon his wearied eyes the mists of slum- 
ber come. 

And he is in liis home again, till wakened by tlie 
drum. 

"To arms! to arms!'' his leader cries; " the foe — 
the foe is uigh !" 

Guns loudly roar, steel clanks on steel, and thou- 
sands fall to die. 

The shepherd's blood makes red the sand : '• Oh 
water — give me some! 

My voice might meet a friendly ear bnt for that 
little drum!" 

'Mid moaning men and dying men, the drunimcr 

kept his way, 
And many a one by "glory" Inred abhorred the 

drum that day. 
'' Riih-d-dith ! (uid riih-a-diib .'" the drummer beat 

aloud — 
The shepherd died; and, ere the miirn,the hot sand 

was his shrotid. 
And this is"glory?" Yes; and still will man the 

tempter follow, 
Nor learn that glory, like its drum, is hut a sound, 

and hollow. 



Hobcrt Stcpljcu tjaiukcr. 

IlawUer (1803-1875), a native of Plymoutli, England, 
was for more than forty years Vicar of Morwenstow, Corn- 
wall. He was educated at 0.\ford, and as early as 18il 
published a collection of poems anonymously, under the 
title of "Tendrils, by Reuben." He was twice married. 
The evening before his death ho was received into the 
Roman Catholic Church. A collection of liis poems was 
published by Kegau, Paul & Co., London, 1879. Tlieie 
is much in it that is conimoniilaee ; but the "Song of 
the Cornish Men " is one of tlie most spirited little lyrics 
iu the language. 



SONG OF THE CORNISH MEN. 

With ttie exception of the choral lines, 

" And sli.ill Trelawii.v die ? 
Here's twenty tlionsiind Coniisli men 

Will know tlie reason wliy" — 
and wtiicli have l>cen, ever since the imprisonment liy James II. 
of the seven l>istnip.=, a jiopntar proverb in foniwall, tlic wlnile 
of tills soii^ was conipo.«ed by Hawker in 1S2.">. It was praised 
by Scott, Macaulay, and Dickens under the ]iei-siiasioii that it 
was the ancient song. Dl<:kens afterward admitted its pater- 
nity in his "Uoaschuld Words." 

A good sword and a trii.sty haml ! 

A merry heart and true ! 
King James's men shall understand 

AVhat Cornish lads can do. 



IIOBEHT STEPHEN HAWKER.— CHARLES SWAIN. 



585 



Ami Iiave they fixed tlio wheie aud wbeu ? 

And shall Ticlawiiy die ? 
Here's twenty thousand Cornish men 

Will know the reason why ! 

Oiitspako their captain, brave and bold, 

A merry \\iglit was he : 
" If London Tower were MicIiaeVs hold, 

We'll set Trelawny free ! 

"We'll cross the Tamar land to land, 

The Severn is no stay, — 
AVith one and all, and hand-in-baud. 

And w ho shall bid us nay '? 

"Aud wbcu wo come to Loudon Wall, — 

A jileasant sight to view, — 
Come forth! come forth, ye cowards all. 

To better men than you ! 

"Trelawny he's iu keep and hold, 

Trelawny he may die ; 
But here's twenty thousand Cornish b )ld. 

Will know the reason why !'' 



'ARE THEY NOT ALL MINISTERING SPIRITS ?" 

We see them not — we cannot hear 

The music of their wing — 
Yet know we that they sojourn near, — 

The Angels of the Spring! 

They glide along this lovely ground. 
When the fust violet grows: — 

Their graceful hands have just unbound 
The zone of yonder rose. 

I gather it for thy dear breast, 

From stain and shadow free; 
That which an AngeVs touch hath blessed 

Is meet, my love, for thee ! 



Cljttvlcs SuHxiu. 



A native of Manchester, England, nucl carrying on 
business tliere as an engraver, Swain (1803-1874) wrote 
verses for the LHcrary Gazette and other Jom-nuls. If his 
lyrical (lights were not liigli, they were sliort and grace- 
lul. He publislied "Metrical Essays" (1827); "Tlie 
Mind, and other Poems" (1831); "Dramatic Cliapters, 
Poems, and Songs" (1847); "English Melodies" (1S49) ; 
•■Songs aud Ballads" (18(iS). 



WHAT IT IS TO LOVE. 

Love? I will tell theo what it is to love! 
It is to build with human thoughts a shrine. 
Where Ifope sits brooding like a beauteous dove ; 
Where time seems young — and life a thing divine. 
All tastes, all pleasures, all desires combine 
To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss. 
Above, the stars in shroudless beauty shine ; 
Around, the streams their flowery margins kiss : 
And if there's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely 
this. 

Y'es, this is love — the steadfast and the true; 
The immortal glory which hath never set ; 
The best, the brightest boon the heart e'er knew ; 
Of all life's sweets the very sweetest yet ! 
Oh, who can but recall the eve tliej- met. 
To breathe iu some green walk their lirst young 

vow, 
While summer flowers with evening dews were 

wet. 
Ami winds sighed soft around the mountain's 

brow. 
And all was rapture then, which is but memory uuw ! 



THE BEAUTIFUL PAY. 

Day on the mountain, the beautiful day ! 
And the torrents leap forth in the pride of his ray. 
The chamois awakes from his wild forest dream. 
Aud bounds in the gladness and life of his beau) ; 
And the horn of the hunter is sounding, — away! 
Light, light on the hills, 'tis the beautiful day I 

Day in the v.alley, — the rivulet rolls 
Cloudless aud calm as the homo of our souls ; 
The harvest is waving, aud fountain and flower 
Are sparkling and sweet as the radiant hour: 
And the song of the reapers, the lark's sunny lay, 
Proclaim through the valley, day, beautiful day I 

Oh, solemn and sad his far setting appears. 
When the last ray declines, and the flowers are in 

tears ; 
When the shadows of evening like dcath-bannoi's 

wave, 
Aud darkness encloses the world liko a grave : 
Yet the sun, like the soul, shall arise from decay, 
And again light the world with day, beautiful day! 



5ri6 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BKITISH AND JMEEICJX POETRT. 



©cralb (Srif&n. 



Griflin (1803-1840), author of tbe remarkable novel of 
"The Collegians," was a native of Limerick, Ireland. 
He cnii.i;iated to London in his twentieth year, beeame 
a reporter, and tiieu an author. In ISoS he joined the 
Christian Brotherhood, a Roman Catholic institution, 
and two .years later died of fevci-. He gave proof of rare 
literary abilities. " The book that above all others," says 
Miss Mary Russell Mitford, "speaks to me of the trials, 
the sutlerinss, tlie broken heart of a man of genius, is 
that Life of Gerald Griffin, written by a brother wortliy 
of him, which precedes the only edition of his collected 
works." 



SONG. 



A place in tliy memory, ilearest, 

Is all tliat I claim, 
To pause and look back when thou licarost 

Tlie souud of my name. 
Another may woo tlieo uearer, 
Another may win and wear; 
I cavo not, tliongh lie be dearer, 
If I am remembered there. 

Could I he thy true lover, dearest, 

Couldst thou smile on me, 
I would be tlie fondest and nearest 

That ever loved thee. 
Hilt a cloud o'er my pathway is glooming 
Which never must break upon tliine, 
And Heaven, which made tliee all blooming, 
NeVr made thee to wither on mine. 

Remember me not as a lover 

Whose fond hopes are crossed, 
Whose bosom can never recover 

The liglit it has lost: — 
As the young bride remembers the mother 
She loves, yet never may sec, 
As a sister remembers a brother, 
Oh, dearest, remember me. 



ADARE.' 

Oh, sweet Adare! oh, lovely vale! 

Oh, soft retreat of sylvan splendor! 
Xor summer sun, nor morning galo 

E'er hailed a scene more softly tender. 

' This lifiiiitifnl and interesting locnlily is about eight miles 
from Limerick. 



How shall I tell the thousand charms 
Within thy verdant bosom dwelling, 

AVhere, lulled in Nature's fostering arms, 
Soft peace abides and joy excelling ? 

Ye morning airs, how sweet at dawn 

The slumbering boughs your song awaken, 
While lingering o'er the silent lawn. 

With odor of the harebell taken! 
Thou rising sun, how richly gleams 

Thy smile from far Knockfierna's mountain. 
O'er waving woods and bounding streams, 

And many a grove and glancing fountain ! 

In sweet Adare, the jocund spring 

His notes of odorous joy is breathing; 
The wild birds in the woodland sing, 

The wild flowers in the vale are wreathing. 
Tliero winds the Mague, as silver clear. 

Among the elms so sweetly flowing, 
There fragrant iu the early year. 

Wild roses on the banks are blowing. 

The wild duck seeks the sedgy bank, 

Or dives beneath the glistening billow, 
Where graceful droop and cluster dank 

The osier bright and rustling willow. 
The liawthoru scents the leafy ilale. 

In thicket lone the stag is belling. 
And sweet along the echoing vale 

The sound of veiii.al joy is swelling. 



THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE. 

The joy-bells are ringing iu gay Malahide ; 
The fresh wind is singing along the sea-side; 
Tlie maids are a.ssenibliiig with garlands of flowers, 
And the harp-strings are trembling in all the glad 
bowers. 

Sw ell, swell the gay measure! roll trumpet and drum ! 
'Mid greetings of pleasure iu splendor they come! 
The chancel is ready, the portal stands wide, 
For the lord and the lady, the bridegroom and bridi'. 

Before the high altar young Maud stands arrayed : 
With accents that falter her promise is made : 
From father and mother forever to part, — 
For h\m and no other to treasure her heart. 

The words aro repeated, the brid.al is done , 
The rite is completed, the two, they are one; 



GERALD GRIFFIN.— CnAVNCT HARE TOWNSREXD. 



587 



Tlie vow, it is si)oUtMi all jnire from the heart, 
Tliat must uot be liroUeu till life sball depart. 

Hark ! 'mid the gay clangor that compassed their car, 
Loud accents in anger come mingling afar! 
The foe's on the border! his weapons resound 
Wliere the lines iu disorder unguarded are found! 

As wakes the good shepherd, tbo watchful and bold. 
When the onuee or the leopard is seen near the fold, 
So rises already the chief in Iiis mail, 
While the uew-married lady looks fainting and pale. 

" Sou, husband, and brother! arise to tlie strife! 
For sister and mother, for children and wife! 
O'er hill and o'er hollow, o'er mountain aud plain, 
I'll, true men, and follow ! let dastards reuuiin !" 

Tarrali ! to the battle! — they form into line; — 
The shields, how the)' rattle ! the spears, how they 

shine! 
Siiou, soon shall the foeuian his treachery rue : — 
(In, burgher aud veonian ! to die or to do! 



Tlie eve is declining iu lone Malahide ; 
Tlie maideus are twining fresh wreaths for the bride ; 
Slie marks them unheeding ; her heart is afar. 
Where the clansmen are bleeding for her iu the war. 

Ilaik! loud from the mountain — 'tis victory's cry! 
(I'er woodland and fouutaiu it rings to the sky! 
Tlie foe has retreated! he flees to the shore; 
'I'lie spoiler's defeated — the combat is o'er! 

With foreheads nnruffled the conquerors come; — 
l!ut why have they niutfled the lance aud the drum ? 
What form do they carry aloft ou his shield ? 
Aud where does he tarry, the lord of the field? 

Ve saw him at morning — how gallant and gay! 

Ill bridal adorning, the star of the day: 

Now weep for the lover — his triumph is sped; 

His hope, it is over — the chieftain is dead ! 

t 

Hut, oh ! for the maiden who mourns for that chief. 
With he.art overladen aud Ijrokeu with grief! 
Slie sinks ou the meadow — iu one morning tide 
A wife aud a widow, a maid aud a bride! 

Ve maidens .attending, forbear to condole! 
Your comfort is rending the depths of her soul. 
True — true, 'twas a story for ages of pride, — 
He died iu his glory — but, oh! he has died! 



Qll)auiuj) i)axc (Houinsljcub. 

A giadnatc of Cambridi^e University, Enf;lnu(;l,Towns- 
heuil (1803-1800) wrote verses early iu life. He studied 
for tlie Cluii-ch,anil his convictions took the form of Uni- 
versalism. In 1839 lie published " Facts iu Mesmerism," 
one of the best aud most philosophicul works on the 
subject. In his Preface he s.iys: "I have scarcely con- 
versed with one person of education in Germany who 
was uot able to detail to me some interesting fiict relat- 
ing to mesmerism which had been personally witnessed 
and authenticated." In 18.51 appeared bis "Sermons in 
Sonnets, and other Poems." He made Charles Dickens 
his literary executor. 



"JUDGE NOT."— Matt. vii. 1. 

From " Sermons in Sonnets." 

Judge not, because thou canst not judge aright. 
Not much thon know'st thyself; yet better far 
Than thou know'st others ! — Language is at war 
With purposes ; appearances must tight 
'Gainst real inward feelings. All is slight 
To give a picture of the thiugs that are. 
Fcrl'st thou uot friends who blame thee ever jar 
With truth, uor on thy soul's true ulcer bite ? 
Feel'st thou not utterly that nothing can 
Convey thy being to another's breast ? 
Then how shalt thou explore thy fellow-man ? 
Rather let Christ's great wi.sdom be confessed, 
Who taxed rash judgment as this world's worst 

leaven. 
And tlic worst temper for the courts of heaven. 



'■W1LA.T GOD HATH CLE.WSED, THAT CALL 
NOT THOU COMMON."— Acts x. 15. 

From *' Sermons in Sonnets." 

Behold men's judgments! Common and unclean 
We call whatever with our pride doth jar, 
Though from one God aud Father all things arc. 
Behold men's judgments ! The deep truth unseen, 
Rash we decide what mere externals mean. 
Know'st thon, while thy proud eye is closed afar. 
In what mean worm God may illume a star? 
Know'st thou where his great Spirit dwells serene? 
Thou dost not. What thy pride may worthless deem, 
Ay, tainted with pollution, may become, 
R.iised from the dust, the fairest, loveliest home. 
Where radiant Deity can shrine its beam ; 
M.iy be redeemed from Nature's common blot. 
Ay, though iierhaps thy very self be uot ! 



588 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BICiriSH AXD AilEEICAN POETRY. 



"HIS BANNER OVER ME WAS LOVE." 
Cant. ii. 4. 

From " Seumons in Sonnets." 

He vi\w loves best knows most. Then wliy should I 
Let iiiy tiled thoughts so far, so restless, run. 
In quest of knowledge underneath the sun, 
Or round about the wide-encircling sky ? 
Nor earth nor heaven is read hy scrutiny! 
But touch me with a Saviour's love divine, 
I pierce at ouce to wisdom's inner shrine, 
And my soul seeth all things like au eye. 
Then have I treasures, which to fence and heed 
JLikes weakness bold, and folly -n-isdom-strnug, 
As doves are valorous to guard their young, 
And larks are wary from their nests to lead. 
Is there a riildle, and resolved you need it? 
Love — only love — aud you are sure to read it ! 



"IN MY FATHER'S HOUSE ARE MANY MAN- 
SIONS."— St. John xiv. 2. 

From " .Seioioxs in Sonnets," 

Ye orbs that tremble through infinity, 

And are ye, then, linked only with our eyes. 

Dissevered from our thoughts, our smiles, our 

sighs,— 
Our hopes and dreams of being yet to be ? 
Oh, if all nature be a harmony 
(As sure it is), why in those solemn skies 
Sliould ye our vision mock, like glitti'iing lies 
To man all unrelated? Must I see 
Your gloi'ies only as a tinselled waste? 
If so, I half despise your spectacle! 
lint if 1 diem that ye form eras vast, 
And do, by mighty revolutions, tell 
Time to intelligent existences, 
Awe-struck, I do assist at your solemnities! 



AN EVENING THOUGHT. 

Rellecteil in the lake, I love 

To mark the star of evening glow; 

So tranquil in the heaven above. 
So restless on the wave below ! 

Thus heavenly hope is all serene ; 

lint earthly hope — how bright soe'er— 
Still lliictuates o'er this changing scene, 

As false and fleeting as 'tis fair! 



ON POETRY. 

With thine compared, O sovereign Poesy, 
Thy sister Art.s' divided powers how faint ! 

For each combines her attributes in thee. 

Whose voice is music, and whose words can paint. 



MAY. 

FnoM "The Months," 

Oh, darling of the year, — delicious May! 
If poet-love have painted thee too bright, 
'Tis that men gaze on thee with dazzled sight, 
Brimful of ecstasy ! Thy true array 
Lies beyond language ! Who would wish away 
The few soft tears that in thine eyes of light 
Tremble ; or waving shades indefinite 
Which o'er thy greeu aud lustrous mantle pl.-iv ? 
Who, that e'er wandered in thy hawthorn gbnlcs, 
Or stood beneath thy orchard's bloomy shades. 
But felt how blessed the bosom which thou greetcsl ? 
For thou art Spring indeed ! to thee belong 
The earliest rose, the uightiiigale's first song. 
All first-fruits of sweet things ; — and first are sweet- 
est. 



CONCLUDING SONNET. 

Man — the external world — the changeful year — ■ 

Together make a perfect harmony. 

To all the soul's great wards'a mi.ghty key 

The Seasons are, and apt in their career 

To stir and nmdulate onr Hope aud Fear, 

And ever lift our dim humanity 

Nearer to Heaven ! At seed-time anxiously 

Dull lips are moved in prayer, and harvest clieer 

Breeds even in churls thanksgiving! Winter b.iro 

That shuts the earth, doth opeu wide the hand 

And heart of man! The tempests of the air 

Have spiritual missions, over sea aud land 

Moulding events ! Beneath the meanest elod 

Stirs Will aud Wi,sdom : —everywhere is God I 



Uiifus Dailies. 

AMERICAN. 

Dawes (1S03-18.5C) was a native of Boston, one ot a 
family of si.\teen. His fattier, Tliomas Dawes, was a 
judge of tlie Supreme Court of Massacluisctts, and au- 
thor of a poem entitled "The Law given on Mount Si- 
nai." Rufus entered Harvard College in 1830, but left in 



ItUFUS DAWES.— JAMES CLARESCE MAKGAX. 



58S) 



consequence of some boyish irrcguUirity. He studied 
law, but never practised liis profession. In 18:30 lie 
published a volume of poems, and subsequently "Nix's 
Mate," a novel. He was connected for some years with 
the newspaper press in New York. He married a sister 
of C. P. Cranch, tly; poet-artist. 



TO GENEVIEVE. 

I'll rob tlie hyacinth and rose, 

I'll search the cowsliii's fr.igrant cell, 

Nor spare the breath that daily blows 
Her incense from the a.siihoilcl. 

And these shall breathe thy gentle name,— 
Sweet Naiad of the sacred stream, 

Where, musing, first I caught the flame 
That Passion kindles iu his dream. 

Tliy sonl of Music broke tho spell 

That bound my lyre's neglected strings ; 

Attuned its silent echo's shell. 
And loosed again his airy wings. 

Ah! long had beauty's eyes in vain 
Diffused their radiant light divine ; 

Alas! it never woke a strain, 

Till inspiration breathed from thine. 

Thus vainly did the stars at night 

O'er Jlemnon's lyre their watch prolong. 

AVhen naught but bright Aurora's light 
Could wake its silence into sons. 



LOVE UNCHANGEABLE. 

Yes, still I love thee ! Time,who sets 

His siguet on my brow. 
And dims my sunken eye, forgets 

The heart he could not bow ; — 
Where love that cannot perish grows 
For one, alas! that little knows 

How love may sometimes last ; 
Like sunshine wasting in tho skies 

When clouds are overcast. 

The dew-drop hanging o'er the rose 

Within its robe of light, 
Can never touch a leaf that blows 

Though seeming to the sight ; 
And yet it still will linger there 
Like hopeless love without despair, 



A snow-drop in the snn! 
A moment finely exquisite, 
Alas ! but oidy one. 

I would not have thy married heart 

Think momently of me ; 
Nor would I tear the chords apart 

That bind me so to thee. 
No! while my thoughts seem pnre and mild, 
As dew npou the roses wild, 

I would not have thee know 
The stream that seems to thee so still 

Has such a tide below ! 

Enough, that in delicious dreams 

I see thee and forget : 
Enough, that when the morning beams 

I feel my eyelids wet! 
Yet could I hope, when Time shall fall 
The darkness for creation's pall, 

To meet thee and to love, — 
I would not shrink from aught below. 

Nor ask for more above ! 



3a\nc5 Clarence iUixngiau. 

Mangan was born in Dublin in 1803, and died there in 
lSt9. He had to struggle with poverty, and at liftecn got 
a situation in a scrivener's olBee, where he remained sev- 
en years, and then became a solititor's clerk for three 
years. His situation was distasteful, and he says: "In 
seeking to escape from this misery, I had laid the foun- 
dation of that evil habit which has proved to be my 
ruin." He became an opium-eater. In spite of his wild 
habits, lie attained great proficiency in a knowledge of 
languages. He died in a state of destitution in a public 
hospital. His translations from the German were pub- 
lished in 184.5, under the title of " Antliologia Germani- 
ea." An edition of his poems, with a biographical intro- 
duction by John Mitehel,was published in 18T0, iu New 
York. 



THE MARINER'S BRIDE. 

Look, mother ! the mariner's rowing 

His galley adown the tide ; 
I'll go where the mariner's going, 

And be the mariner's bride! 

I saw him one day through the wicket, 
I oiiened the gate, and we met — 
As a bird iu the fowler's net, 

Was I caught in my own green thicket. 

Oh, mother, my tears are flowing, 
I've lost my maidenly pride — 



590 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



I"ll go, if the mariner's going, 
And be the mariner's bride ! 

This Love, the tyrant evinces, 
Alas! an omniiiotent might, 
He darliens the mind like Night ; 

He treads on the necks of Princes! 

Oh, mother, my bosom is glowing, 
I'll go, whatever betide, 

I'll go where the mariner's going, 
I'll be the mariner's bride! 

Yes, mother! the spoiler has reft me 

Of reason and self-control ; 

Gone, gone is my wretched soul. 
And only my body is left me ! 
The winds, oh, mother, are blowing. 

The ocean is bright and wide ; 
I'll go where the mariner's going, 

And be the mariner's bride! 



THE NAMELESS ONE. 

The fullowing remavknble Hues are evidently aiitobiofrmii' ■- 
cal ill iheir references. "Of Mangan," wriles Jolin Mitcbel, " it 
may be sairt that lie lived solely iu his poetry— all the rest was 
but a j^haslly death-iu-lile." 

Roll forth, my song, like the rnshing river 

That sweejis along to the mighty sea; 
God will inspire mo while I deliver 

My sonl of thee ! 

Tell thou the world, when ray bones lie whitening 

Amid the last homes of yonth and eld. 
That there was onco one whose veins ran liglitning 
No eye beheld. 

Tell how his boyhood was one drear niglit-honr. 

How shone for libii, through his griefs and gloom, 
No star of all heaven sends to light our 
rath to the tomb. 

Roll on, my song, and to after ages 

Tell how, disdaining all earth can give. 
He would have taught men, from wi-sdom's pages. 
The way to live. 

And tell how, trampled, derided, hated. 

And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong, 
He lied for shelter to God, who nuited 
His soul with song — 



With song which alway, sublime or v.apid. 
Flowed like a rill in the morning-beam. 
Perchance not deep, Vmt intense aud rapid — 
A mountain stream. 

Tell how this Nameless, condemned for years long 

To herd with demons fiom hell beneath. 
Saw things that made him, with groans and tears, 
long 

For even death. 

Go on to tell how, with genius wasted. 

Betrayed in friendshij), liefooled in love, 
With spirit shipwrecked, and young hopes blasted. 
He still, still strove. 

Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others, 
And some whose hands should have wrought for 
h im, 
(If children live not for sires and mothers). 
His mind grew dim. 

And he fell far through that pit abysmal, 

The gulf and grave of Maginn and linrus. 
And pawned his sonl for the devil's dismal 
Stock of returns ; — 

But yet redeemed it in daj's of darkness. 

And shapes aud signs of the fin.al wrath. 
When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness. 
Stood on his path. 

And tell how now, amid wreck aud sorrow. 

And want aud sickness, and houseless uights. 
He bides in calmness the silent morrow, 
That uo ray lights. 

Ami lives ho still, then ? Yes! old and hoary 

At thirty-uine, from despair and woe, 
He lives, enduring what future story 
Will never know. 

Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble. 

Deep in your bosoms! There let him dwell! 
He, too, had tears for all souls iu trouble. 
Here and in hell. 



FROM " SOUL AND COUNTRY." 

To leave the world a name is naught ; 

To leave a name for glorious deeds 

Aud works of love — 



G. H. CALVERT.— T. L. DEDDOES.—R. W. EMEESOX. 



591 



A name to waken lightning thought, 
And fire the soul of him who reads, 
Thix tells above. 
Napoleon sinks to-day before 

The ungiUled shrine, the single soul 
Of Washington ; 
Trntirs name alone shall man adore, 
Long as the waves of time shall roll 
Henceforward on ! 



(Scorgc Cjcnrn (Halocit. 

AMERICAN. 

A native of Prince George's County, Md., Calvert, born 
1803, was a great-grandson of Lord Baltimore, and also 
a descenilant on the motlicr's side from the painter Ru- 
bens. He was eiiucatcd partly at Harvard, and partly at 
GottingL'n, where lie acquired his taste for German liter- 
ature. He edited at one time the BiiUinwre Aniei-ican, 
but in 1843 removed to Newport, R, I. He has published 
" Count Julian, a Tragedy," " Ellen, a Poem," and is the 
autlior of numerous prose works, criticisms, essays, and 
translations, showing e.\tensive literary and philosophi- 
cal culture. 



ON THE FIFTY-FIFTH SONNET OF SHAK- 
SPEARE.' 

The soul leaps up to hear this mighty sound 

Of Shakspeare trinmjihing. With glistening eye 

Forward he sent his spirit to espy 

Time's gratitude, and catch the far rebound 

Of fame from worlds unpeopled yet; and, crowned 

With brightening light through all futurity, 

His image to behold up-reaching high, 

'Mong the world's benefactors most renowned. 

Like to the ecstasy, by man unnamed, 

The spheral music doth to gods impart, 

Was the deep joj' that thou hast here proclaimed 

Tliy song's eternal echo gave thy heart. 

Oh, the world thanks thee that thou'st let us see 

Thou kuew'st how great thou wast, how prized to be ! 



®l)omos £o«cll CcLiLiocs. 

Beddoes (1S03-1849), son of an eminent physician, and 
nephew of Maria Edgewortli, was educated at Oxford, 
and in Ids nineteenth year published "The Bride's Trag- 
edy," of which Blackwood'x Magazine says : " With all its 
extravagances, and even silliucsses and follies, it shows 
far more than glimpses of a true poetical genius." Bed- 
does devoted himself to scientific stud}' and foreign trav- 

' See pnge 30. 



el. A collection of his poems, with a memoir, appeared 
in 1H.51. He died in his forty-seventh year, at Frankfort, 
from an accideutal prick on his finger, got while dissect- 



, TO SEA! 

To sea I to sea ! tlie calm is o'er. 

The wanton water leaps in sport. 
And rattles down the pebbly shore : 

The dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort, 
And unseen mermaids' pearly song 
Comes bubbling up, the weeds among. 
Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar: 
To sea! to sea! The calm is o'er. 

To sea! to sea! our white-winged bark 
Shall billowiug cleave its watery way. 

And with its shadow, fleet and dark, 
Break the caved Triton's azure day, 

Like mountain eagle .soaring light 

O'er antelopes on Alpine height ! 

The anchor heaves! The ship swings free! 

Our sails swell full ! To sea ! to sea ! 



Uixlpi) llUxIbo (!;mcv5on. 

AMERICAN. 

More generally known as a free and subtle thinker and 
an essayist, somewhat after the manner of Montaigne, 
than as a writer of verse, Emerson has shown that the 
poetical gift is his in abounding measure. He is a true 
artist in words, at the same time that lie disdains all the 
arts that would make style compensate for the absence 
of earnest, profound thought, presented with no particle 
of tinsel or of superfluous drapery. He impresses us 
with his absolute sincerity in aiming less at perfect con- 
sistency than at fidelity to his own mood; his own up- 
permost convictions. His forte is rather introspective 
than dramatic. In a letter to Henry Ware (1838) he 
wrote : " I could not possibly give you one of the ' argu- 
ments' on which any doctrine of mine stands; for I do 
not know what arguments mean in reference to any ex- 
pression of a thought. I delight in telling what I think; 
but if you ask me how I dare say so, or why it is so, I 
am the most helpless of mortals." 

Born in Boston in 1803, the son of an excellent clergy- 
man, Emerson graduated at Harvard, became a minister 
of a Unitarian church, withdrew from it in 1S32, and, 
after passing a year or two in Europe, devoted himself 
theuceforwurd almost exclusively to literature and lect- 
uring, residing most of the time at Concord, Mass. It is 
ditlicult to deduce from bis writings his exact opinions 
as to the destiny of man after this life ; but according to 
the declaration of his frieud and townsman, A. B. Alcott, 
his views as late as 1879 inclined to theism and belief in 
a conscious Orderer of the Universe. His career has 
been that of a pure-hearted, independent thinker, wed- 



092 



CYCLOPEDIA Ob' BRITISH AM) AilEIUCAX POETRY. 



ded to no system, modifying liis opinion? as new light 
streamed iu, but carrying into practical life the liigli and 
noble lessons given in his speculative utterances. His 
fame is unsurpassed in American literature, and is lilccly 
to go on increasing. 



THE SNOW-STORM. 

Announced bj' all tlie trumpets of tlie .sky, 
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er llie fields. 
Seems iiowlieie to alight; the wliiteil air 
Hides hills and woods, the liver, and the heaven, 
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. 
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet 
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit 
Around the radiant tireplacc, enclosed 
In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 

Come see the north wind's masonry. 
Out of an unseen quarry eveimore 
rurnished with tile, the fierce artificer 
Curves his white haslions with projected roof 
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. 
Speeding, the myriad-handed, bis wild work 
So fancifnl, so savage, naught cares he 
For number or proportion. Mockingly, 
On coop or kennel ho hangs Parian w rcatlis : 
A swan-like form invests the liiddcu tliorn : 
Fills np the farmer's lane from w.ill to wall. 
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at \\k gate, 
A tapering turret overtops the work. 
And when his liours are numbered, and the world 
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, 
Leaves, when the snu appears, astonished Ai't 
To mimic iu slow strnctnres, stone by stone, 
linilt iu an age, the mad wind's night-work. 
The frolic architecture of the snow. 



GOOD-BVE, PROUD WORLD I 

Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home; 

Thou art not my friend ; I am not thine : 
Too long through weary crowds I roam : — 

A river ai'k on the ocean brine. 
Too long I am tossed like the driven foam : 
lint now, proud world, I'm going home. 

Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face ; 
To Grandeur with his wise grimace : 
To upstart Wealth's averted eye ; 
To supple office, low and high ; 
To crowded halls, to court and street, 
To frozen hearts, and hasting feet. 



To those who go, and those who come. 
Good-bye, proud world, I'm going home. 

I go to seek my own hearth-stone. 
Bosomed in yon green hills alone ; 
A secret lodge in a pleasant land, 
Wliose groves the frolic fairies planned, 
Where arches green the livelong day 
Echo the blackbird's roundelay, 
And evil men have never trod 
A spot that is sacred to thought and God. 

Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home, 
I mock at the pride of Greece and Rome ; 
And when I am stretched beneath the pines 
AVhere the evening-star so holy shines, 
I laugh at the lore and pride of man, 
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan ; 
For what are tliey all in their high <;onceif. 
Wlicn man iu the bush with God may meet? 



SURSTTM CORDA. 

Seek not the spirit if it hide 

Inexorable to thy zeal : 

ISiiby, do not whine and chide: 

.\rt thou not al.so real ? 

Wliy shouldst thou stoop to poor excuse ? 

Turn on the accuser roundly ; say, 

" Here am I, here will I remain 

Forever to myself soothfast; 

Go thou, sweet Heaven, or at thy pleasure stay ! 

.■\lready Heaven with thee its lot has cast, 

For only it can absolutely deal." 



TO THE HUMBLEBEE. 

Fine humWebee! fine bumblebee! 
Where thou art is clime for me: 
Let them sail for Porto Rique, 
Far-otf heats througli seas to seek, 
I will follow thee alone, 
Tlion animated torrid zone! 
Zigzag steerer, desert chcerer, 
Let me chase thy waving lines, 
Keep me nearer, me tliy hearer, 
Singing over shrubs and vines. 

Flower-bells, 
Honeyed cells, — 
These the tents 
Which he frequents. 



HALPH WALDO EMEIiSOX. 



593 



Insect lover of the sun, 
Joy of thy dominiou ! 
Sailor of the atmosphere, 
Swimmer through the waves of air. 
Voyager of light aud uooii, 
Kpiciueau of June, 
Wait, I prithee, till I come 
Within earshot of thy hura,-- 
AU -nithout is martyrdom. 

When the south -nind iu May days, 

With a net of shining haze. 

Silvers the horizon wall, 

Aud with softness touching all, 

Tints the human countenance 

With a color of romance, 

Aud, infusing subtle heats, 

Turns the sod to violets, — 

Tliou in sunny solitudes. 

Rover of the underwoods. 

The green silence dost displace 

With thy mellow breezy bass. 

Hot midsummer's petted crone, 
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone, 
Telling of countless sunny hours, 
Long days, aud solid banks of flowers. 
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound 
Iu Indian wildernesses found, 
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, 
Firmest cheer, aud birdlike pleasure. 

Aught unsavory or unclean 
Hath my insect never seen, 
But violets and bilberry-bells, 
Maple sap, aud dafl'odils. 
Clover, catchiiy, adder's-tougue, 
Aud brier-roses dwelt among. 
All beside was unknown waste, 
All was picture as he passed. 

Wiser far than human seer, 
YeUow-breeched philosopher. 
Seeing only what is fair, 

Sipping ouly what is sweet, 
Thou dost mock at fate and care, 

Leave the chalf and take the wheat. 
Wlien the tierce north-western blast 
Cools sea and land so far aud fast, — 
Thou already slnmberest deep. 
Woe and want thou canst out-sleep ; 
Want and woe, which tortui-e us. 
Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 
an 



THE SOUL'S PROPHECY. 

All before us lies tlie w.ay ; 

Give the past unto the wiud ; 
All before us is the day, 

^Nigbt aud darkness are behind. 

Edeu with its augels bold, 

Love and flowers aud coolest sea, 
Is less an ancient story told 

Than a glowing prophecy. 

In the spiiit's perfect air, 

Iu the passions tame and kind, 

luuoceuce from sel6sh care, 
The real Edeu we shall find. 

When the soul to sin hath died. 
True and beautiful aud sound, 

Tlieu all earth is sanctified. 
Up springs paradise around. 

From the spirit-land afar 

All disturbing force shall flee ; 

Stir, nor toil, nor hope shall mar 
Its immortal unity. 



THE APOLOGY. 

Think me not nuliind and rude. 

That I walk alone iu grove aud glen ; 

I go to the god of the wood 
To fetch his word to men. 

Tax not my sloth that I 

Fold my arms beside the brook; 
Each cloud that floated in the sky 

Writes a letter in my book. 

Chide me not, laborious baud. 
For the idle flowers I brought ; 

Every aster in my hand 

Goes home loaded with a thought. 

There was never mystery 

But 'tis figured in the flowers ; 

Was never secret history 

But birds tell it in the bowers. 

One harvest from thy field 

Homeward brought the oxen strong ; 
A second crop thy acres yield. 

Which I gather iu a soug. 



594 



CYVLOP^DIA OF BRITISH JXD AMERICAX POETUY. 



HYMN SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF' THE 
CONCORD MONUMENT, APKU. 19, 1836. 

By the riuTe bridge that arched the tlood, 
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, 

Here once the embattled farmers stood, 
And fired the shot heard round the world. 

The foe long since in silence slept ; 

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; 
And Time the mined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 

On this green bank, by this soft stream, 

We set to-day a votive stone, 
That memory may their deed redeem. 

When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 

Spirit, that m.ade those heroes dare 
To die, or leave their children free, 

Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them aud theo. 



illarti fjouiitt. 



Mary Howitt, whose maiden name was Botham, was 
of Quaker descent, and born in Uttoxeter, Eni;l:nul, in 
!S04. In 1823 she was mariicd to William Howitt, and 
the same year they published in conjunction "Tlic For- 
est Minstrel," a series of poems. But William, tliouirli 
the aullior of some clever verses, is known chiefly for his 
prose writings. Mary has shown genuine poetical feel- 
ing and ability, especially in her verses for children. Her 
observation of natui-e is accurate and intense ; and a true 
enthusiasm gives vitality to her descriptions. Her bal- 
lads are among the best. That of " New-year's-eve" is 
founded on a prose story by the Danish author, Haus 
•Christian Audersen. 



NEW-YEAR'S-EVE. 

Little GretcUen, little Gretchen, 

Wanders up and down the street, 
The snow is on her yellow hair, 

The frost is at her feet. 
The rows of long dark houses 

Without look cold and damp. 
By the struggling of the moonbeam, 

By the flicker t)f the lamp. 
The clouds ride fast as houses, 

Tlie wind is from the north. 
But no one cares for Gretchen, 

And no one looketh forth. 



Within those dark, damp houses 

Are merry faces bright. 
And happy hearts are watching out 

The old year's latest night. 
The board is spread with plenty. 

Where the smiling kindred meet, 
But the frost is on the pavement, 

Aud the beggars in the street. 

With the little box of matches 

.She could not sell all day. 
And the thin, thin tattered mantle, 

The wind blows every way, 
She clingeth to the railing. 

She shivers in the gloom : 
There are parents sitting snugly 

By fire-light in the room, — 
And groups of busy children — 

Withdrawing just the tips 
Of rosy fingers pressed in vain 

Against their burning lips, — • 
With grave aud earnest faces, 

Are whispering each other. 
Of presents for the new year, made 

For father or for mother. 

But no one talks to Gretchen, 

And no one hears her speak ; 
No breath of little whisperers 

Comes warmly to her cheek ; 
No little arms are round her, 

Ah me! that there should be 
With so much happiness on earth, 

So much of misery ! 
Sure they of many blessings. 

Should scatter blessings round, 
As laden boughs in Autumn fling 

Their ripe fruits to the ground. 
And the best love man can ofi'er 

To the God of love, be sure, 
Is kindness to his little ones, 

Aud bounty to his poor. 

Little Gretchen, little Gretchen, 

Goes coldly on her way ; 
There's no one looketh out at her. 

There's no one bids her stay. 
Her homo is cold and desolate, 

No smile, no food, no fire, 
But children clamorous for bread, 

And an impatient sire. 
So she sits down in an angle, 

Where two great houses meet. 



JtlJRY HOWITT. 



595 



And she curletli up lieneatli lier, 

For •n-aniitli, ber little feet. 
And sbe looketh ou tbo cokl wnll, 

Aud ou tbe colder sky, 
And woiulers if tbe little stars 

Are brigbt files up ou bigb. 

Sbe beard a clock strike slowly, 

Up ill a, far cbiirch tower, 
Witb sucb a sad and solemn tone. 

Telling tbe midnigbt bour. 
Tbeu all tbo bells togetber 

Tbeir merry nmsic ponred ; 
Tbey were ringing in tbe feast, 

Tbe circumcision of tbe Lord. 
And sbe tbongbt as sbe sat lonely. 

And listened to tbe cbime. 
Of ■wondrous tilings tbat sbe bad loved 

To bear in tbe olden time. 
And sbe remembered her of tales 

Her mother used to tell. 
And of tlie cradle songs sbe sang 

Wben summer's twiligbt fell, — 
Of good men and of angels, 

And of tbo Holy Cbild, 
Wbo was cradled iu a manger, 

Wben winter was most wild, — 
Wbo was poor, and cold, and bnngry 

And desolate aud lone ; — 
And sbe tbonglit tbe song bad told 

He was ever witb bis own. 
And all the poor and hungry, 

And forsaken ones are bis : 
" How good of bini to look on me. 

In such a place as this!" 

Colder it grows and colder. 

But she does not feel it now, 
For the pressure at; ber heart, 

And tbe weight upon ber brow. 
But she struck one little match 

On tbe wall so cold and bare, 
Tbat she might look around ber, 

Aud see if He were there. 
TI}e single match has kindled ; 

And by the light it threw, 
It seemed to little Gretcben, 

Tbe wall was rent in two. 
And sbe could see the room within, 

Tbe room all warm and brigbt. 
With the tire-glow red and dusky. 

And tbe tapers all alight. 



And there were kindred gathered. 

Round the table richly spread, 
Witb heaps of goodly viands. 

Red wine, and jileasaut bread. 
Sbe could smell the fragrant savor, 

SUe could hear what tbey did say. 
Then all was darkness once again, 

Tbe match had burned away. 
Sbe struck another hastily, 

And now sbe seemed to see, 
Within tbe same warm chamber, 

A glorions Christmas-tree : 
Tlie branches were all l.ndeu 

Witb such things as cblUlren prize, 
Brigbt gift for boy and maiden. 

She saw them with her eyes. 
Aud she almost seemed to touch them. 

And to join the welcome shout ; 
Wben darkness fell around her, 

For tbe little match was out. 

Another, yet another, she 

Has tried, — they will not light, — 
Till all her little store she took. 

And struck with all ber might; 
Aud tbe whole miserable place 

Was lighted witb the glare. 
And lo, there hung a little cbild 

Before her in tbe air! 
There were blood-drops on his foi'ebead. 

And a spear-wound in bis side, 
Aud cruel nail-prints in his feet. 

And in his hands spread wide: — 
And he looked upon ber gently. 

And she felt that he b.ad known 
Pain, hunger, cold, and sorrow. 

Ay, equal to her own. 
And he pointed to tbe ladeu board. 

And to the Christmas-tree, 
Then up to the cold sky, and said, 

" Will Gretcben come with me F" 
Tbe poor child felt her pulses fail. 

She felt her eyeballs swim, 
Aud a ringing sound was in ber ears. 

Like her dead mother's hymn. 
And she folded both her thin white hands. 

And turned from tbat bright board, 
And from tbe golden gifts, aud said, 

"Witb thee, with thee, O Lord!" 

The chilly winter morning 
Breaks up iu tbe dull skies. 



596 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BlilTISS ASD AilEBICAX POETRY. 



Oil tlio city wrapiied in vapor, 

On tbe spot where Gretehen lies. 
Tbe night Avas wild and stormy, 

The mom is cold and gray, 
And good chnrch bells are ringing 

Christ's eircniucision day ; 
And holy men are praying 

In many a holy place ; 
And little children's angels 

Sing songs before bis face. 

In her scant and tattered garment, 

With her back against tbe wall, 
She sitteth cold and rigid, 

She answers not their call. 
Tliey have lifted her up fearfully. 

They shnddcred as they .said, 
" It was a bitter, bitter night; 

The child is frozen dead." 
The angels sang their greeting, 

For one more redeemed from sin ; 
Men said, " It was a bitter night, — 

Would no one let her in ?" 
And they shuddered as they spoke of her, 

And sighed ; they could not see 
How much of happiness there was, 

With so much misery ! 



THE FAIRIES OF CALDON-LOW. 

"And where li.ive you been, my Mary, 
And where have you been from mo ?" 

"I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low, 
The midsummer night to see." 

"And what did you sec, my Mary, 

All up on the Caldon-Low?" 
" I saw tbe glad sunshine come clown, 

And I saw the merry winds blow." 

"And what did yon hear, my Mary, 

All up on the Caldon-Hill ?" 
" I heard the drops of the water form, 

And the ears of the green corn fill." 

" Ob, tell me all, my Mary, 

All, all that ever you know ; 
For you must have seen the fairies 

Last night on the Caldon-Low." 

"Then t.ake me on your knee, mother, 
And listen mother of mine : 



A hundred fairies danced last night, 
And the harpers thej' were nine. 

"And the harp-strings rang right merrily, 

To their dancing feet so small ; 
But oh, the sound of their talking 

Was merrier far than all 1" 

"And what were the words, my Mary, 

That you heard the fairies say ?" 
" I'll tell you all, my mother, 

I5nt let me have my way. 

"And some they played with the water. 

And rolled it down the hill : 
'And this,' they said, 'shall speedily tnru 

The poor old miller's mill ; 

" ' For there has been no water 

Ever since the first of May, 
And a busy man shall the miller be 

By the dawning of the day. 

"'0, the miliar, how he will laugh 

When bo sees the mill-dam ri.se! 
The jolly old miller, how ho will laugh, 

Till tbe tears fill both of his eyes !' 

"And .some, they seized the little winds 

That sounded over the bill, 
And each put a horn imto bis mouth 

And blew it sharp and shrill : 

"'And there,' they said, 'the merry winds go. 

Away from every born, 
And they shall clear the mildew dank 

From the blind old widow's corn. 

"'O, the poor blind old widow! 

Tliougb she has been poor so long, 
Slie'll bo blithe enough when the mildew's gone, 

And the corn stands tall and strong!' 

"And some they brought the brown linseed, 
And thing it down from the Low: 

'And this,' said they, ' by the sunrise. 
In the weaver's croft shall grow. 

" ' O, the poor lame weaver ! 

How ho will laugh outright 
When he .sees bis dwindling flax-field 

All full of flowers by night I' 



MARY SO WITT. 



[197 



"And then nji spoke a brownie, 
With a long beard ou his chin : 

' I have spun np all the tow,' said he, 
' And I want some more to spin. 

" ' I've spun a piece of hempen cloth. 

And I want to spin another — 
A little sheet for Mary's bed, 

And an apron for her mother.' 

"And with that I could not help Imt laugh, 
And I laughed ont loud and free ; 

And then on the top of the Caldon-Low 
There v.-as no one left but me. 

■"And all on the top of the Caldon-Low 

The mists were cold and gray. 
And nothing I saw but the nnjssy stones 

That round about luo lay. 

"But coming down from the hill-top, 

I heard afar below 
How busy the jolly miller was. 

And how the wheel did go. 

■' And I peeped into the widow's Held, 

And sure enough were seen 
The yellow ears of the mildewed corn 

All standing stout and green. 

"And down by the weaver's croft I stole 

To see if the tJax were sprung ; 
And I met the weaver at his gate 

With the good news on his tongne. 

"Now this is all I beard, mother. 

And all that I did see ; 
So, iirithee nialce my bed, mother, 

For I'm tired as I can be!" 



THE SPIDER AND THE FLY. 

" Will you walk into uiy parlor ?'' said a spider to 

a fly ; 
" 'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy. 
rije way into my jiarlor is up a winding stair. 
And I have many pretty things to show you when 

you are tliei'c." 
•'Oh no, no!"' said the little tly, "to ask me is in 

vain. 
For who goes np your winding stair can ne'er come 

down again." 



" I'm sure you must be weary with soaring up so 
high". 

Will you rest upon my pretty bed ?" said the spi- 
der to the fl}-. 

" There £\re pretty curtains drawn around, and the 
sheets are fine and thin, 

And if you'd like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck 
yon in." 

"Oh no, no!" said the little fly; "for I've heard it 
often said, 

They never, never wake again who sleep upon your 
bed.". 

Said the cunning spider to the fly, " Dear friend, 
what shall I do. 

To prove the warm affection I have always felt for 
you? 

I have within my pantry good store of all that's nice ; 

I'm sure you are very welcome, will you please to 
take a slice?" 

"Oh no, no!" said the little fly, "kind sir, that can- 
not be ; 

I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish 
to see." 

"Sweet creature," said the spider, "you are witty 
and you're wise ; 

How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant 
are your eyes ! 

I've a pretty little lookiug-glass upon my parlor 
shelf, 

If you'll jnst step in a moment, dear, you shall be- 
hold yourself." 

" I thank you, gentle sir," she said, " for what you're 
pleased to say. 

And bidding you good-morning now, I'll call another 
day." 

The spider turned him round about, and went into 

his den, 
For well he knew the silly fly would soon come 

back again ; 
So he wove a strong and subtle web, in a little 

corner sly, 
And set his little table ready to dine upon the fly. 
Then he went ont the door again, and merrily did 

sing, 
" Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and 

silver wing ; 
Your robes are green and purple, there's a crest upon 

your head ; 
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, while mine 

are dull as lead." 



r.98 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISE AND AMKRICAX POETHT. 



Alas, alas! how very soon tbis silly little fly, 

Hearing Lis wily, flatteiing words, came slowly flit- 
ting by; 

AVitli V)nzzing Aviiigs slie bnng aloft, tlien near anil 
nearer drew, 

Thiuking only of ber brilliant eyes, and greeu and 
purple bn(^ ; 

Tbinking only of ber crested bead; poor foolisb 
tiling! At last 

l'[i jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held 
ber fast. 

He dragged her up bis winding stair nuto bis dis- 
mal den, 

Within his little parlor, and she ne'er came out again! 

And now, dear little children, who may tbis story 

read , 
To idle, silly, llatteiing words, I pray you ne'er give 

beed ; — 
I'lito everj- evil counsellor close heart, and ear, and 

eye. 
And take a lesson from tbis tale of the si)ider and 

the flv! 



CORNFIELDS. 

When on the breath of autumn bi'eeze 
From pastures dry and brown, 

Goes floa(ing lilje an idle thought 
The fair white thistle-down, 

Oh then what joy to walk at will 

Upon the golden harvest hill! 

What joy in dreamy ea.so to lie 

Amid a field new shorn, 
And see all round on sunlit slopes 

The piled-up stacks of corn ; 
And send the fancy wandering o'er 
All pleasant harvest-fields of yore ! 

I feel the day — I see the field, 
The quivering of the leaves, 

And good old Jacob and his house 
Binding the yellow sheaves; 

And at tbis very hour I seem 

To be with Joseph iu his dream. 

I see the fields of Bethlebem, 

And reapers many a one. 
Bending unto their sickles' stroke, — 

An<l Boaz looking on ; 
And Ruth, the Moabitess fair, 
Among the gleaners stooping there. 



Again I see a little child, 
His mother's sole delight, — 

God's living gift of love unto 
The kind good Shunamite, — 

To mortal pangs I see him yield, 

And the lad bear him from the field. 

The sun-bathed quiet of the hills, 

Tbe fields of Galilee, 
Tliat eighteen hundred years ago 

Were full of corn, I see, — 
And the dear Saviour take bis way 
'Mid ripe ears on tbe Sabbath-day. 

O golden fields of bending corn. 
How beautiful they seem ! 

Tbe reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves, 
To me are like a dream : 

Tbe snn.shine and tbe very air 

Seem of old time, and take mc there. 



j^raucis ilIal)onji (i'atl)ci- Proutj. 

Maliony (1804-1800) better known by bis iwin de phnne 
of Fatliei- I'roul, came of a respectable niiddle-cbiss C'oiU 
f^imily, and was educated at St. Aelicul, the college of the 
Jesuits at Amiens. Here he was taught to write and con- 
verse fluently in Latin. He studied also at Rome, and 
took priest's orders. About 18S4 he became one of the 
writers for Frascr' s Miigazinc, to wliich he contributed tlie 
"Prout Papers," reniark:ible for their drollery and for 
the evidences of great facility in Latin and Greek compo- 
sition. Amidst all his convivialities he preserved a rever- 
ence for religion, and manifested great goodness of heart. 
One of his biographers describes him as "a scholar, a 
wit, a madcap priest, a skilled tlieologian, a gossiping 
old man, a companion of wild roisterers, and a rollick- 
ing, bard-drinking Irishman." For the last eight years 
of his life lie resided chiefly in Paris as a correspondent 
of London papers. 

POETICAL EPISTLE EROM FATHER PROUT 
TO BOZ (CHARLES DICKENS). 

A rhyme, a rhyme 

From a distant clime — 
From the Gulf of tbe Genoese : 

O'er the rugged scalps 

Of tbe Julian Alps, 
Dear Boz, I send you these, 

To light tbe wick 

Your candlestick 
Holds up, or should you list, 

To usher in 

Tbe yarn you spin 
Concerning Oliver Twist. 



FBANCIS MAHOKT (FATHER PliOUT). 



59SI 



Imnieuse applause 

You've gaiued, O Boz ! 
Througli C'outiiieutal Europe ; 

You've made Pickwick 

fficiimeuick : 
Of fame you have a sure hope : 

For liere your books 

Are thought, gadzooks ! 
A greater luxe than auy 

That have issued yet, 

Hot-pressed or wet, 
From the press of Galiguaui. 
» # * « # 

Write on, young sage ! 

Still o'er the page 
Pour forth the flood of fancy ; 

Divinely droll 

Wave o'er the soul 
Wit's wand of necromancy. 

Behold ! e'eu now 

Around your brow 
The undying laurel thickens ! 

For Swift or Sterne 

Might live — and learn 
A thing or two from Dickens. 
Genoa, December 14th, 1S37. 



THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 

'* Siibbata pnn<;o, 
Fnueni plaii^o, 
Soleninia cl:iny:n." 

Inscription on an Old Hell. 

With deep affection and recollection 
I often think of those Shandon bells. 
Whose sounds so wild would, in the days of child- 
hood, 
Fling round my cradle their magic spells. 

On this I ponder where'er I wander. 
And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee ; 
With thy bells of Shandon that sound so grand on 
The plea.sant waters of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells chiming full m.any a clime in. 
Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine ; 
While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate ; 
But all their music spoke naught like thine. 

For memory dwelling on each proud swelling 
Of thy belfry knelling its bold notes free, 
Miide the bells of Shandon sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 



Fvo heard bells tolling old Adrian's Mole in, 
Their thunder rolling from the Vatican ; 
And cymbals glorious swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame. 

Bnttliy sounds were sweeter tlian the dome of Peter 
Flhigs o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly : 
Oh, the bells of Shandon sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 

There's a bell in Moscow ; while on tower and 

kiosk O 
In Saint Sophia the Turkman gets. 
And loud in air calls men to prayer 
From the tapering summits of tall minarets. 

Such empty i)hantom I freely grant them ; 
But there's au anthem more dear to me: 
'Tis the bells of Shandon that sound so grand ou 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 



POrrLAR RECOLLECTIONS OF BONAPARTE. 

AFTER BfiliANGER. 

They'll talk of liim for years to come 

In cottage chronicle .and tale ; 
When for aught else renown is dumb, 

Wis legend shall prevail ! 
Then in tlie h.amlet's honored chair 

Shall sit some ag<=d dame, 
Teaching to lowly clown and villager 

That narrative of fame. 
'Tis true, they'll say, his gorgeous throne 
France bled to raise ; 

But he was all our own ! 
Mother, say something in his praise — 

Oh speak of him always ! 

"I saw him pass: liis was a host: 

Countless beyond your young imaginings — 
My children, he could boast 

A train of conquered kings ! 
And when he came this road, 

'Twas on ray bridal day, 
He wore — for near to him I stood — 

Cocked hat and surcoat gray. 
I blushed; he said, 'Be of good cheer! 
Courage, my dear !' 

That was his Yery word." — 
Mother! oh then this really occurred, 

And you his voice could hear ! 



000 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



" A year rolled ou ; ■nbon next at Paris I, 
Loiio woman tUat I am, 
Saw Iiim pass by, 
Girt with his j)eer8, to kneel at Notro Dame, 
I knew by merry cliimo and signal gun, 
God granted him a son, 
And oU ! I wept for joy ! 
For why not weep when warrior-men did, 
Wlio gazed upon that siglit so splendid. 

And blessed the imperial boy ? 
Never did noonday snn shine out so bright ! 

Oh, what a sight!" — 
Mother I for you that must have beeu 
A glorious scene ! 

"But when all Europe's gathered strength 
Burst o'er the French froutier at length, 

'Twill scarcely bo believed 
What wonders, single-handed, he achieved. 

Such geueral never lived ! 
One evening on my threshold stood 
A guest — 'twas he! Of warrioi's few 
He had a toil-worn retinue. 
He fluug himself into this chair of wooil. 
Muttering, meantime, with fearful air, 
' Quelle guerre ! oh, quelle guerre !' " 
Mother, and did our emperor sit there, 
Upon tliat very chair ? 

" lie said, 'Give me some food.' 

Brown loaf I gave, and homely wine, 
Aud made the kindling fire-blocks shine, 
To dry his cloak, with wet bedewed. 
Soou by the bonnie blaze he slept; 
Then, waking, chid me (for I wept): 
'Courage!' he cried. Til strike for all 
Under the sacred wall 
Of France's noble capital" 
Those were his words: Fve treasured np 
With pride that same wine-cup. 
And for its weight in gold 
It never shall be sold !" 
Mother ! on that proud relic let us gaze — 
Oh keep that cup always ! 

'• But, through some fatal witdieiy. 

He whom a Pope had crowned and blessed. 
Perished, my sons, by foulest treachery ! 

Cast on an i.shi far in the louely West. 
Long time sad rumors were alloat — - 

The fatal tidings we would sjiuru. 
Still hoping from that isle remote 

Oiico more our hero would return. 



But when the dark announccmeut drew 

Tears from the virtuous aud the brave — 
Wheu the sad whisper proved too true, 
A tlood of grief I to his memory gave. 
Peace to the glorious dead!" — • 
Mother ! may God his fullest blessing shed 
Ui)on your aged head ! 



Saiiutcl (Pveg. 



Greg (1S04-1876) w:is a native of Manchester, England. 
He was a classmate of the Rev. James Marlineau at the 
school of Dr. Lant Carpenter in Bristol (1819). Failing 
of success as a cotton-mill mauagcr, he withdrew from 
business, aud led a life of retirement, which in his latter 
years was somewhat darkened by disease. His brotli- 
er, William Rathbone Greg (born ISOS)), author of "Tlie 
Creed of Cln-istcudom," etc., writes of him: "It may be 
truly said that during all the later portion of liis life he 
was ni.anifestly ripening for the skies." After his death, 
a selection from his papers was puhlisljed (1877) under 
the title of "A Layman's Legacy in Prose and Verse." 



PAIN. 



Awful power! whose biilbplaee lies 
Deep 'mid deepest mysteries — 
Thine the cry of earliest breath ; 
Boru iu pain, entombed with death. 
Surely, Pain, thy power shall die 
When man puts off mortality. 

Awful mystery! can it be 

Mercy's name is writ ou thee ? 

That thou comest from above, 

Augcl of the God of love? 

While thou scourgest, tell us why; 

What message speak'st thou from the sky ? 

Secrets dread hast tlnui to show? 
Knowledge, which God's sous must know ? 
Power to purge aud jiurify ? 
Human strength and power defy ? 
Make man's stony nature feel ? 
Mould his ore to tempered steel ? 

Or is thine the power alone. 

So to tune our dull earth tone 

To that diviner, holier strain 

E'en love aud grief attempt in vain: 

Such as opens hearts to see 

What meant the cross of Calvary? 



SAMUEL GUEG.— THOMAS KIBBLE HEUVET. 



(!01 



Perhaps some door is closet! iu heaven, 
Whose key to Paiu alone is giveu ; 
And only thiue all-powevful haud 
Can open to the onward land ; 
While spirits none shall enter there 
Bnt those baptized iu snfl'eriiij; here. 

This one thing I ask of thee, 

This one only answer me : 

Com'st thou from the heavenly seat ? 

Lead'st thou to my Father's feet ? 

Do I snft'er not in vain ? 

Art thou God's true angel, Paiu ? 

Then I'll trj' to say that word, 
" In the uame of God the Lord, 
Welcome art thou.". But whate'er 
Thou bringest, give me strength to bear. 
Spare not — 'tis my Father's will: 
I cau meet it, and be still. 



BEATEN! BEATEN! 

Tell ine, now, my saddened soul ! 

Tell me where we lost the day, — 
Failed to win the shining goal. 

Slacked the pace, or missed the way ? 
We are beaten; — face the truth! 

'Twas not thus we thought to die. 
When the prophet-dreams of youth 

Sang of joy and victory. 

Yes, we own life's battle lost: 

Bleeding, torn, we quit the field; 
Bright success — ambitiou's boast — 

Here to happier men we yield. 
And if some strong hero's sword 

H:id struck dowu my weaker blade. 
Not one coward, moauing word 

Had the weeping wound betrayed. 

Bnt I see the battle wou 

By less daring hearts than mine : 
Feebler feet the race have ruu ; 

Humbler brows the laurel twine. 
See there! at the glittering goal. 

See that smiling winner stand! 
Jleasure him from head to sole — 

'Tis no giant of the land. 

Can I to that winner bow. 
And declare how well he rau ? 



No: I only murmur uow — 
" Beaten by a poorer man !" 

" Perhaps he sought a lowlier prize." 
True : bnt what he sought he won ; 

While the stars that gemmed mij skies, 
Qnenehed in darkness, all are gone. 

Yet, perchance, that star-like prize 

Is not lost — but not yet won : 
Lift aloft thiue earth-bound eyes: 

Seek the goal still farther on, 
Far beyond that siuking suu 

Swells a brighter, happier shore ; 
There a nobler race is run : 

Hark ! He bids thee try once more. 



Qlljomas Kibble tjcvMcii. 

Hervc}' (1S0-1-1S.59) w.as a native of Manclicster, Eng- 
land. He studie;! at Oxford and Cambridge, and after- 
ward read law. From 1840 to 18.54 he edited The Athe- 
nreiiin. He published "Australia, and other Poems," 
1834; "The Poetical Sketch-book," 1839; "The English 
Helicon," 1841. His poems are distinguished by an airy 
delicacy of style and a rare metrical sweetness. 



HOPE. 



Again — again she comes! — methiuks I hear 

Her wild, sweet singing, and her rn.shing wings; 
My heart goes forth to meet her with a tear, 

Aud welcome sends from all its broken strings. 
It was not thus — not thus — we met of yore, 

When mj plumed soul went half-way to the sky 
To greet her; and the joyous song she bore 

Was scarce more tuneful than the glad reply; 
The wings are fettered by the weight of years. 
And grief has sjioiled the music with her tears. 

She comes — I know her by her starry eyes, 

I know her by the rainbow iu her hair! 
Her vesture of the light aud sunmier skies — 

But gone the girdle which she used to wear 
Of summer roses, aud the s.andal flowers 

That hung enamored round her fairy feet. 
When, in her youth, she h.aunted earthly bowers, 

And culled from all the beautifnl and sweet. 
No more she mocks me with her voice of mirth. 
Nor offers now the garlands of the earth. 

Come back, come hack — thou hast been absent long, 
Oh! welcome back the svbil of the soul, 



602 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAX POETRY. 



Who came, and comes again, with pleading strong, 
To ofi'er to the heart her mystic scroll; 

Though every year she wears a sadder look. 
And siugs a sadder song, and every year 

Some further leaves are torn out from her book, 
And fewer what she brings, and far more dear. 

As once she came — oh, might she come again. 

With all the perished volumes offered then ! 

She comes — she comes — her voice is in mine ear, 

Hit mild, sweet voice, that siugs, and siugs for- 
ever. 
Whose strains of song sweet thoughts awake to hear, 

Like flowers that hauut the margin of a river; 
(Flowers that, like lovers, only speak iu sighs. 

Whose thoughts are hues, whose voices are their 
hearts,) 
Oh — thus the spirit yearns to pierce the skies. 

Exulting throbs, though all save hope departs : 
Thus the glad freshness of our sinless years 
Is watered ever by the heart's rich tears. 

She comes — I know her by her radiaut eyes. 

Before whose smile the long dim cloud departs; 
And if a darker shade be on her brow. 

And if her tones be sadder than of yore. 
And if she siugs more solenm music now, 

And bears another harp than erst she bore, 
And if around her form no longer glow 

The earthly flowers that in her youth she wore — 
That look is loftier, and that song more sweet. 
And heaven's flowers — the stars — are at her feet. 



TO ONE DEPARTED. 

I know thou art gone to the homo of thy rest; 

Then why should my soul be so sad ? 
I know thou art gone where the weary are blessed, 

And the mourner looks up and is glad ; 
Where Love has put off, iu the laud of its birth. 

The stains it had gathered iu this, 
And Hope, the sweet singer, that gladdened the earth, 

Lies asleep on the bosom of Bliss. 

I know thou art gone where thy forehead is starred 

With the beauty that dwelt in thy soul. 
Where the light of thy loveliness cannot be marred. 

Nor thy spirit ilung back from its goal. 
I know thou hast drunk of the Lethe that flows 

Through a laud where they do not forget: — 
That sheds over memory only repose. 

And takes from it only regret. 



This eye must be dark, that so long has been dim, 

Ere agaiu it may gaze upon thiue ; 
But my heart has revealiugs of thee and thy home, 

Iu many a token and sigu : 
I uever look up with a vow to the sky. 

But a light like thy beauty is there ; 
And I he.ar a low murmur like thiue iu reply, 

AVhen I pour out my spirit iu prayer. 

In thy far-away dwelling, wherever it be, 

I know thou hast glimpses of miuc; 
For the love that made all things as music to me, 

I have not yet learned to resign. 
In the hush of the uight, on the waste of the sea. 

Or alone with the breeze on the hill, 
I have ever a presence that whispers of thee, 

And my spirit lies down and is still. 

Aiul though, like a mourner that sits by a toiub, 

I am wrapped in a mantle of care, 
Yet the grief of my bosom — oh, call it not gloom ! — 

Is not the dark grief of despair. 
By sorrow revealed, as the stars are by uight. 

Far off a bright vision appears. 
And Hope, like the rainbow, a creature of light. 

Is born, like the rainbow, from tears. 



CLEOPATRA EMBARKING ON THE CYDNUS. 

Flutes in the sunny air, 

And harps iu the porpliyry halls! 
And a low, deep huiu, like a people's prayer, 

With its heart-breathed swells and falls! 
And an echo, like the desert's call, 

Flung back to the shouting shores! 
And the river's ripide, heard through all. 

As it plays with the silver oars I — 
Tlie sky is a gleam of gold, 

Aud the amber breezes float. 
Like thoughts to be dreamed of, but never told, 

Around the dancing boat ! 

She has stepped on the burning saud — 

And the thousand tongues are mute, 
And the Syrian strikes, with a trembling hand, 

The strings of his gilded lute ! 
And the Etliiop's heart throbs loud and high, 

Beneath his white syraar, 
And the Lybiau kneels, as he meets her eye, 

Like the flash of an Eastern star! 
The gales may not be heard. 

Yet the siikeu streamers quiver, 



THOMAS KIBBLE BEEVET. — WILLIAM CBOSWELL. 



603 



And the vessel shoots, like a brigbt-phiuictl bird, 
Away down the goldeu liver! 

Away by the lofty iiioiint, 

And away by the lonely shore, 
And away by the gushing of many a fount. 

Where fountains gush no more ! — 
Oh ! for some warning vision there, 

Some voice that should have spoken 
Of climes to be laid waste and bare, 

And glad young spirits broken ! 
Of waters dried away, 

And hope and beauty blasted! 
— That scenes so fair and hearts so gay 

Should be so early wasted! 



TO ELLEN— WEEPING. 

Mine eyes — that may not see thee smile. 

Are glad to see thee weep ; 
Thy spirit's calm this weary while. 

Has been too dark and deej) ; — 
Alas for him who has but tears 

To mark his path of iiain, 
But oh! his long and lonely years, 

Who may uot weep again! 

Thou know'st, young mourner! thnn hast been, 

Through good and ill, to me, 
Amid a bleak and blighted scene, 

A siugle leafy tree ; 
A star withiu a stormy sky, 

An island on the main — 
And I have jirayed, in agony, 

To see thee weep again ! 

Thou ever wert a thing of tears, 

When but a playful child, 
A very sport of hopes and fears, 

And hoth too warm and wild ; 
Thy lightest thoughts and wishes wore 

Too passionate a strain — 
To such how often comes an hour 

They never weep again ! 

Thou wert of those whose very morn 

Gives some dark hint of night. 
And in thine eye too soon was born 

A sad and softened light ; 
And on thy brow youth set the seal. 

Which year's, upon thy brain, 



Confirmed too well — and they who feel 
May scarcely weep again ! 

But once agaiu within thine eye 

I see the waters start — 
The fountains cannot all be dry 

Within so young a heart ! 
Our love, which grew in light awhile, 

Has long been nursed by rain. 
But I shall yet behold thee smile. 

Since thou hast wept agaiu ! 



lllilliam Crosuicll. 



AMERICAN. 

Croswell (1S04-1851) was born at Hiulson, N. Y.,and 
was graduated at Yale College in 1833. Most of his 
poetry appeared in the Episcopal Watchman, publislied 
in Hartford, Conn., of wliich lie was joint editor with 
George Washington Doane. Croswell was Rector of 
Christ Church, Boston, 1829-'40; of St. Peter's, Au- 
burn, N. Y., 1840-'44; of Church of the Advent, Boston, 
lSi4-'51. 



DRINK AND AWAY. 

There is n benniifiil rill in Baibnrj', received into a Large b.a- 
sin, wliich bears a name signifying "Drink and away," from 
the great danger of meeting with rognes and assassins. — Dr. 
Shaw. 

l^p ! pilgrim and rover, redouble thy haste ! 
Nor rest thee till over life's wearisome waste. 
Ere the wild fore.st ranger thy footsteps betray 
To trouble and danger, — oh, drink and away ! 

Here lurks the dark savage, by night and by day. 
To rob and to ravage, nor scruples to slay : 
He waits for the slaughter: the blood of his prey 
Shall stain the still water, — then up and away ! 

With toil though thou languish, the mandate obey. 
Spur on, though in anguish, there's death in delay ! 
No blood-hound, want-wasted, is fiercer than they, — 
Pass by it uutasted — or driuk and away ! 

Though sore be the trial, thy God is thy stay ; 
Though deep the denial, yield not in dismay ; 
But, wrapped in high vision, look on to the day 
When the fountains elysian thj^ thirst shall allay. 

There sh.alt thou forever enjoy thy repose, 
Where life's gentle river eternally flows ; 
Yea, there shalt thou rest thee for ever and aye. 
With none to molest thee — then, drink and away. 



604 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



DE PROFUNDIS. 

"There nmy be a cloud without ii raiubow, but there cauuot 
be a raiubuw without a cloud." 

My soul was dark 
But for the goldeu liglit aud rainbow hue, 
That, sweeping heaven with their triumphal arc, 

Break ou the view. 

Enough to feel 
That God, indeed, is good. Enough to know, 
Without the gloomy cloud, he could reveal 

No beauteous bow. 



(Pbiminli D. (Griffin. 

AMERICAN. 

GrifiBn (1804-1830) was a native of Wyoming, Penn.— a 
grandson, on tlie motlici-'s side, of Colonel Zebulon But- 
ler, who defended the valley ajtainst the British attacli 
which led to the massacre of 1778. Graduating at Co- 
lumbia College, N. T., where he held the first rank in 
his class, Etinuind studied for the Episcopal Church ; but 
an affection of the lungs compelled him to give up preach- 
ing, and try a voyage to Europe. On his return from 
home, in 1830, he w^as prostrated by an inflammatory at- 
tack, and died. His "Literary Remains" were collect- 
ed by his brother. They include several Latin poems. 
There is abundant promise in his lines on Italy, though 
the influence of Byron is manifest in the general tone. 



LINKS ON LEAVING ITALY. 
*'Deh ! fossi tu men bclla, O ahueu piu forte."'— F/7/crt/a. 

Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, 

Land of the orange-grove aud niyrtlo bower! 
To hail whoso strand, to breathe whose genial air. 

Is bliss to all who feel of bliss the power. 
To look upon whoso monntaius in the hour 

When thy .sun sinks in glory, and a veil 
Of pnrplo flows arotnid them, would restore 

The seuso of beauty when all else might fail. 

W<Hild that fhoti wert more strong, at least less fair, 

Parent of fruits, alas! no nuire of men! 
Where springs the olivo e'en from mountains bare. 

The yellow harvest loads the scarce-tilled plain. 
Spontaneous shoots the vine, in rich festoon 

From tree to tree depending, and the flowers 
Wi-catlio with their chaplets, sweet though fading 
si'on. 

E'en f.illen columns and decaying towers. 

Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, 
Home of the beautiful, but not the brave! 



AVhere noble form, bold outline, princely air. 
Distinguish e'en the peasant and the slave : 

Where, like the goddess sprung from ocean's wave, 
Her mortal sisters boast immortal grace, 

Nor .spoil those charms whicli partial nature gave, 
By art's weak aids or fashion's vain grimace. 

Would that Ihon wert more strong, at least less fair. 

Thou nurse of everj' art save one alone. 
The art of self-defence ! Thy fostering care 

Brings out a nobler life from senseless stone, 
And bids e'eu canvas speak : thy magic tone, 

Infnsed in music now coustrains the soul 
With tears the power of melody to own. 

And now with passionate throbs that spurn control. 

Would that thou wert less fair, at least more strong, 

Grave of the mighty dead, the living mean ! 
Can uotliing rouse ye both? no tyrant's wrong, 

No memory of the brave, — of what has been? 
Yon broken arch once sptdce of triumph, then 

That mouldering wall, too, spoke of bravo de- 
fence — 
Sliades of departed heroes, rise again ! 

Italians, rise, aud thrust the oppressors hence! 

Italy! my country, fare thee well! 

For art thou not my country, at who.se breast 
Were nurtured those whose thoughts within me 
dwell, 

The fathers of my mind? whose fame impressed, 
E'en on my infant fancy, bade it rest 

With patriot fondness ou thy hills and streams. 
E'er yet tlion didst receive me as a guest, — 

Lovelier than I had seen thee in niy dreams ? 

Then fare thee well, my country, loved and lost: 
Too earlj' lost, alas ! when once so dear ; 

1 turn ill sorrow from thy glorious coast. 
And urge the feet forbid to' linger here. 

But must I rove by Arno's current clear, 
Aud hear the rush of Tiber's yellow flood. 

And wander ou the monut, now waste and drear. 
Where C'tesar's iialace in its glory stood ; — 

And see agaiu PartheuopiS's loved bay, 

And Pa!stum's shrines, aud Bail's classic shore, 
And mount the bark, ami listen to the lay 

That tlciats by night through Venice — never nmre ? 
Far otf I .seem to hear the Atlantic roar — 

It washes not thy feet, that envious sea, 
But wait.s, with outstretched arms, to waft me o'er 

To otlier lands, far, far, alas! from thee. 



OTWAY CUEBY.— EDWARD, LORD LTTTOX. 



605 



Fare, fare tliec well once more. I love tbee not 

As other things inanimate. Thou art 
The cherished mistress of my youth ; forgot 

Thou uever canst be while I have a heart. 
Launched ou those waters, wild with storm and 
wind, 

I know not, ask not, wh.at may be my lot ; 
For, torn from thee, no fear cau touch my mind, 

Brooding in gloom on that one hitter thought. 



©tiuan (Uurrii. 

AMERICAN. 

Curry (1804-1835) was a native of Grocn6elc!, Highland 
County, Ohio. His school education was limited. In 
1823 lie went to Lebanon, and learned the trade of a car- 
penter. He had a taste for poetry, and in 1838 became 
connected with Mr. W. D. Gallaglier in editing T/ie Hespe- 
rian, a montlily magazine. In 1839 ho removed to Marys- 
ville, began tlie study of the law, and practised it for ten 
years. In 18.53 we find him connected with the Scioto 
Gazette, a daily paper published in ChilUcothe. He filled 
various public offices, and lived an unblemished life. 



KINGDOM COME. 

I do not believe the sad story 

Of ages of sleep in the tomb ; 
I shall pass far away to the glory 

And grandeur of Kingdom Come. 
The paleness of death aud its stillness 

May rest ou my brow for awhile ; 
And my spirit may lose in its chilluess 

The splendor of Hope's happy smile ; 

But the gloom of the grave will be transient. 

And light as the slumbers of worth ; 
Aud then I shall blend with the aucieut 

And beautiful forms of the earth. 
Through the climes of the sky and the bowers 

Of blLss evermore I shall roam. 
Wearing crowns of the stars aud the flowers 

That glitter in Kingdom Come. 

The friends who have parted before me 

From life's gloomy passion and pain, 
Wheu the shadow of death passes o'er me 

Will smile on me foudly agaiu. 
Their voices were lost iu the soundless 

Retreats of their eudlcss home: 
But soon we shall meet iu the bouudless 

Effulgence of Kingdom Come. 



Qrbtuarb, Corb Cntton. 

Bulwer (whose full name was Edward George Earle 
Lytton Bulwer), afterward Lord Lyttou (1805-1873), one 
of tlie most versatile and conspicuous English authors 
of his day, was the youngest sou of Gen. Bulwer of Hay- 
dori Hall, county of Norfollc,who died in ISO". Edward's 
mother was of the ancient family of Lytton ; and ou 
her dciitli, in 1843, he succeeded to her valuable estate, 
and took tlie name of Lytton. Ho wrote verses at a 
very early ago ; and his first volume, consisting of boyish 
rhymes, appeared before he was sixteen years old. At 
Cambridge, in 1825, he carried off the chancellor's gold 
medal for the best English poem. In 1826 appeared an- 
other volume of verse, "Weeds and Wild Flowers;" and 
in 1827 his first novel, " Falkland." He sought and won 
distinction in poetry, the drama, the historical romance, 
domestic novel, ethical ess.ay, and political disquisition. 
His plays, "The Lady of Lyons," "Richelieu," aud 
"Money," still hold their i^lace on the stage. His poems 
arc contained in three 12nio volumes. In politics ho was 
at one time a supporter of extreme radical measures, but 
in 18.53 entered Parliament as a Conservative. His few 
speeches were able and apt. His reputation rests chiefly 
on his novels, which are as various in style as in their 
degrees of excellence. In 1837 he married Miss Wheeler, 
by whom he had a son aud daughter. Tbe latter died in 
1848; of the former, also a poet, an account will be found 
in our pages. The connection with Miss Wlieclcr proved 
an unhappy one; there wjis a separation; and she, as 
Lady Bulwer, wrote novels reflecting personally on licr 
husband and his mother. 

As a poet, Lytton did not reach "the summit of the 
sacred mount;" but he has done some good work, and 
his reputation is not likely to be ephemeral. Among the 
"Curiosities of Literature" will be reckoned the inter- 
change of sarcasms between him and Tennyson. In his 
"New Timon" (1845), a poem jiartly satirical and partly 
narrative. Lytton had designated the laureate as "School 
Miss Alfred," aud his poetry was alluded to as 
"The jingling medley of purloined conceits. 
Out-babying Wordsworth and out-glittering Keats.'' 

Tennyson gave no biibyish blow back. He published in 
Fundi (1846) some stinging stanzas iu reply, from which 
we quote the following : 

" Who killed the girls and thrilled the boys 
With dandy pathos when you wrote; 
O Lion, yini that made a noise. 

And shook a mane en papillotes ! 
***** 
"An artist, sir, should rest in art, 
And waive a little of his claim; 
To have the great jjoetic heart 
Is more than all poetic fame. 
***** 
"What profits now to understand 
The merits of a spotless sliirt — 
A dapper boot — a little hand — 
If half the little soul is dirt ? 
***** 
"A Timou you ? Nay, nny, for shame; 
It looks too aiTogaut a jest — 
That fierce old man — to take his name, 
Yon baudhos ! Off, and let him rest." 



606 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEIilCAX POETRY. 



L^'tton lived to do better things tlian he had yet pro- 
duced ; and Tennyson no doubt lived to regret the ex- 
treme severity of his retort; as we iind him dedicating 
one of his plays to the younger Lord Lytton, and refer- 
ring in the dedication, with high respect, to the man at 
whom he had so savagely thrust back, and who, in spite 
of the affectations of his younger days, was highly gifted 
as an author. 



CAKADOC, THE BARD TO THE CYMRL\^'S. 
From ** King Arthur : a Poem in Twelve Books." 

No Cynirian bavtl, by the pi-iiiiitive law, could bear weapous. 

Hark to the measured niareb ! — The Sasous come ! 

The souuil earth quails beneath the hollow tread! 
Your fathers rushed upon the sword.s of Rome, 

And climbed her war-ships, wheu tlie Ca-sar fled! 
The Saxous come! why wait within the wall? 
They scale the mouutaiii : — let its torrents fall ! 

Mark, ye have swords, and shields, and armor, ye ! 

No mail defends the Cymriau Child of Song ; 
But where the warrior, there the Bard shall he ! 

All fields of glory to the bard helong ! 
His realm c.Kteuds wherever godlike strife 
Spnrus the base death, and wins immortal life. 

Unarmed he goes — his guard the shield of all, 
Where he bounds foremost on the Saxon spear ! 

Unarmed he goes, that, falling, even his fall 

Shall bring no shame, and shall bequeath no fear : 

Does the song cease ? — avenge it by the deed, 

And make the sepulchre — a nation freed ! 



A SPENDTHRIFT. 
From "Kichelieu." 

You have outrun your fortune ; 

I blame you not, that you would be a beggar ; 

Each to his taste ! But I do charge yon, sir. 

That, being beggared, you would coin false moneys 

Out of that crucible called Debt. To live 

On means not yours ; be brave in silks and laces, 

Gallant iu steeds, splendid in banquets ; all 

Not yoiirn, ungivcu, uninherited, unpaid for ; 

Thi« i.s to be a trickster, and to filch 

Men's art and labor, which to them is wealth. 

Life, daily bread ; quitting all scores with, " Friend, 

You're troublesome !" Why this, forgive me, 

Is what, when done with a less dainty grace. 

Plain folks call "Theft!" You owe eight thousand 

pistoles, 
Minus one crown, two liards! 



THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

From Heaven what fancy stole 
The dream of some good spirit, aye at hand, 
The seraph -whispering to the exile soul 
Tales of its native land? 

Who to the cradle gave 
The unseen watcher by the mother's side, 
Boru with the birth, companion to the grave, 
The holy angel guide ? 

Is it a fable ?— " No," 
I hear Love answer from the sunlit air ; 
'■ Still, where nty presence gilds the darkness, know- 
Life's angel guide is there '." 

Is it a fable ?— Hark, 
Faith hymns from deeps beyond the palest star, 
"/ am the pilot to thy wandering bark. 
Thy guide to shores afar." 

Is it a fable ? — Sweet 
From wave, from air, from every forest tree. 
The murmur spoke, " Each thing thiuo eyes can greet 
All angel guide can be ! 

" From myriads take thy choice ; 
In all that lives a guide to God is given ; 
Ever thou hear'st some angel guardian's voice 
Wheu Nature speaks of Heaven !" 



TO THE KING. 
From "The Duchesse de la ValliI;re." 

Great though thou art, awake thee from the dream 
That earth -was made for kings — mankind for 

slaughters- 
Woman for Inst — the People for the Pal.iee ! 
Dark warnings have gone forth ; along the air 
Lingers the crash of the first Charles's throne. 
Behold the young, the fair, the haughty king. 
The ruling courtiers, and the flattering priests ! 
Lo! where the palace rose, behold the scaffold — 
The crowd — the axe — the headsman — and the vic- 
tim! 
Lord of the Silver Lilies, canst thou tell 
If the same fate await not thy descendant ! 
If .some meek sou of thine imperial line 
May make no brother to yon headless spectre ! 
And when the sage who saddens o'er the end 
Tracks back the causes, tremble, lest he finds 



EVWJRD, LORD LTTTOK 



607 



Tlie seeds, tliy wars, thy pomp, aud thy profusion. 
Sowed ill a heartless court aud breadless people. 
Grew to the tree from which meu shaped the scaf- 

fohl,— 
Aud the loug glare of thy funereal glories 
Light uuborii iiionarchs to a ghastly grave ? 
Beware, proud Kiug! the Present cries aloud, 
A prophet to the future! Wake I — beware! 



IS IT ALL VANITY? 

# if * if * 

Life answers, " No ! If ended here be life, 

Seize what the sense can give ; it is thine all ; 
Disarm thee. Virtue ! barren is thy strife ; 
Knowledge, thy torch let fall ! 

" Seek thy lost Psyche, yearning Love, no more I 

Love is but lust, if soul be only breath ; 
Who would put forth one billow from the shore 
If the great sea be — Death?" 

But if the soul, that slow artificer, 

For ends its instinct rears from life hath striveu, 
Feeling beneath its patient web-work stir 
Wings only freed iu Heaveu, — 

Then, and but then, to toil is to be wise; 
Solved is the riddle of the grand desire 
Which ever, ever for the Distant sighs, 
And must perforce aspire. 

Rise theu, my soul, take comfort from thy sorrow ; 
Thou feel'st thy treasure wheu thou feel'st thy 
load ; 
Life without thought, the day without the morrow, 
God ou the brute bestowed; — 

Longings obscure as for a native climo, 

Flight from what is to live iu what may be, 
God gave the Soul : — thy discontent with Time 
Proves thine eteruitv. 



INVOCATION TO LOVE. 

From "King Abthcr," 

Hail thou, the ever young, albeit of uight 
And of primeval chaos eldest born ; 

Thou, at whose birth broke forth the Founts of Light, 
And o'er Creation flushed the earliest morn ! 



Life, iu thy life, sulfiised the conscious whole : 
Aud formless matter took the harmonious soul. 

Hail, Love ! the Death-defier ! age to age 

Linking, with flowers, in the still heart of man ! 
Di'f'am to the Bard, aud marvel to the Sage, 
^ Glory and mystery since the world began. 
Shadowing the cradle, brightening at the tomb. 
Soft as our joys, aud solenm as our doom ! 

Ghost-like .amid the unfamiliar Past, 

Dim shadows flit along the streams of Time ; 

Vainly our learning trifles with the vast 

LTuknown of ages ! Like the wizard's rhyme 

We call the dead, and from the Tartarus 

'Tis but the dead that rise to answer us! 

Voiceless aud wan, we question them iu vain : 
They leave unsolved earth's mighty yesterday. 

But wave thy wand — they bloom, they breathe 
again ! 
The link is found ! — as tre love, so loveil they ! 

Warm to our clasp our humau brothers start, 

Man smiles on man, .aud heart speaks out to heart. 

Arch power, of every power most dread, most sweet, 
Ope at thy touch the far celestial gates ; 

Yet Terror flies with Joy before thy feet, 

And, with the Graces, glide unseen the Fates ; 

Eos and Hesperus, — one, with twofold light, 

Briuger of day, aud herald of the uight ! 



EPIGEAMS FROM THE GERMAN. 

TO THE MYSTICS. 

Life has its mystery; — True, it is that one 
Surrounding all, and yet perceived by none. 

THE KEY. 

To know Ihifself — in others self discern ; 

Wouldst thou know others? read thyself — and learn ! 

MY BELIEF. 

What my religion? those thou namest — none? 
None, why ? Because I have religion ! 

FRIEND AND FOE. 
Dear is my friend — yet from my foe, as from my 

friend, comes good ; 
My friend shows what I can do, aud ray foe shows 

what I should. 



603 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AM) AMiunt .i.V POETIiT. 



FORUM OF WOMEN. 

Woman — to judge man rightly — do not scan 
Each separate act; — pass judgment on the Man! 

SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
Give me that which thou kuow'st — I'll receive and 

attend ; 
But thou giv'st me thyself — prithee, — spare me my 

friend ! 

THE rROSELYTE MAKER. 

"A little earth from out the Earth — and I 
The Earth will move ;" so spake the Sage divine. 
Out of myself one little moment — try 
Myself to take : — succeed, and I am thine ! 

THE CONT<ECTING MEDIUM. 

What to cement the lofty aud the mean 
Does Nature? — what? — place vanity between! 

CORRECTNESS. 
The calm correctness, where uo fault we see, 
Attests Art's loftiest or its least degree ; 
That ground in eonnuon two extremes may claim — 
Strength iriust consuunuate, feebleness most tame. 

THE M.\STER. 
The herd of scribes, by what they tell us, 
Show all ill which their wits excel us; 
But the True Master wo behold, 
lu what his art leaves — ^jnst untcdd. 

SCIENCE. 

To some she is the Goddess great, to some the milch- 
cow of the field ; 

Their care is but to calculate — what butter she will 
yield. 

K.\NT AND HIS CO.MMENTATORS. 
How many starvelings one rich man can nourish I 
When monarehs build, the rubbish-carriers flouri.sh. 



Saral) i^loircr vlliaiiis. 

Miss Flower (1805-18411), a native of London, was a 
younger daughter of Benjamin Flower, editor of the Cam- 
bridge Intelligencer, and a well known politician of tlic 
Liberal school. Sarali was married to William B. Adams, 
eminent as a civil engineer. Her celebrated hymn, "Near- 
er, my God, to Thee," founded on Jacob's dream, record- 
ed in Genesis, was contrilnited in 1841 to a Unitarian rol- 
lection of " Hymns and Anthems," edited by William J. 



Fox, preacher and member of Parliament. Few hymns 
have been so widely popular. It has been adopted by 
all Christian sects, and translated into various languages, 
adapted to the tune of "Bethany." Professor Hitch- 
cock relates that as he aud liis travelling companions 
rounded their way down the foot-hills of Mount Lebanon 
in 1870, they came ju sight of a group of fifty Syrian 
students, who were singing in Arabic this beautifal hymn 
to this familiar tune. Mrs. Adams was also the author 
of a drama in five acts, founded on the martyrdom of 
Vivia Perpetua, and published in 1841; and of "The FlocU 
at the Fountain," designed for children. 



NEARER, MY GOD, TO THEE. 

Nearer, my God, to thee — 

Nearer to thee ! 
E'en though it be a cross 

That raisetU me ; 
Still all my song shall be, 
Nearer, my God, to thee — 

Nearer to thee ! 

Though like a wanderer, 

The sun gone down. 
Darkness comes over me, 

My rest a stone ; 
Yet in mj' dreams I'd be 
Nearer, my God, to thee ! — 

Nearer to thee ! 

There let the way appear 

Steps nnto Heaven ; 
All that thou seudest mo 

In mercy given ; 
Angels to beckon me 
Nearer, my God, to theo — 

Nearer to thee ! 

Then "with my waking thoughts, 
Bright with thy praise. 

Out of my stony griefs 
Bethel I'll raise ; 

So by mj- woes to be, 

Nearer, my God, to thee — 
Nearer to thee ! 

Or if, on joyful wiug, 

Cleaving the sky, 
Sun. moon, and stars forgot, 

Upward I'll fly- 
Still all my song shall be, 
Nearer, my God, to thee — 

Nearer to thee ! 



SAIIAH FLOWER ADAMS.— HENRY GLASSFORD HELL. 



609 



THE WORLD MAY CHANGE. 

A Parapurase from ScniLLER. 

TLie world may change from old to uew, 

From new to old again ; 
Yet hope and heaven, forever true, 

Within man's heart remain. 
The dreams that bless the weary soul, 

The struggles of the strong. 
Are stejis toward some happy goal, 

The story of Hope's .song. 

Hope leads the child to plant the flower, 

Tlie man to sow the seed ; 
Nor leaves fulfilment to her hour, 

But prompts ag.iin to deed. 
And ere upon the old man's dust 

The grass is seen to wave. 
We look through fallen tears, — to trust 

Hope's sunshine on the grave. 

Oh no! it is no flattering lure, 

No fancy, weak or fond. 
When hope would bid us rest secure 

In better life beyond : 
Nor loss nor shame, nor grief nor siu. 

Her promise may gainsay ; 
The voice Divine hath spoke withiu, 

And God did ne'er betray. 



THY WILL, NOT MINE. 

He sendeth sun, he sendeth shower. 
Alike they're needful to the flower ; 
And joys and tears alike are sent 
To give the soul fit nourishment. 
As comes to me, or cloud or sun, 
Father! thy will, not miue, be done. 

Can loving children e'er reprove 

With murmurs, whom they trust and lov 

Creator! I would ever bo 

A trusting, loviug child to thee: 

As comes to me, or cloud or sun. 

Father! thy will, not miue, be done. 

Oh ! ne'er will I at life rejiiue — 
Enough that thou hast made it mine. 
Where falls the shadow cold of death, 
I yet will sing with parting breath. 
As comes to me, or shade or sun, 
Father! thy will, not mine, be done. 
39 



tjcnvii (IMassfovi) Bell. 

Bell (180.5-1874) was a native of Glasgow, and cdu- 
oateil at the University of Edinburgh. After leaving 
college he wrote a "Memoir of Mary Queen of Scots," 
which passed through several editions. He edited the 
Etlinhurgh Literary Journal for three years. In 1833 he 
was admitted to the Bar, became quite emhient as a law- 
yer, and in 1867 succeeded Sir Archibald Alison as Sher- 
iff of Lanarkshire. His first volume of poems appeared 
in 1831 ; his last in 186.5, with the title of "Romances, 
and other Minor Poems." Highly esteemed by all who 
knew him, "he had," says one of his biographers, "al- 
most the innocence of a child with the fortitude of a 
sage." 



FROM "THE END." 

Dear friend, is all we see a dream ? 

Does this brief glimpse of time and space 
Exhaust the aims, fulfil the scheme 

Intended for the human race ? 

Shall even the star-exploring mind. 
Which thrills with spiritual desire, 

Be, like a breath of summer wind. 
Absorbed in sunshine and expire ? 

Or will what men call death restore 

The living myriads of the past ? 
Is dying but to go before 

The myriads who will come at last ? 

If not, whence sprang the thought, and whence 

Perception of a Power divine. 
Who symbols forth Omnipotence 

In flowers that bloom, in suns that shine? 

'Tis not these fleshly limbs that think, 
'Tis not these filmy eyes that see ; 

Though mind and matter break the link, 
Mind does not therefore cease to be. 

Such end is but an end in part. 
Such death is but the body's goiil ; 

Blood makes the pulses of the heart, 
But not the emotions of the soul. 



CADZOW. 

The birds are singing by Avon Bridge, 
The sky is blue o'er Chatebranlt, 

And all through Cadzow's wooded glades 
The softest airs of summer blow. 



filO 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXB AMERICAN POETRY. 



O birds that slug by Avou Bridge, 

Why should your notes so richly flow ? 

O trauquil sky of cloudless blue, 

■\yhy shiue so bright o'er Chatebraiilt ? 

O Avon ! rolling gently down, 

Why keep'st thou that old tuneful tone ? 
Where is the voice so soft and low 

Whose music echoed back thy own ? 

O Cadzow ! why this rustling pomp 
Of leafy bouglis that wave so high ? 

Where is the light that gleamed through all 
Thy shadowy paths iu days gone by ? 

O summer airs ! why thus recall 

The sweeter breath, that seemed to bring 

The balmy dews of summer skies. 
And all the roses of the spring! 



©corgc lHasljington Bctljuuc. 



Dr. Bethune (1805-1862), an eloquent pulpit orator of 
the Dutch Church, was a native of the city of New York. 
Graduating at Dickinson Collejce in tlie class of 1823, he 
studied theology at Princeton, and preaclied successively 
at Rhincbeck, Utica, Pliiladclpliia, and Brooklyn. He 
published iu 1848 " L.iys of Love and Faith." 



IT IS NOT DEATH TO DIE. 

It is not death to die, to leave this weary road, 
And 'mid the brotherhood on high to be at home 

with God. 
It is not death to close the eye long dimmed by tears. 
And wake in glorious repose to spend eternal years. 
It is not death to bear the wrench that sets us free 
From prison-bars, to breathe the air of boundless lib- 
erty. 
It is not death to fling aside this sinful dust. 
And rise on strong, exultant wing to live among the 

just. 
Jesus, tliou prince of life! thy chosen cannot die; 
Like thee tliey conquer in the strife to live with thee 
on high. 



SONNET, INTRODUCING " LAYS," ETC. 

As one arranges in a single vase 

A little store of unpretending flowers. 

So gathered I some record of past hours, 



And trust them, gentle reader, to thy grace ; 
Nor hope that iu my pages thou wilt trace 
The brilliant proof of high poetic powers ; 
But dear memorials of my happj' days, 
When heaven shed blessings on my head like show- 
ers ; 
Clothing with beauty even the desert place ; 
Till I, with thankful gladness in my looks, 
Turned me to God, sweet nature, loving friends, 
Christ's little children, well-woru ancient books, 
The charm of art, the rapture music sends, — 
And sang away the grief that on man's lot atteuds. 



i?oljn (fiiiiuinLi Ucabc. 

Eeade (1805-1870) wi)6 a native of England. His first 
volume, " The Broken Heart, and other Poems," appear- 
ed in 1835. A diligent, if not a distinguished, writer, he 
published four collective editious of his poetical worlis 
(1851-1805). He also wrote several novels. His de- 
scription of the Colosseum, though suggestive of By- 
ron's " Childe Harold," is graphic and vigorous, showing 
no inconsiderable degree of original power. 



THE COLOSSEUM. 

From '' Italy : a Poem." 

Hark ! the night's slumberous air is musical 
With the low carolling of birds, that seem 
To hold here an enduring festival: 
How do their notes and nature's flowers redeem 
The place from stained pollution ! if the stream 
And reek of blood gushed forth from man and 

beast. 
If, Cain-like, brethren gloated o'er the steam 
Of immolation as a welcome feast, 
Ages have cleansed the guilt, the unnatural strife 

hath ceased. 

Along its shattered edges on a sky 
Of azure, sharply, delicately traced. 
The light bird flits o'er flowers that wave from 

high, 
Wlicre human foot shall nevermore be based : 
Grass mantles tlie arena 'mid defaced 
And broken columns freshly, wildly spread : 
And through the hollow windows once so graced 
With glittering eyes, faint stars their twinklings 

shed. 
Lighting as if with life those sockets of the dead ! 

So stretches that Titanic skeleton : 
Its shattered and enormous circle rent, 



BODKUT T. CUSllAD.— SAMUEL FERGUSOX. 



Oil 



Aud yawning open, arch anj coveiiug gone ; 
As the linge crater's sides bang imminent 
Round the volcano whose last flames are spent, 
Whoso sounds shall nevermore to heaven aspire, 
So frowns that stern aud desolate monument ; 
A stage in ruin, an exhausted pyre, 
The actors passed to dust, forever quenched the fire ! 



llobcrt (L. Qlonralf. 

AMERICAN. 
Conrad fl805-185S) was a native of Pliiladelphia. Quite 
caiiy in life lie manifested strong literarj- tastes. He 
studied for the Bar, became an acconiplislied pleader, was 
made Jud;;e of the Court of Geueral Sessions in ISW, and 
Mayor of the city in 1854. He was the author of two 
tragedies, " Conrad of Naples " aud " Aylmere," the lat- 
ter written for Forrest, and produced on the stage with 
success. An edition of Conrad's poetical and dramatic 
writings was published (1853) in Philadelphia. 



FROM " MY BROTHER." 

F(U-ever gone ! I am alone — alone ! 

Yet my heart doubts; to me thou livest yet: 
Love's lingering twilight o'er my soul is thrown ; 

E'en when the oi-b that lent that light is set. 
Thou minglest with my hopes — does Hope forget? 

I think of thee as thou wert at my side; 
I grieve, and whisper — "He too will regret;" 
I doubt and ponder — " How will he decide ?" 
I strive, but 'tis to win thj' praises and thy pride. 

For I thy prai.se could win — thy praise sincere. 
How lov'dst thou me, with more than woman's 
love ! 
And thou to me wast e'en as honor dear! 
Nature iu one fond woof our spirits wove; 
Lilie wedded vines enclasping iu the grove 
We grew. Ah ! withered now the fairer vine ! 

But from the living who the dead can move? 
Blending their sere and green leaves, there they 

twine, 
And will, till dust to dust shall mingle mine with 
thine. 

The sunshine of our boyhood! I bethink 

How we were wont to beat the briery wood ; 

Or clamber, boastful, up the craggy brink. 

Where the rent mountain frowns npou the flood 
That thrids that vale of beauty and of blood. 

Sad Wyoming! The whispering past will tell, 
How by the silver-browed cascade we stood, 



And watched the sunlit waters as tbey fell [dell. 
(So youth drops in the grave) down iu the shadowy 

And how we plunged iu Lackawanua's wave ; 

The wild fowl startled, when to echo gay, 
Iti that hushed dell, glad laugh and shout we gave ! 

Or on the shaded hill-side how we lay 

And watched the bright rack ou its beamy way. 
Dreaming high dreams of glory and of pride ; 

What heroes we, in freedom's deadliest fray! 
How poured we gladly forth life's ruddy tide. 
Looked to our skyey flag, aud shouted, smiled, and 
died! 

Bright dreams — forever past 1 I dream no more' 

Memory is now my being: lier sweet tone 
Can, like a spirit-spell, the lost restore — 

My tried, my true, my brave, bright-thonghted 
one! 

Few have a friend — and snch a friend ! But none 
Have, iu this bleak world, more thau one ; ;ind he, 

Ever mine own, mine only — he is gone 1 
He fell — as hope had promised — for the free : 
Our early dream, — alas! it was no dream to thee! 



Samuel i'crgiisoii. 

A native of Belfast, Ireland, Ferguson was born in 1S0.5. 
He was a contributor to Blackwood's Mugazine and tljc 
Dublin University Magazine. An edition of his collected 
writings was published in 1865 ; and in 1880 appeared 
" Poems by Hir Samuel Ferguson ;" he having been 
knighted. 



THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 

Come, see the Dolphin's Anchor f<irged ; 'tis at a 
white-heat now ; 

The billows ceased, the flames decreased ; though 
on the forge's brow 

The little flames still fitfully play through the sa- 
ble mound ; 

Aud fitfully you still may see the grim smiths rank- 
ing round. 

All clad iu leathern panoply, their broad hands only 
bare ; 

Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the 
windlass there. 

The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black 
nionud heaves below. 

And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at ev- 
ery throe ; 



()l-3 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BEITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



It rises, roars, reuds all outright — Vulcau, wliat 
a glow ! 

'Tis bliiuling white, 'tis blasting bright, the high suu 
shines uot so ! 

The high snu sees uot, ou the earth, such fiery fear- 
ful show ; 

Tlie roof-ribs swarth, the caurleut hearth, the ruthly 
lurid row 

Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men be- 
fore the foe ; 

As quivering through bis fleece of flame the sail- 
ing monster slow 

Sinks on the anvil — all about the faces fiery grow — 

■• Hurrah !'' they shout ; " leap out — leap out :" bang, 
bang, the sledges go ; 

Hurrah! tlie jetted lightuings are hissing high and 
low; 

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squash- 
ing blow ; 

The leathern mail rebounds the hail ; the rattling 
cinders strow 

The ground around ; at every bound the swelter- 
ing fountains flow. 

And tliick and loud tlui swinking crowd, at every 
stroke, pant " Ho!" 

Leap out, leap out, my masters; leaji out and lay 
ou load I 

Let's forgo a goodly Anchor, a bower thick and 
broad ; 

For a heart of oak is banging on every blow, I bode. 

And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous 
road ; 

The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean 
poured 

From stem to stern, sea after sea, the main-mast by 
the board ; 

The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove 
. at the chains ! 

But courage still, brave mariners, the bower still 
remains. 

And not an iucU to flinch he deigns, save when ye 
pitch sky high, 

Then moves his head, as though he said, " Fear noth- 
ing — liere am I !'' 

Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand 
keep time. 

Your blows make music sweeter far than any stee- 
ple's chime! 

But while ye swing your sledges, sing : and let the 
liunlen be, 

'•The Anchor is the Anvil King, and royal crafts- 
men we ;" 



Strike in, strike in, the sparks begin to dull their 

rnstling red! 
Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will 

soon be sped ; 
Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery riili 

array. 
For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy 

couch of clay ; 
Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry 

craftsmen here, 
For the Yo-heave-o, and the Heave-away, and the 

sighing seaman's cheer; 
When weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from 

love and Lome, 
And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the 

ocean foam. 

In livid and obdurate gloom, be darlccnsdown at last, 
A shapely one ho is and strong as e'er from cat was 

cast. 
O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life 

like me, 
What pleasures would th}' toils reward beneath the 

deep green sea ! 
O deep sea-diver, who might then beliold such sights 

as thou ? 
The hoary mousters' palaces I methinks what joy 

'twere now 
To go plump plunging down amid the assembly of 

the whales. 
And feel the churued sea round me boil beneath 

their scourging tails! 
Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea- 
unicorn. 
And send Iiim foiled and bellowing back, for all his 

ivory horn ; 
To leave the subtle sworder-fish,of bony blade forlorn. 
And for the ghastly-grinning shark, to laugh his 

jaws to scorn ; 
To leap down ou the krakcn's back, where 'mid 

Norwegian isles 
He lies, a lubber anchorage, for sudden shallowed 

miles ; 
Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, oft' he rolls; 
Meanwhile to swing, a bufl'eting tlie far-astonislied 

shoals 
Of his back-browsing ocean calves ; or haply in a 

cove, 
Shell-strown, and con.sccrate of old to soraeUudind's 

love. 
To find the long-haired mermaidens; or, hard by 

icy lands, 
To wrestle with the sea-serpent upon cerulean sands. 



WILLIAM BOITAX HAMILTON. — WILLIAM PAHSOXS LUXT. 



61S 



liroad-arnied Fisher of the deep, whose sports cau 

tMlMul thine? 
The Dolpliui weighs a tliousaiul tons that tugs thy 

cahle line : 
And night hy night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day 

liy day. 
Through sahle sea and breaker white, the giant 

game to play; — 
But, shamer of our little sports! forgive the name 

I gave, 
A fisher's joy is to destroy, — thine office is to save. 

O lodger in the sea-kings' halls, couldst thou hut 

understand 
Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that 

dripping band, 
Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about 

thee bend. 
With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their 

aneient friend — 
Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger 

steps round thee. 
Thine iron side would swell with pride, thou'dst 

leap within the seal 

Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant 
strand. 

To shed their blood so freely for the love of Fa- 
therland — 

Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church- 
yard grave 

So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave — 

Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly 
sung. 

Honor him for their memorj", whose bones he goes 
among ! 

InUliam Uomau Cjamiltoii. 

Hamilton (1805-1865), Astronomer Royal of Dublin, 
was also a poet. Geortje Tieknor (Boston, U. S. A., 1791- 
1871 1, in his "Life, Letters, etc." (1870), speaks of the 
following sonnet as "one of the finest in the English 
language." Wordsworth once said to Mr. Aubrey de 
Vere : "I have kuown many that might be called very 
clever men, and a good many of real and vigorous abUities, 
but few ofirenius; and only one whom I sbould call mm- 
(hrful. That one was Coleridge. * * * The only man like 
Coleridge whom I have known is Sir William Hamilton, 
Astronomer Royal of Dublin." 

A PEAYEE. 

O brooding Sjiirit of Wisdom and of Love, 
Whose might}' wings even now o'ershadow mo, 



Absorb me in thine own immensity. 

And raise me far nij' finite self above ! 

Purge vanity away, and the weak care 

That name or fame of me may widely spread ; 

Aud the deep wish keep burning in their stead, 

<rhy blissful influence afar to bear, — 

Or see it borne! Let no desire of ease, 

No lack of courage, faith, or love, delay 

Mine own steps on that high thought-paven way 

In which my soul her clear commission sees : 

Yet with an equal joy let me behold 

Thy chariot o"cr that way by others rolled! 



TO ADAMS, 

DISCOVERER OF THE PLANET NEPTUNE. 

When Vulcan cleft the laboring brain of Jovo 

With his keen axe, and set Minerva free, 

The uniuiprisoned maid, exultingly, 

I5ounded aloft, and to the Heaven above 

Turned her clear eyes, while the grim workman 

strove 
To claim the virgin Wisdom for Ills fee, 
His private wealth, his property to be. 
And hide in Lemniau cave her light of love. 
If some new truth, oh friend, thy toil discover. 
If thine eyes first by some fair form be blessed, 
Love it for what it is, and as a lover 
Gaze, or with joy receive thine honored guest : 
The new-found Thought, set free, awhile nuiy hover 
Gratefully near thee, but it cannot rest. 



InUliam yarsous £unt. 



Lunt was born at Newbiiryport, Alass., in 1805, and died 
at Akbar, in Arabia Petr.-ea, March 20th, 1857. He was 
gr.iduatcd at Harvard College in 1833; studied law for a 
time, then divinity. He officiated in 1828 as pastor of the 
Second Unitarian Church in New York, but in 1835 took 
charge of the church in Qiiiucy, Mass., and retained it 
up to the time of his death. His writings, both in prose 
and verse, give evidence of a clear, highly cultivated in- 
tellect and of an emotional nature, quick to sympathize 
w ilh the good, beautiful, and true. 



THE AMERICAN FLAG. 

Fl.ag of my country ! in thy folds 

Are wrapped the treasures of the heart ; 

Where'er that waving sheet is fanned 

By breezes of the sea or land. 
It bids the life-blood start. 



ni4 



CTCLOPJSDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



It is uot that amoug those stars 

The tieiy ciest of Mars shiues out ; 
It is not that on hattle-phiin, 
'Mid Iieaps of haruessed warriors shiiii, 
It flaps trimiiiihaut o'er the rout. 

Short-lived the joy that conquest yields; 

Flushed victory is Ijathed iu tears; 
The luirden of that bloody fame 
Which shouting myriads proclaim 

Sounds sad to widowed ears 

Thou hast a deeper, stronger hold, 
Flag of my country ! on the heart, 

Thau when o'er mustered hosts unfurled, 

Thou art a signal to the world, 
At which the nations start. 

Thou art a symbol of the power 

Whoso sheltering wings our homes surround ; 
Guarded by thee was childhood's morn, 
And where thy cheering folds arc borne, 

Order and Peace are found. 

Flag of our mighty Union, hail! 

Blessings abound where thou dost float ; 
Best robe for living Freedom's form. 
Fit pall to spread upon her tomb. 

Should Heaven to death devote. 

Wave over us in g'ory still. 

And be our guardian as uow ! 
Each wind of heaven salute thy streats ! 
And withered be the arm that seeks 

To bring that banner low ! 



lUilliam Cloijb (Bavrison. 

AMERICAN. 

Garrison was born in Newburyport, Mass., December 
Kith, ISO."), and died iu the city of New Yorlc, May 34lli, 
1879, His mother was a woman of rare good sense and 
strong religious convictions. The family were poor, and 
William had few advantages. He began early to learn 
the: trade of a sliocmaker, but left it for the printing- 
office. Tliis led to liis becoming associated in an edi- 
torial caiiacity with various journ.ils. In 1839 be joined 
Ik-iij;unin I-\nuly in starting The Gcmus of Universal Emnn- 
cipatum in Haltimore, and w.is imprisoned some thirty 
days for liis attacks on llie slave system. In 1831 a])pcar- 
ed tlic Uberatoi; published in Boston. Tlicnceforward 
he devoted himself strenuously to the eradication of 
slavery from tlic land. Political developments, attended 
liy the estrangemcut of the South, gradually led to tlic 



conflict which ended in the fulfilment of his life-long en- 
deavors. Two of the subjoined sonnets were traced in 
pencil on the walls of the cell where he was imprisoned. 
He i)ublished a volume of ninety-six pages in 1843, enti- 
tled '■ Sonnets, and other Poems." 



THE GUILTLESS TRISONER. 

Prisoner! within these gloomy walls clo.se pent, 
Guiltless of horrid crime or venal wrong — 
Bear nobly up against thy punishment, 
Aud in thy innocence be great and strong! 
Perchance thy fault was love to all mankind ; 
Thou didst oppose some vile, oppressive law. 
Or strive all humau fetters to unbind ; 
Or wouldst uot bear the implements of war: 
What then ? Dost thou so soon repent the deed ? 
A martyr's crown is richer than a king's ! 
Tliink it an honor with thy Lord to bleed. 
And glory 'mid intensest snti'eriugs ! 
Though beat, imprisoned, put to open shame, 
Time shall embalm aud magnify thy uame! 



FREEDOM OF THE MIND. 

High walls and hnge the body may confine, 
Aud iron grates obstruct the prisoner's gaze, 
Aud massive bolts may baffle bis design, 
And vigilant keepers watch his devious ways ; 
Yet scorns tlie immortal mind this base control! 
No chains can bind it, and no cell euchise : 
Swifter than light it flies from pole to p(de, 
Aud in a fla.sh from earth to heaven it goes! 
It leaps from mount to mount — from vale to valo 
It wanders, plucking hcmeyed fruits aud flowers; 
It visits hinne, to hear the fireside tale, — 
Or in sweet converse pass the joyous liours; 
'Tis up before the sun, roaming afar. 
And in its watclies wearies every star! 



TO BENJAMIN LUNDY. 

Self-taught, unaided, poor, reviled, contemned. 

Beset with enemies, by friends betrayed; 

As madman and fanatic oft condemned. 

Yet in thy noble cause still undismayed ; 

Leonidas could not thy courage boast ; 

Less numerous were his foes, bis band nnire strong 

Alone unto a more than Persian host. 

Thou bast undauntedly given battle long. 

Nor shalt thou singly wage the nneiiual strife ; 



WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON.— FREDERIC HENRY HEDGE. 



G15 



I'lito thy aid, witli spear aii<l sliielil, I rii.sli, 

Ami freely do I offer up my life, 

And bid my heart's-blood find a wound to gnsu ! 

New volunteers are trooping to the field ; 

To die we are jjrepared, but uot an inch to yield. 



SONNET. 

How shall my love to God be clearest shown? 
He nothing needs of all that I possess ; 
Nothing it costs lip homage to express, 
In sackcloth aud iu ashes to lie prone, 
Sin in the abstract loudly to bemoan ! 
Easy it is religion to profess, 
And praise .and m.agnify Christ's righteousness; 
For this requires but empty breath alone. 
By cleaving to the truth when under ban, 
Striving to break Oppression's iron rod, 
Hearing the cross where freedom leads the van, 
Shunning no path by faithful martyrs trod. 
And loving as myself my fellow-man, — 
Thus clearest shall I show my love to God. 



J'ntiEric fjcniji CjcLtqc. 



Hedge was bora in C;nnbri(li;e, Mass., in 180.5 — the son 
of Levi Hedge, teacher of Loyie,etc.,at Harvard College. 
In 1818 lie accompanied George Bancroft to Germany, 
and studied there for some time. Retuniing to America, 
lie graduated at Harvard in 183.5, and studied for the min- 
istry. In 18.56 he took charge of the parish in Brookline, 
Mass. ; but in 1872 removed to Cambridge, and was ap- 
pointed Professor of German Literature. Dr. Hedge has 
been a voluminous author, has published various trans- 
lations from the Gernuui, and written some excellent 
hymns. 



THE CRUCIFIXION. 

'Twas the day when God's Anointed 
Died for us the death appointed, 

Bleeding on the guilty cross ; 
Day of darkness, day of terror, 
Deadlj- fruit of ancient error, 

Nature's fall, .and Eden's loss. 

Haste, prepare the bitter chalice! 
Gentile hate and Jewish malice 

Lift the royal victim high — 
Like the serpent, wonder-gifted, 
Which the Prophet once uplifted — 

For .1 siuful world to die. 



Con.scious of the deed unholy, 
Nature's pulses beat more slowly, 

Aud the sun his light denied ; 
Darkness wrapped the sacred city, 
AnJ the earth with fear and pity 

Trembled wheu the Just One died. 

It is finished, Man of sorrows! 
From thy cross our nature borrows 

Strength to bear and conquer thus. 
While exalted there we view thee, 
Mighty sufferer, draw us to thee. 

Sufferer victorious! 

Not in vain for ns uplifted, 
Man of sorrows, wonder-gifted! 

May that sacred symbol be. 
Eminent amid the ages, 
Guide of heroes and of sages, 

May it guide ns still to thee! 

Still to thee, whose love unbounded 
Sorrow's deep for ns has sounded. 

Perfected by sorrows sore. 
Glory' to thy cross forever ! 
Star that points our high endeavor 

Whither thon hast gone before. 



QUESTIONINGS. 

Hath this world without nio wrought 

Other substance than my thought? 

Lives it by my sense alone, 

Or by essence of its own ? 

Will its life, with mine begun. 

Cease to be when that is done, 

Or another consciousness 

With the self-same forms impress ? 

Doth yon fire-ball, poised iu air, 
Hang by my permission there? 
Are the clouds that wander by 
But the offspring of mine eye. 
Born with every glance I cast, 
Peri.shing wheu that is past ? 
And those thousand, thousand eyes. 
Scattered through the twinkling skies, 
Do they draw their life from mine. 
Or of their own beauty shiue? 

Now I close my eyes, my ears, 
And creation disappears; 



GIG 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BllITISE AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Yft if I but sjjeak the ivord, 

All creation is restored. 

Or — more wouderful — within, 

New creations do begin ; 

Hues more bright and forms more rare 

Tbau reality doth wear, 

Flash across my inward sense. 

Burn of the mind's oniuipoteuce. 

Soul! that all iuforuiest, say! 
Shall these glories pass away ? 
Will those planets cease to blaze 
When these eyes no longer gaze? 
And the life of things be o'er, 
When these jinlses beat no more ? 

Thought ! tliat in me works and lives, — 

Life to all things living gives, — 

Art thou not thyself, perchance. 

But the universe in trance? 

A reflection inly flung 

By that world thou fanciedst sprung 

From thyself, — thyself a dream, — 

Of the world's thinking, thou the theme ? 

Be it thus, or be thy birth 

From a, source above the earth, — 

Be thou matter, be thou mind, 

In thee alone myself I tind. 

And through thee alone, fur nie, 

Hath this world reality. 

Therefore, in thee will I live. 

To thee all myself will give, 

Losing still, that I may tind 

This bounded self iu boundless mind. 



i'rcbcrick (LcnnjiGon. 

Bora about the year 1806, and educated at Trinity Col- 
lege, Canihriilne, Frederick was the eldest of the three 
Tennyson brothers, all of whom seem to have been gen- 
uine poets. In his religious views he is an outspoken 
Spiritualist, with a leaning to Swedenborg's teachings. 



THE BLACKBIRD. 

How sweet the harmonies of afternoon! 

The Bl.ackbird sings along the sunny breeze 
His ancient song of leaves, and summer boon ; 

Rich breath of hay-fields streams tlnoiigh whis- 
pering trees ; 
-Vnd birds of morning trim their bustling wings, 
.\nd listen fondly — while the Blackbird sings. 



How soft the lovelight of the West reposes 
On this green valley's cheery solitude. 

On the trim cottage with its screen of roses. 
On the gray belfry with its ivy hood, 

And murmuring mill-race, and the wheel that llings 

Its bubbliug freshness — while the Blackbird siugs. 

The very dial on the village church 

Seems as 'twere dreamiug in a dozy rest ; 

The scribbled benches underneath the porch 
Bask iu the kiu<lly w elcome of the ^Vest : 

But the broad casements of the ohl Three Kings 

Blaze like a furnace — whib the Blackbird sings. 

And there beneath the immemorial elm 
Three rosy revellers round a table sit. 

And through gray clouds give laws unto the realm^ 
Curse good and great, but worship their own wit. 

And roar of lights, and fairs, and junketings. 

Corn, cidts, and curs — the while the Blackbiid 
slugs. 

Before her home, in her accustomed seat, 
The tidy giandam spins beneath the shade 

Of the old honeysuckle, — at her feet 

The dreamiug pug, and purring tabby laid; 

To her low chair a little maiden clings. 

And spells iu silence — while the Blackbird slugs. 

Sometimes the shadow of a lazy cloud 

Breathes o'er the hamlet with its gardens green, 

While the far fields, with sunlight overflowed. 
Like golden shores of Fairy-land are seen : 

.Again the sunshine on the shadow springs, 

\\n\ lircs the thicket — where the Blackbird sings. 

The woods, the lawn, the peaked manor-house. 
With its peach-covered walls, and rookery loud. 

The trim, quaint garden-alleys, screened with boughs, 
The lion-headed gates, so grim and proud. 

The mossy fountain with its niurnntrings, 

Lie iu warm sunshine — while the Blackbird sings. 

The ring of silver voices, and the sheen 
Of festal garments — and my lady streams 

With her gay court across the garden green : 
Some laugh and dance, some whisper their love- 
dreams, 

And one calls for a little page ; he strings 

Her lute beside her — while the Blackbird sings. 

A little while — ami lo ! the charm is heard; 
A youth, whoso life has been all summer, steals 



FREDERICK TENNYSON.—CBARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 



617 



Forth from the uoisy guests aroiiiiil the board, 

Creeps by her softly ; at her footstool kneels ; 
Auil, when she pauses, murmurs tender things 
Into her fond ear — while the Blackbird sings. 

The smoke- wreaths from the chimneys cnrl np higher, 
And dizzy things of eve begin to float 

Upon the light ; the breeze begins to tire. 
Half-way to snnsct, with a drowsy note, 

The ancient clock from out the valley swings; 

Tlie grandani nods — and still the Blackbird sings. 

Far shonts and laughter from the farm-stead peal. 
Where the great stack is piling iu the sun ; 

Through narrow gates o'erladcu wagons reel, 
And barking enrs into the tumult run; 

While the inconstant wind bears oft', and brings 

The merry tempest — ami the Blackbird sings. 

On the high wold the last look of tlie snn 
Burns, like a beacon, over dale and stream ; 

The shouts have ceased, the laughter and the fnu; 
Tlie grandam sleeps, and peaceful be her dreams! 

Only a hammer ou an anvil rings; 

The day is dying — still the Blackbird sings. 

Now the good vicar passes from his gate. 

Serene, with long white hair; and in his eye 

Burns the clear spirit that has conquered Fate, 
And felt the wings of imnuirfality ; 

His heart is thronged with great nnagiuings. 

And tender mercies — while the Blackbird sings. 

Down by the brook he bends his stei)s, and through 
A lowly wicket; and at last he stands 

Awfnl beside the bed of one who grew 

From boyhood with him, — who, with lifted hands 

And eyes, seems listening to far welcomings 

And sweeter music — than the Blackbird sings. 

Two golden stars, like tokens from the blessed. 
Strike ou his dim orbs from the setting sun ; 

His sinking hands seem pointing to the West; 
He smiles as though he said, " Thy will be done !" 

His eyes, they see not those illnmiiiings ; 

His ears, they hear not — what the Blackbird sings. 



SONNET. 

'Tis not for golden eloquence I pray, 

A godlike tongue to move a stony heart :- 

Metbiuks it were full well to be apart 



In solitary uplands far away. 
Between the blossoms of a rosy spray, 
Dreaming upon the wonderful sweet face 
Of Nature iu a wild and pathless place. 
And if it chanced that I did once array, 
In words of magic woven curiously. 
All the deep gladness of a summer's morn. 
Or rays of evening that light up the lea 
Ou dewy days of spring, or sliadows borne 
Across the forehead of an autumn noon, — 
Then would I die and ask no better boon. 



(Hljarles Jciiuo tjoffman. 

AMERICAN. 

Hoffman was boni in the city of New York in 1806. 
While yet a boy, as ho was sitting carelessly at the end 
of a pier on tlie Hudson, a steamboat drew up and crush- 
ed one of his legs, so that he had to have it amputated. 
Thenceforward he had to go with a wooden leg. This 
did not prevent his making an adventurous journey on 
liorseback through the No,rtli-westcni States to the Mis- 
sissippi in 1833. He puhlishcd, on his return, a graphic 
account of his adventures in a volume, entitled "A Win- 
ter in the West." Educated at Columbia College, Hoif- 
mau tried the law, but drifted into literature, and edited 
tlie Knickerbocker Magazine for a year or two. Bryant 
lias truly said of him: "His kindly and generous temper 
and genial manners won the attachment of all wlio knew 
!rim. His poems bear the impress of his noble charac- 
ter." Hoffman became insane, and passed the last quar- 
ter of his life in au asylum. 



MONTEREY. 

" PeiKls toi, brave Crillon ! Nons avons combattn, et tu n'y 
itois pas."— I/ef(re de Henri IV. d Crillon. 

Wo were not many, we wlio stood 

Before the iron steel that day — 
Yet many a gallant spirit; would 
Give half his years if he then could 

Have been with us at Monterey. 

Now here, now there, the shot, it hailed 

In deadly drifts of tiery spray. 
Yet not a single soldier quailed 
When wounded comrades round them wailed 

Their dying shout at Monterey. 

And on — still on our colunin kept 

Through walls of tlame its withering way : 
Where fell the dead, the living stepped. 
Still charging on the guns that swept 
The slippery streets of Mouterey. 



6I« 



CYCLorjEDiA or liuinsa asd American poetry. 



Tlic foe himself recoiled agbast, 

When, striking where he strongest lay, 
We swooped his flanking batteries past, 
Auil, braving full their murderous blast. 
Stormed home the towers of Monterey. 

Our banners on those turrets wave. 

And there our evening bugles play ; 
Where orange boughs above their grave 
Keep green the memory of the brave 
Who fought and fell at Monterey. 

We are not many — we who pressed 

Beside the brave who fell that day ; 
But who of us h.as not confessed 
He'd rather share their warrior rest, 
Thau not have been at Monterey ? 



lUilliam (J^ilmore Simins. 

AMERICAN. 

Simms (1806-1870) was a native of Charleston, S. C, 
and resided there most of his life, with the exception of 
occasional visits to New York, where he was well known 
in literary circles. He wrote numerous novels, the most 
successful of which was "The Yemassee." His princi- 
pal poems arc "Atlantis," " Lays of the Palmetto," and 
"Songs and B-iUads of the South." Simms was a pro- 
lific writer, and as he wrote for an inmiediate support, 
he Iiad little time to blot. A list of some sixty volumes 
from his pen may be found in Appleton's "Cyclopaedia." 
As a man he was thoroughly estimable. His collected 
poems, in two volumes, wore published by Redfield, New 
York,]S.53. In 1839 he had purchased an interest in a 
newspaper ; but this proved a losing venture, as the doe- 
trine of nullification was then in the ascendant, and he 
was a strenuous advocate for the maintenance of the 
Union. His education was limited. 



THE FIRST DAY OF SPRING. 

1 thou bright and beautiful day. 
First bright day of the virgin spring, 

Bringing the slumbering life into play, 
Giving the leaping bird his wing! 

Tliou art round me now in all thy hues. 

Thy robe of green, and thy scented sweets, 
In thy bursting buds, in thy blessing dews. 

In every form that my footstep meets. 

1 hear thy voice in the Lark's clear note, 

la the cricket's chirp at the evening hour, 



In the zephyr's sighs that around me float, 
In the breathing bud and the opening flower. 

I see thy forms o'er the parting earth. 
In the tender shoots of the grassy blade. 

In the thousand plants that spring to birth, 
Ou the valley's side in the home of shade. 

I feel thy promise in all my veins, 

They bound with a feeling long suppressed, 

And, like a captive who breaks liis chains, 
Leap the glad hopes in my heaving breast. 

There are life and joy in thy coming, Spring! 

Tlion hast no tidings of gloom and death ; 
But buds thou .shakest from every wing. 

And sweets thou breathest with every breath. 



FREEDOM OF THE SABB.VfH. 

Let us escape! This is our holiday — 

God's day, devote to rest ; and, through the wood 

We'll wander, and, perchance, find heavenly food: 

So, profitless, it shall not pass away. 

'Tis life, but with sweet difference, methinks, 

Here in the forest; — from the crowd set free, 

The spirit, like escaping song-bird, drinks 

Fresh sense of music from its liberty. 

Thoughts crowd about us with the trees : the shade 

Holds teachers that await us : in our ear, 

Unwonted but sweet voices do we he.ar. 

That with rare excellence of tongue persuade : 

They do not chide our idlesse, — were content 

If all our walks were half so innocent. 



SOLACE OF THE WOODS. 

Woods, waters, have a charm to soothe the ear, 

When common sounds have vexed it : when the day 

Grows sultry, and the crowd is in thy way,' 

Aud working in thy soul much coil and care, 

Betake thee to the forest : in the shade 

Of pines, and by the side of purling streams 

That prattle all their secrets in their dreams, 

Unconscious of a listener — ^unafraid — 

Thy soul shall feel their freshening, and the truth 

Of nature then, reviving in thy heart. 

Shall bring thee the best feelings of thy youth. 

When in all n.atnral joys thy joy had part. 

Ere lucre aud the n.irrowing toils of trade 

Had turned thee to the thing thou wast not made. 



ELIZABETH OAEES SillTH.—JOHN STEELING. 



619 



(fli^obrtl) (Pakcs SmitI). 

AMERICAN 

Mi-5. Smith was born in 1806 at Cumberland, about 
twulve milns from Portland, Me. Her maiden name was 
Elizabeth Oakes Prince. She married, in 1823, Seba 
Smith, author of tlie "Jack Downing Letters," and sev- 
eral poems. The family removed to New York in 18o9, 
and after Mr. Smith's death in 1868, she resided for sever- 
al years in North Carolina. She published " The Sinless 
Child, and other Poems," wrote tragedies, stories, and 
hymns, besides contributing lartrely to magazines and 
newspapers. Latterly she resided at Patchogue, Suffolk 
County, N. T. 



SONNET: THE UNATTAINED. 

And is this life? and are wo born for this? — 

To follo\v phantoms that elnde the grasp, 

Or whatsoe'er secured, withiu our clasp, 

To withering lie, as if each earthly kiss 

Were doomed death's shuddering touch alone to 

meet. 
O Life! hast thou reserved no cup of bli.ss ? 
Must still The Un.\tTjUN'EI> beguile our feet? 
The UxATTAiXED with yearnings till the breast, 
That rob for aye the Spirit of its rest f 
Yes, this is Life ; aud everywhere wo meet, 
Not victor crowns, but wailiugs of defeat; 
Yet faint thou not: thou dost apply a test. 
That shall incite thee onward, upward still : 
The present canuot sate, uor e'er thy spirit fill. 



SONNET: POESY. 

With no fond, sickly thirst for fame I kueel, 

goddess of the high-born art, to thee; 
Not uuto thee with semblauce of a zeal 

1 come, O iiure aud lieaven-eyed Poesy ! 
Thou art to me a spirit and a love. 

Felt ever from the time when first the earth 
In its greeu beauty, and the sky above. 
Informed my soul with joy too deep for mirth. 
I was a child of thine before my tongue 
Could li.sp its infant utterance unto thee ; 
Aud now, albeit from my heart are flung 
Discordant numbers, and the song may be 
That which I would not, yet I know that thou 
The offering wilt not spurn, while thus to thee I bow. 



SONNET: FAITH. 

Beware of doubt : — faith is the subtle chain 
Which binds us to the Infinite : the voice 



Of a deep life within, that will remain 

Until we crowd it thence. We may rejoice 

With an exceeding joy, and make our life. 

Ay, this external life, become a part 

Of that which is within, o'erwrought aud rife 

With faith, that childlike blessedness of heart; — 

The order and the harmony iiiboru 

With a perpetual hymning crown our way. 

Till callousness and selfishness aud scorn 

Shall pass as clouds where scathless lightnings 

play ! 
Cling to thy faith : 'tis higher than the thought 
That questions of thy faith, the cold external doubt. 



i?olju Stciiing. 



sterling (1806-1844) was born at Kaimes Castle, Isle 
of Bute. His father. Captain Sterling, became editor of 
the Times newspaper, and John, having been educated at 
Trinity College, Cambridge, was early introduced into 
the best literary society of London. This included Cole- 
ridge and Carlyle; and with the latter, who wrote a me- 
moir of him, he became very intimate. He took holy or- 
ders in the Church, and preached for eight months; but 
failing health and doubts .as to the creed he was teach- 
ing induced him to resign his charge. Thenceforth he 
devoted himself to literature, writing for MnekwoocV s Mag- 
azine and the Wedininster Beview. In the tormer some 
of his poems first appeared. He published a volume of 
tliem, 1839; "The Election, " a poem, 1841; and "Staf- 
ford," a tragedy, 1843. His prose works, edited by Arch- 
deacon Hare, appeared in 1848. Sterling was remarkable 
for his genial, amiable traits, and his conversational pow- 
ers. He was the charm of every society into which he 
entered. His poems lack the popular element, but are 
rich in profound, earnest thought. 



TO A CHILD. 

Dear child! whom sleep can hardly tame, 
As live and beautiful as flame. 
Thou glancest round my graver hours 
As if thy crown of wild-wood flowers 
Were not by mortal forehead worn, 
But on the summer breeze were borne. 
Or on a mountain streandet's waves. 
Came glistening down from dreamy caves. 

With bright round cheek, amid whose glow 

Delight aud wonder come and go, 

Aud eyes whose inward meanings play, 

Congenial with the light of day, 

And brow so calm, a home for thought. 

Before he knows his dwelling wrought ; 



620 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BlUTISB AND AMERICAN rOETRT. 



Tlioiigli \Tise iutieed thou seemest not, 
Tlioii brigUteuest well the wise man's lot. 

Tbat shout proclaims tlie umloubtiiig mind, 
That laughter leaves no ache behind ; 
And in thy look and dance of glee, 
Unforced, uuthought of, simply free, 
How weak the schoolmaa's formal art 
Thy soul and body's bliss to part! 
I hail thee childhood's very lord, 
lu gaze and glance, in voice and word. 

lu spite of all foreboding fear, 

A tiling thou art of present cheer; 

And thus to bo beloved aud kuown 

As is a rushy fountain's tone, 

As is the forest's leafy shade. 

Or blackbird's hidden serenade : 

Thmi art a flash tliat lights the whole; 

A gush from nature's vernal soul. 

And yet, dear child! within thee lives 
A power tbat deeper feeling gives, 
That makes thee more than light or air, 
Thau all things sweet and all things fair; 
And sweet and fair as aught may be, 
Uiviner life belongs to thee, 
For 'mid thine aindess joys began 
The iierfect heart and will of ujau. 

Thus what thou art foreshows to me 
How greater far thou soon shalt be ; 
And while amid thy garlands blow 
The winds that warbling come and go. 
Ever within not loud but clear 
Prophetic murmur tills the ear. 
And says that every human birth 
Anew discloses God to earth. 



THE MAN SURVIVES. 
From '' Hymns of a IlEriMiT," 

How strange is death to life! and yet how sure 
The law which dooms each living thing to die! 

Wliate'er is outward cannot long endure, 
And all that lasts eludes the subtlest eye. 

Because the eye is only made to spell 

The grosser garb and failing husk of things; 

The vital strength aiul stream that inlier dwells. 
Our faith divines amid their secret springs. 



The stars will sink as fade the lamps of earth, 
The earth be lost as vapor seen no more, 

Aiul all around that seems of oldest birth. 
Abides one destined day — and all is o'er. 

The spirit leaves the body's wondrous frame, 
That frame itself a world of strength and skill; 

The nobler inmate new abodes will claim, 
In every change to Thee aspiring still. 

Oh ! rather bear beyond the date of stars 

All torments heaped that nerve aiul soul can feel, 

Thau but one hour believe destruction mars 
Without a hope the life our breasts reveal! 

Although from darkness born, to darkness fled. 

We know that light beyond surrounds the w hole ; 
The mau survives, though the weird corpse be dead. 

And He who dooms the flesh redeems the soul. 



PROSE AND SONG. 

1 looked upou a plain of green, 

Tliat some one called the land of prose. 

Where many living things were seen, 
lu movement or rei)ose. 

I looked upon a stately hill 

That well was named the mount of song 
Where golden shadows dwelt at will 

The woods and streams among. 

Rut most this fact my wonder bred. 
Though known by all the nobly wise, — 

It was the mountain streams that fed 
The fair green plain's amenities. 



luliix IJaVLlOC. 



Miss Pardee (1800-1862) was a native of Beverley, in 
Yorkshire, England. Slie was an extensive writer of 
novels, books of travel, and historical memoirs; and is 
said to liave produced a volume of poems at tlie age of 
tliiiteen. She travelled extensively, and the many vol- 
luncs from her pen were favorably received by the public. 



THE BEACON-LIGHT. 

Darkness was deepening o'er the seas. 
And still the hulk drove on ; 

No sail to answer to the breeze, — 
Her masts and cordage gone : 



JULIA PARDOE.—GEOliGE LUNT. 



621 



Gloomy and Jiear lier course of fear, — 

Each looked but for a grave, — 
Wlieu, full iu sigbt, the heacon-light 

Came streamiug o'er the wave. 

Then wildly rose the gladdeiiiug shout 

Of all tbat hardy crew ; 
Boldly tliey put the helm about, 

Aud through the surf they flew. 
Storm was forgot, toil heeded not, 

And loud the cheer they gave, 
As, full iu sight, the beaeou-light 

Came streamiug o'er the wave. 

And gayly of the tale they told, 

When they were safe on shore ; 
How hearts had suuk, and hopes grown cold, 

Amid the billows' roar; 
When not a st.ir had shone from far, 

I5y its pale beam to save, 
Then, full iu sight, the beacon-light 

Came streaming o'er the wave. 

Thus, in the night of Nature's gloom. 

When sorrow bows the heart, 
When cheering hopes no more illume, 

Aud comforts all depart ; 
Then from afar shines Bethlehem's star. 

With cheering light to save; 
And, full iu sight, its beacon-light 

Comes streamiug o'er the grave. 



€»corgc Cunt, 

AMERICAN. 

Lunt was born in Newburyport, Mass., in 1807. He 
w.is graduated at Harvard College in 1824 ; studied and 
practised law. Iu 1818 he removed to Boston, aud was 
appointed United States District Attorney. He edited 
the Boston Courier for several years with marked ability ; 
publislied volumes of poems in 18.39, 1813, 18.>1, and 18.55 ; 
also in the last-named year, "Eastford, a Novel." He 
is also the author of several valuable historical works. 
His residence since 1877 was iu Scituate, Mass. 

Among the lyrics that "almost sing themselves" from 
the pen of Lunt is his "Pilgrim Song," which runs to 
the measure of T. H. Bayly's once popular ballad, 

"Gayly the tronbadour touched his gnit.ir." 

One of the stanzas from Lunt's poem is as follows : 

"England hath snnny dales, dearly they bloom ; 

Scotia hath heather-hills, sweet their perfume: 

Yet through the wilderness cheerful we stray, 

Native land, native land, home far away ! 

' Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come ; 
Where the free dare to be,— this is our home.' " 



THE HAYMAKERS. 

Down on the Merrimac Eiver, 

While the autumn grass is green. 
Oh, there the jolly hay-men 

In their gundalows are seen ; 
Floating down, as ebbs the current, 

Aud the dawn leads on the day. 
With their scythes and rakes all ready 

To gather in the hay. 

The good wife, up the river. 

Has made the oven hot, 
Aud with plenty of pandowdy 

Has filled her earthen pot. 
Their long oars sweep them onward. 

As the ripples round them play. 
And the jolly hay-men drift along 

To make the meadow hay. 

At the bank-side then they moor her. 

Where the sluggish waters run, 
By the shallow creek's low edges. 

Beneath the fervid sun — 
And all day long the toilers 

Mow their swaths, and, day by day. 
You caa see their scythe-blades flashing 

At the cutting of the hay. 

When the meadow-birds are flying. 

Then down go scythe and rake, 
Aud right aud left their scattering shots 

The sleeping echoes wake — 
For sileut spreads the broad expanse. 

To the sand-hills far away. 
And thus they change their work for sport, 

At making of the hay. 

When the gundalows are loaded — 

Gunwales to the water's brim — 
W^ith their little square-sails set atoj), 

Up the river how they swim ! 
At home, beside the fire, by night, 

While the children round them play, 
What tales the jolly hay-meu tell 

Of getting in the hay ! 



THE COMET. 

Yon car of fire, though veiled by day, — 
Along that field of gleaming blue, 

When twilight folded earth in gray, 
A world-wide wonder flew. 



622 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BlilTISn AXD JMEBICJX POETRY. 



Duly, ill tmii, each orb of night 

From out the darlieuing coucave broke! 

Eve's glowing herald swam in light, 
Autl every star awoke. 

The LjTe rc-struiig its buruiug chords, — 
Streamed from the Cross its earliest ray, — 

Then rose Altair, more sweet than words 
Or music's soul could say. 

They from old time, in course the same. 

Familiar set, familiar rise : 
But what art thon, wild, lovely flame. 

Across the startled skies ? 

Mysterious yet as when it burst, 

Through the vast void of nature hurled, 

And shook their shrinking hearts at tirst, — 
The fathers of tlie world ! 

Ko curious sage the scroll unseals, — . 

Vaiu quest for baffled Science giveu ! — 
Its orbit ages, while it wheels, 

The miracle of heaven ! 

In nature's plau thy sphere unknown, 
Save that no sphere His order mars, 

Whose law could guide thy path aloue 
In realms beyond the skies. 

God's minister ! we know no more 
Of thee, thy frame, thy mission still. 

Than he who watched thy flight of yore 
Ou the Chaldean lull. 

Yet thus, transcendent from thy blazo 

Beams light to pierce this mortal clod; — 

Scarcely " the fool " on thee could gaze 
And say, "There la no God!" 

October 7th, 1958. 



REQUIEM. 

Breathe, trumpets, breathe slow notes of saddest 
wailiiig; 

Sadly responsive peal, ye muffled drums : 
Comrades, with downcast eyes and muskets trailing, 

Attend him home : the youthful warrior comes. 

Upon his shield, upon his shield returning, 
Borne from the field of battle where he fell : 

Glory and grief together clasped in mourning, 
llis lame, his fate, with sobs exulting tell. 



Wrap round his breast the flag his breast defended, — 
His country's flag, in battle's front unrolled : 

For it ho died, — on earth forever ended : 

His brave young life lives in each sacred fold. 

With proud, proud tears, by tinge of shame untainted. 
Bear him, and lay him gently in his grave; 

Above the hero write, — ^the young, lialf-sainted, — 
" His country asked his life, his life he gave." 



Robert HI. Cl)arltou. 

AMERICAN. 

Charlton {1807-1854) was a native of Savannah, son of 
a iiuieh esteemed judge. Robert was early admitted to 
tlie Bar, became United States District Attorney, and in 
18.52 was elected to the United States Senate. He was a 
polished orator and a genial eonvcrser. In 1839 appear- 
ed a volume of his poems, and in 1S43 a second edition 
of them, with additions, was published in Boston. 



THE DEATH OF JASPER. 

AN HISTORIC.\L BALLAD. 

'Twas amid a scene of blood, 

Ou a bright autumnal day, 
When misfortune like a flood 

Swept otir fairest hopes away ; 
'Twas on Savannah's plain. 

On the .spot we love so well. 
Amid heaps of g.illant slain. 

That the daring Jasper fell. 

He had borne him in the fight. 

Like a soldier in his prime. 
Like a bold and stalwart knight 

Of the glorious olden-timc ; 
And unharmed by sabre blow. 

And untouched by leaden ball, 
He h.ad battled with the foe, 

Till he heard the trumpet's call. 

But he turned him at the sound. 

For he knew the strife was o'er, 
Tliat in vain on freedom's ground, 

Had her children slied their gore ; 
So he slowly turned aw.ay 

With the remnant of the band 
Who amid the bloody fray 

Had escaped the foemau's hand. 

But his banner caught his eye, 
As it trailed upon the dust, 



ROBERT M. CHARLTOX.—EPHRAIM PEABODT. 



6-23 



Ami he saw his comrade die 
Ere he yielded up his trust : 

" To the rescue !" loud he cried ; 
" To the rescue, gallaut men !" 

And he dashed iuto the tide 
Of the battle-stream again. 

And then tieree the coutest rose 

O'er its field of broidered gold, 
And the blood of friends and foes 

Stained Jilike its silken fold ; 
But unheeding ^yound and blow, 

He has snatched it midst the strife, 
He has borne that flag away, 

But its ransom is his life! 

" To my father take my sword," 

Thus the dying hero said ; 
"Tell him that my latest word 

Was a blessing on his head ; 
That when death had seized luy frame, 

And uplifted was his dart, 
I ne'er forgot the name 

Tliat was dearest to my heart. 

"And tell her whose favor gave 

This fair banner to our band, 
That I died its folds to save 

From the foe's polluting hand ; 
And let all my comrades hear, 

When my form lies cold in death. 
That their friend remained sincere 

To his last expiring breath." 

It was thus that Jasper fell, 

'Xeath that bright autunmal sky ; 
Has a stone been reared to tell 

Where he laid him down to die ? 
To the rescue, spirits bold! 

To the rescue, gallant men ! 
Let the marble page unfold 

All his daring deeds ag.aiu ! 



(Cpljraim JjJcaboi)!). 

AMERICAN. 
Peabody (1807-1856) was a native of Wilton, N. H. 
Educated at Bowdoiu College, he was graduated in 1837. 
He became a Unitarian clergyman, and in 1846 was set- 
tled over King's Chapel, Boston. Here he preached most 
acceptably for ten years. He has shown fine talents for 
wliat Byron esteemed the highest order of poetry, the 
ethical ; but liis productiveness as a poet seems to liave 
been checked by Uis miuisterial labors. 



TO A CHILD. 

"The memory of thy name, dear one, 
Lives ill my inmost heart, 
Liuked with a thousand hopes and fear.«, 
Th.at will not thence depart." 

Tilings of high import sound I in thine ears, 
Dear child, though now thou mayest not feel their 
power ; 
But hoard tliem tip, and in thy coming years 

Forget them not, and when earth's tempests lower, 
A talisman unto thee shall they be. 
To give thy weak arm strength — to make thy dim 
eye see. 

Seek truth, that pure celestial truth, whose birth 
Was in the heaven of heaveus, clear, sacred, shrined 

In reason's light : not oft she visits earth. 
But her m.njestic port, the willing mind, 

Through faith, may sometimes see : give her thy soul, 

Nor faint, though error's surges loudly 'gainst thee 
roll. 

Be free : not chiefly from the iron chain. 
But from the one which passion forges — be 

The master of thyself: if lost, regain 

The rule o'er chance, sense, circumstance. Be free. 

Trample thy proud lusts proudly 'neatli thy feet, 

Aud stand erect, as for a heaven-born one "is meet. 

Seek virtue : wear her armor to the fight ; 

Then, as a wrestler gathers strength from strife, 
Shalt thou be nerved to a more vigorotis might 

By each contending turbulent ill of life. 
Seek virtue. — She alone is all divine ; 
And having found, bo strong, in God's own strengtli 
and thine. 

Truth, freedom, virtue, — these, dear child, have 
power, 
If rightly cherished, to uphold, sustain, 
Aud bless thy spirit in Its darkest hour; 

Neglect them — thy celestial gifts are vain : 
In dust shall thy weak wings be dragged and soiled ; 
Thy soul he crushed 'ueath gauds for which it basely 
toiled. 



FROM "THE BACKWOODSMAN." 

I stand upon the mountain's top, 

Aud — solitude profound ! — 
Not even a woodman's smoke curls up 

Withiu the horizon's bound. 



624 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BlilTISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Below, as o'er its ocean breadth 

The ail's light currents run, 
The wilderness of moving leaves 

Is glancing in the sun. 

I look around to where the sky 

Meets the far forest line. 
And this imperial domain — 

This kingdom — all is mine I 
This bending heaven, these floating clnnds, 

Waters that ever roll, 
And wilderness of glory, bring 

Their oiierings to my soul. 

My palace, built by God's own hand. 

The world's fresh prime hath seen : 
Wide stretch its living halls away. 

Pillared and roofed with green : 
My music is the wind that now 

Pours loud its swelling bars. 
Now lulls in dying cadences, — 

My festal lamps are stars. 

Though when iu this my lonely home, 

My star-watched couch I press, 
I hear no fond "good-night" — think not 

I am companiouless. 
Oh no! I see my father's house, 

The hill, the tree, the stream, 
And the looks and voices of my hoce 

Come gently to my dream. 

And iu these solitary haunts, 

While blnnibers every tree 
In night and silence, God himself 

.Seems nearer nuto me. 
I feel his piresence in these shades, 

Like the embracing air ; 
And as mj' eyelids close in sleep, 

My heart is hushed in prayer. 



Jfatljauicl JJarkcr lUillis. 

AMERICAN. 

Willis (1S07-1S67) was a native of Portland, Maine, and 
was ftruduutcd at Yale College in 1837. He ventured 
upon a nias;uzine enterprise, the American Moutlibj, in 
1839, bat it expired in two years. From 1831 to 1S;« he 
travelled ill Europe ; and having taken an Englisli wife, 
lie returned home, and settled at a place on the Susiiue- 
hanna River, which he named (ilcnmary. In 1844 lie le- 
visited Europe, and, having become a widower, in l&id 



married his second wife. Miss Grinnell. The remainder 
of Ids life was passed chiefly at his well-known place on 
the Hudson, near Newburgli, to which lie gave the name 
of Idlewild. He was associated with George P. Morris 
ill editing the Home Joiiynal, a New York weekly paper. 
Willis's first volume of poems was published in Bos- 
ton in 1829. He wrote no long poem that can be pro- 
nounced successful; though his "Scriptural Poems" 
were highly popular iu tlieir day. Of his prose works. 
Ids "PenciUings by the Way" gave him a reputation, 
luitli in England and .at home, as a graceful and original 
sketcher, and one of the most attractive of the magazine 
writers. His sketches of Count D'Orsay, Moore, Camp- 
hell, Jerrold, D'Israeli, Hood, Lamb, Procter, Leigh Hunt, 
Bulwer, are witty, graphic, and entertaining. He wrote 
two dramatic pieces, but they attained no success on the 
stiigc. As a poet, Willis's contemporary fame exceeded 
his posthumous; but a true poet he was, and he would 
have shown it more clearly to the world if ambition to 
shine as a man of society had not withdrawn him from 
the right path of literary labor. To younger authors 
he was kind and generous, and left many warm friends 
among them. 

SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 

I love to look on a scene like this. 

Of wild and careless play. 
And persuade myself that I am not old. 

And my locks are not yet gray ; 
For it stirs the blood of an old man's heart. 

And makes his pulses fly. 
To catch the thrill of a happy voice, 

And the light of a pleasant eye. 

I have walked the world for fourscore years, 

And they say that I am old ; 
That my heart is ripo for the reaper Death, 

And my years are well-nigh told : 
It is very true ; it is very true ; 

I'm old, and I " bide my time ;" 
But my heart will leap at a scene like this, 

And I half renew my iirinie. 

riay on! play on! I am with yon there, 

In the midst of your merry ring ; 
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump. 

And the rush of the breathless swing. 
I hide with yon iu the fragrant hay. 

And I whoop the smothered call. 
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor. 

And I care not for the fall. 

I am willing to die when my time shall come, 

And I shall be glad to go — 
For the world, at best, is a weary place, 

And my pulse is getting low ; 



NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 



625 



But tbe grave is dark, and the heart will fail 

lu treadiug its gloomy way ; 
And it wiles my breast from its dreariuess 

To see the young so gay. 



THIRTY-FIVE. 

■•The years of a man's life are threescore and ten." 

0, weary heart ! thou'rt half-way home .' 

We stand on Life's meridian height — 
As far from childhood's morning come, 

As to the grave's forgetful night. 
Give Youth and Hope a parting tear — • 

Look onward with a placid brow — 
Hope promised but to bring ns here, 

And Reason takes tho gnidanco now — 
One backward look — the last — tho last ! 
One silent tear — for Youth is past ! 

Who goes with Hope and Passion back ? 

Who comes with me and Memory on ? 
Oh, lonely looks the downward track — 

Joy's mnsic hushed — Hope's roses gone ! 
To Pleasure and her giddy troop 

Farewell, without a sigh or tear ! 
But heart gives way, and spirits droop, 

To think that Love may leave ns here ! 
Have we no charm when Youth is flown — 
Jlidway to death left sad and lone 1 

Yet stay ! — as 'twere .a twilight star 

That sends its thread across tho wave, 
I see a brightening light, from far. 

Steal down a path beyond the grave ! 
And now — bless God ! — its golden lino 

Comes o'er — and lights my shadowy way — 
And shows the dear hand clasped in mine ! 
But list ! what those sweet voices say ! 
" The better laud's in sight, 
And, by its chastening light. 
All love from life's midway is driven 
Save hers whose clasped hand will bring thee on to 
Heaven !" 



THE SPUING IS HERE. 

Tlie Spring is here — the delicate-footed May, 
With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers; 

And with it comes a thirst to be away. 

Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours — 

A. feeling that is like a seu.se of wings, 

Restless to soar above these perishing things. 
40 



We pass out from the city's feverish hum, 
To find refreshment lu the silent woods ; 

And nature, that is beautiful and dumb, 
Like a cool sleep upon the pnlses broods. 

Yet even there a restless thought will steal. 

To teach the indolent heart it still must fed. 

Strange that the audible stillness of the noon, 
The waters tripping with their silver feet. 

The turning to the light of leaves in June, 
And the light whisper as tWeir edges meet — 

Strange that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, 

Tho spirit, walking iu their midst alone. 

There's no contentment, in a world like this, 
Save iu forgetting the immortal dream ; 

We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss. 

That through tho cloud-rifts radiantly stream : 

Bird-like, tho prisoned soul tmll lift its eye 

And sing, till it is hooded from the sky. 



ACROSTIC: SONNET. 

It may be iiiterestiiii; to compare this sonnet with one by 
Percival (page 4S'2) on the same celebrated lady. Willis's has 
the advantaj^e of conformity to the Petrarchan model. 

Elegance floats about thee like a dress, 

Melting the airy motion of thy form 

Into one swaying grace ; and loveliness, 

Like a rich tint that makes a picture warm. 

Is lurking in the chestnut of thy tress. 

Enriching it, as moonlight after storm 

Mingles dark shadows into gentleness. 

A beauty that bewilders like a spell 

Reigns in thine eye's clear hazel, and thy brow. 

So pure in veined transparency, doth tell 

How spiritually beautiful art thou — 

A temple where angelic love might dwell. 

Life in thy presence were a thing to keep, 

Like a gay dreamer clinging to his sleep. 



TO A CITY PIGEON. 

Stoop to my window, thon beautiful dove ! 
Thy daily visits have touched my love. 
I watch thy coming, and list the note 
That stirs so low in thy mellow throat. 

And my joy is high 
To catch the glance of thy gentle eye. 

Why dost thon sit on the heated eaves, 

And forsake the wood with its freshened leaves ? 



026 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BHITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Why dost tbou bauut the sultry street, 

When tbe jiatlis of the forest iue cool and sweet ? 

How canst thou bear 
Tbis noise of people — tbis sultry air ? 

Tbou alone of tbe featbered race 

Dost look nuscared on tbe buman face ; 

Thou aloue, with a wing to flee, 

Dost lovo with man in his haunts to be ; 

And tbe "gentle dove" 
Has become a name for trust and love. 

A holy gift is thine, sweet bird ! 
Thou'rt named with childhood's earliest word ! 
Thou'rt linked with all that is fresh and wild 
In the prisoned thoughts of the city child ; 

And thy glossy wings 
Are its brightest image of moving things. 

It is no light chance : thou art set apart 
Wisely by Him who has tamed thy heart, 
To stir the love for the bright and fair, 
That else were sealed in this crowded air; 

I sometimes droam 
Angelic rays from thy pinions stream. 

Come then, ever, when daylight leaves 
The page I read, — to my bumble eaves. 
And wash thy breast in tbe hollow spout. 
And murmur thy low, sweet music out! 

I hear and see 
Lessons of he.aven, sweet bird, in thee ! 



Jonatljan £aiiirciuc, Jr. 



Lawrence (1807-1S33) was a native ofNew York. Grnd- 
u.iting at Columbia CoUese before lie was sixteen, he de- 
voted himself to the study of the law ; was admitted to 
the Bur, but died in his twenty-sixth year. A selection 
from his writings, including poems, of which we give the 
best, w.Ts published in New York in 1S33. It had been 
lirst privately printed by his brotlier. 



LOOK ALOFT. 

The following lines were snsgested by nu nuecdote, said to 
hfive been related by Dr. Gnrtmnn.of a sbip-boy, who, nbout to 
full from tbe rigjj:iu;x, was only saved by tbe mate's exclamation, 
*' Look aloft, you hibber 1" 

In the tempest of life when the wave and the gain 
Are around and above, if thy footing should fail — 



If tbiue eye should grow dim, and thy caution de- 

jjart — 
Look aloft and bo firm, and bo fearless of heart. 

If the friend, who embraced iu prosperity's glow, 
With a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe. 
Should betray thee when sorrows, like clouds, are 

arrayed. 
Look aloft to tho friendship which never shall fade. 

Should the visions, which hope spreads in light to 

thine eye. 
Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, 
Theu turn, and, through tears of repentant regret. 
Look aloft to the sun that is never to set. 

Should those who are dearest, the son of thy heart, 
The wife of thy bosom, iu sorrow depart. 
Look aloft from the darkness and dust of the tomb. 
To that soil where affection is ever iu bloom. 

And oh ! when death comes, in terror to cast 
His fears on the future, bis pall on the past. 
In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart. 
And a smile iu thine eye, look aloft, and depart. 



loljn fjoumvb Bvjiant. 



A brother of William Culleu Bryant, John was born in 
Cunimington, Mass., July 23d, 1807. He began to write 
verses while yet a boy. After receiving a good educa- 
tion at a school in Troy, N. Y., he went West iu 1831, 
and in 1835 purchased of the United States Government 
five liundred and twenty acres of superior land in Prince- 
ton, 111., where he took up his residence, and where lie 
attained to wealth and honors through liis own energet- 
ic labors and exalted character. He held various offices 
of trust. In 185.5 a volume of his poems was published 
in New York. It abounds in evidences of the feeling, 
taste, and power of expression of one who could keenly 
appreciate the beauties of nature, and reproduce them 
in apt poetic forms. But the necessity of earning a sup- 
port for a growing family coraiielled him, as well as his 
brother Arthur, who also settled in Princeton, to forego 
those literary occupations which were congenial to their 
tastes. 



THE VALLEY BROOK. 

Fresh from the fountains of tbe wood 

A rivulet of the valley came, 
And glided on for many a rood. 

Flushed with the morning's ruddy flame. 



JOHN HOWARD BRYANT. 



627 



TLe air was fresb aud soft and sweet; 

The slopes in Spring's new verdnre lay, 
And, wet with dew-drops, at my feet 

Bloomed the young violets of May. 

No sound of busy life was heard 
Amid those pastures lone aud still. 

Save the faint chirp of early bird. 
Or bleat of flocks aloug tbe hill. 

I traced that rivulet's winding way; 

New scenes of beauty opened round, 
Where meads of brighter verdure lay, 

Aud lovelier blossoms tinged the ground. 

"Ah ! happy valley-stream," I said, 

"Calm glides thy wave amid the flowers, 

Whose fragrance round tliy path is sbed 
Through all the joyous summer Lours. 

" Oh ! could my years like tbine be passed 
lu some remote and silent gleu. 

Where I could dwell and sleep at last 
Far from tbe bustling bauuts of meu !" 

But what new echoes greet my ear? 

The village school-boys' merry call ! 
And 'mid the village hum I hear 

The murmur of tbe water-fall. 

I looked 1 the widening vale betrayed 
A i)ool that shone like burnished steel, 

Whei-e that bright valley-stream was stayed 
To turn the miller's ponderous wheel. 

Ah! why should I (I thought with shame) 

Sigh for a life of solitude, 
When even this stream without a name 

Is laboring for the common good ? 

No, never let me shun my part 

Amid tbe busy scenes of life, 
But, with a warm and generous heart. 

Press onward in the glorious strife. 



THE LITTLE CLOUD. 

As when, on Carmel's sterile steep, 
The ancient prophet bowed the knee, 

Aud seven times sent his servant forth 
To look toward the distant sea ; — 



There came at last a little cloud 

Scarce broader thau the human hand, 

Spreading aud swelling, till it broke 
In showers on all the herbless laud, — 

Aud hearts were glad, and shouts went up. 
And praise to Israel's mighty God, 

As the sere hills grew bright with flowers. 
And verdure clothed the naked sod, — 

Even so our eyes have waited long; 

But now a little cloud appears. 
Spreading aud swelling as it glides, 

Onward into the coming years! 

Bright cloud of Liberty! full soon, 
Far stretching from the ocean strand. 

Thy glorious folds shall spread abroad. 
Encircling our belovM laud. 

Like the sweet rain on Judah's hills 
The glorious boon of love shall fall, 

And our broad millious shall arise 
As at an angel's trumpet-call. 

Then shall a shout of joy go up. 
The wild, glad cry of freedom come 

From hearts long crushed by cruel hands. 
And songs from lips long sealed and dumb.- 

Aud every bondman's chain bo broke. 
And every soul that moves abroad 

In this wide realm shall know aud feel 
The blessdd liberty of God. 



SONNET. 

'Tis Autumn, and my steps have led me far 

To a wild hill that overlooks a laud 

Wide-spread aud beautiful. A single star 

Sparkles new-set in heaven. O'er its bright sand 

The streamlet slides with mellow tones away : 

The West is crimson with retiring day ; 

And the North gleams with its own native light. 

Below, in autumn green, the meadows lie. 

And through green banks the river wanders by. 

And the wide woods with autumn-hues are bright, — 

Bright — but of fading brightness! — soon is past 

That dream-like glory of the painted wood ; 

And pitiless decay o'ertakes, as fast, 

Tbe pride of men, the beauteous, great, aud good. 



»B8 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Jaincs (Otis Uocktocll. 

AMERICAN. 

Rockwell (1807-1S31) was a native of Lebanon, Conn. 
At an early age he was apprenticed to a printer in Utica, 
N. T., and began, while yet a boy, to write for the news- 
papers. Afterward he labored as a journeyman compos- 
itor in Boston till he became an assistant editor of the 
fitaiemian. He was connected with the Patriot of Provi- 
dence, R. I., at the time of his death. Some pathetic lines 
to his memory were written by Whittier. 



THE LOST AT SEA. 

Wife, wlio ill thy deep devotion 

Puttest up .1 prayer for one 
Sailing on the stormy ocean, 

Hope no more — his course is done. 
Dream not, when upon tby pillow, 

That he slumbers by thy side; 
For his corse beneatli the billow 

Heaveth with the restless tide. 

Children, who, as sweet flowers growing, 

Laugh amid the sorrowing rains. 
Know ye many clouds are throwing 

Shadows on your sire's remains? 
Where the hoarse, gray surge is rolling 

With a mountain's motion on. 
Dream ye that its voice is tolling 

For your father lost and gone ? 

Wlieii the siiu looked on the water. 

As a hero on liis grave, 
Tingeing with the hue of slaughter 

Every bine and leaping wave, 
Under the majestic ocean, 

Wliere the giant current rolled. 
Slept thy sire, without emotion, 

Sweetly by a beam of gold. 

And the sileut sunbeams slanted. 

Wavering through the crystal deep, 
Till their wonted .splendors liannted 

Tlio.se shut eyelids in their sleep. 
Sands, like crumbled silver gleaming. 

Sparkled through bis raven hair; 
lint the sleep tliat knows no dreaming 

Bound him in its silence there. 

So we left him ; and to tell thee 
Of our sorrow and thine own, 

Of the. woe that then befell thee, 
Come we weary and alone. 



That thine eye is quickly shaded. 
That thy heart-blood wildly flows. 

That thy cheek's clear hue is faded, 
Are the fruits of these new woes. 

Cliildren, whose meek eyes, inquiring 

Linger on your mother's face, — 
Know ye that she is expiring. 

That ye are an orphan race ? 
God be with you on the morrow. 

Father, mother — both no more; 
One within a grave of sorrow. 

One upon the ocean's floor! 



Cjcnvn llKaDGiuortl) Congfclloiu. 

AMERICAN. 

Longfellow was born in Portland, Me., Feb. 37th, 1807. 
He was graduated at Bowdoin College in 1825, in the 
same class with Hawthorne ; was appointed Professor of 
Modern Languages in 1826 ; then p.assed four years in 
Europe, and on his return commenced the duties of his 
chair. His "Outre-Mer," containing his notes of travel, 
appeared in 183.5. The same year he succeeded George 
Ticknor in the chair of belles-lettres at Harvard, when 
he again visited Europe. He gave up bis professorship 
in 1854, .ind devoted himself c.wlusively to literature. 
His" Voices of the Night" appeared in 1839, and secured 
for him a high rank among the poets of the age. His 
prose romance of "Hyperion" appeared the same year. 
It was followed by " Ballads, and other Poems," in 1841 ; 
" Poems on Slavery," in 1842 ; " The Spanish Student," 
a play, in 1S43 ; " Poets and Poetry of Europe," in 1845 ; 
"The Belfry ofBruges," iu 1845; "Evangeline," iu 1847; 
"Kavanagh," a novel, in 1849; "Seaside and Fireside," 
in 1849 ; " The Golden Legend," in 1851 ; "The Song of 
Hiawatha," in 1855; "The Courtship of Miles Standish," 
in 1858; "Tales of a Wayside Inn," iu 1863; "Flower 
de Luce," iu 1866; a translation of "The Divine Comedy 
of Dante," in 1807; "The New England Tragedies," in 
1868; "The Divine- Tragedy," in 1871; "Three Books of 
Song," in 1872 ; " Keramos, and other Poems," in 1878; 
besides many minor productions that have appeared in 
leading American magazines. 

Cnlikc some poets of the most recent school in verse, 
Longfellow rarely tries to convey an idea which is not 
clear and intelligible to his own mind. He is as honest 
as Shakspearc, Milton, or Burns in this respect. The 
notion that the poet must suggest more than he express- 
es IS a just one ; but it has led some writers to take it 
for granted that suggestiveness lies in obscurity rather 
than 111 sneh a clearly defined expression as this; "One 
touch of nature makes the whole world kin." Here we 
have the utmost paucity of words, and yet the thought 
is level to the ordinary understanding. The obscure 
may sometimes excite a lively imagination so as to pro- 
duce a poetical etteet; but surely the highest order of 
poetry is that which gives more than it requires for its 



HEyHT WADSWOIITE LONGFELLOW. 



629 



solution. The obsciiie writer is often a contriver of rid- 
dles wliicli may be interpreted in different ways by dif- 
ferent minds. The true, the lasting poetrj', is that which, 
wliile it goes to the general heart, does not involve too 
much of a strain of the thinking faculty. It is in his 
shorter lyrical pieces, his ballads, and his line descriptive 
touches that Longfellow's powers are brought out to 
most advantage ; for it is in these that he oftenest com- 
bines the neatness and skill of the consummate artist 
with the curious felicity and perfect simplicity of the 
genuine poet. His "Building of the Ship," "Rain in 
Summer," "Sea-weed," "The Fire of Drift-wood," "Re- 
venge of Rain-in-the-face," "Paul Revere's Ride," and 
many other pieces, have in them, on this account, the 
elements of an enduring popularity. Several of his sou- 
nets are among the choicest in tlie language. 

For some forty-five years he has been almost continu- 
ously productive, either as author, compiler, or transla- 
tor ; and his latest poems have shown au increase rather 
than a diminution of power. Few poets have lived to 
reap such a harvest of contemporary fame, united to ad- 
miration and esteem for personal qualities and an un- 
blemished life, such as the history of the " irritable 
race" too rarely exhibits. Longfellow has been twice 
married; and in his second marriage was blessed with 
that experience of paternity which finds beautiful ex- 
pression in some of his verses. An elegant quarto edi- 
tion of his poems, finely illustrated, appeared in Boston 
in 1880. 



KILLED AT THE FORD. 

He is dead, the beautiful youth, 

The heart of honor, the tongne of truth — 

He, the light and life of ns all. 

Whose voice was as blithe as a bugle-call, 

Whom all eyes followed with cue consent, 

The cheer of whose laugh and whose pleasant word 

Hushed all muriuurs of discontent. 

Only last night, as we rode along 

Down the dark of the mountain gap, 

To visit the picket-guard at the ford. 

Little dreaming of any mishap. 

He was humming the words of 'Some old song: 

"Two red roses he had on his cap, 

.\ud another he bore at the point of his sword." 

Sudden and swift a whistling ball 

Came out of the wood, and the voice w.is still : 

Something I heard iu the darkness fall. 

And for a moment my blood grew chill ; 

I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks 

In a room where some one is lying dead; 

But he made uo answer to what I said. 

We lifted hiiu up on his saddle again, 

And through the miru and the mist and the rain 



Carried him back to the silent camp, 

And laid hira asleep as if on his bed ; 

And I saw by the light of the surgeon's lamp 

Two white roses upon his cheeks. 

And one just over his heart blood-red. 

And I saw in a vision how far and fleet 

That fatal bullet went speeding forth. 

Till it reached a town iu the distant North, 

Till it reached a house in a snnny street. 

Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat 

Without a murmur, without a cry; 

And a bell was tolled iu that far-off town. 

For one who had iiassed from cross to crown — 

And the neighbors wondered that she should die. 



THE LAUNCH. 

From "The Bcilding of the Ship." 

Then the master. 

With a gesture of command, 

Waved his hand ; 

And at the word, 

Loud and sudden there was heard, 

All around them and below, 

The sound of hammers, blow on blow, 

Knocking away the shores and spurs. 

And see! she stirs! 

She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel 

The thrill of life along her keel : 

And, spurning with her foot the ground, 

With one exulting, joyous bound, 

She leaps into the ocean's arms ! 

And lo ! from the assembled crowd 

There rose a shout prolonged and loud. 

That to the ocean seemed to say, — 

" Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray, 

Take her to thy protecting arms. 

With all her youth aud all her charms!" 

How beautiful she is! how fair 

She lies within those arms, that press 

Her form with many a soft caress 

Of tenderness and watchful care! 

Sail forth into the sea, O ship! 

Through wind and wave right ouward steer! 

The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 

Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 

Sail forth into the sea of life, 
Oh, gentle, loving, trusting wife, 



mo 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD JMEItlCAN POETRY. 



Aud safe from all adversity 
Upon the bosom of that sea 
Thy comings aud thy goings he ! 
For gentleness and love and trust 
Prevail o'er angry wave aud gust ; 
And in the wreck of nohle lives 
Something immortal still survives! 

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! 

Sail ou, O Uxiox, strong and great! 

Humanity, with all its fears. 

With all the hopes of future years, 

Is hanging breathless ou thy fate I 

We know what master laid thy keel, 

What workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 

Who made each mast, aud sail, aud rope, 

What auvils rang, what hammers beat. 

In what a forge and what a heat 

Were shaped the anchors of thj' hope ! 

Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 

'Tis of the wave, aud not the rock : 

'Tis but the flapping of the sail, 

Aud not a rent made by the gale ! 

In spite of rock and tempest's roar — 

In sj)ite of false lights ou the shore — 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee ; 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears. 

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears. 

Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! 



THE ARROW AND THE SONG. 
I shot an arrow into the air, 
It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flight. 

I breathed a song into the air. 
It fell to earth, I knew not where; 
For who hath sight so keen and strong. 
That it can follow the flight of song? 

Long, long afterward, in an oak 
I found the arrow, still unbroke. 
And the song from begiuniug to end, 
I found again in the heart of a friend. 



REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE. 

In that desolate laud aud loue, 
Where the Big Horn aud Yellowstone 



Roar down their mountain path, 
By their fires the Sioux Chiefs 
Muttered their woes and griefs. 

And the menace of their wrath. 

" Reveuge !" cried Raiu-in-the-Face, 
" Reveuge upon all the race 

Of the White Chief with yellow hair!" 
Aud the mountains dark and high 
From their crags re-echoed the cry 

Of his auger aud despair. 

In the meadow, spreading wide 
By woodland aud river-side, 

The Indian village stood ; 
All was silent as a dream. 
Save the rushing of the stream 

Aud the blue-jay in the wood. 

In his war-paint and his beads. 
Like a bison among the reeds. 

In ambush the Sitting Bull 
Lay, with three thousand braves. 
Crouched in the clefts aud caves, 

Savage, unuierciful. 

Into the filial snare 

The White Chief with yellow hair, 

.\ud his three hundred men, 
Dashed headlong, sword in hand ! 
But of that gallant baud 

Not oue returned again. 

The sudden darkness of death 
Overwhelmed them, like the breath 

Aud smoke of a furnace fire ; 
By the river's bank, aud between 
The rocks of the ravine. 

They lay-in their bloody attire. 

But tlifi foeuian fled in the night. 
And Rain-iu-the-Face, iu his flight, 

Uiilifted high iu air 
As a ghastly trophy, bore 
The brave heart that beat no more. 

Of the White Chief with yellow hair. 

Whoso was the right and tlie wrong? 
Sing it, oh funeral song, 

With a voice th.at is full of tears. 
And say that our broken faith 
Wrought all this ruin aud seath, 

Iu the Year of a Hundred Y'ears. 



HENRT WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



631 



THE RAINY DAY. 

This graceful little poetn was beantifally set to music by 
William R. Dempster, the Scuttish composer. 

Tlio day is cold aud dark aud dreary ; 
It rains, and the wiud is never weary; 
The viue still clings to the moulderiug waH, 
But at every gush the dead leaves fall — 
And the day is dark and dreary. 

My life is cold atid dark and dreary — 
It rains, and the wind is never weary; 
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, 
But the hopes of youth fall thick iu the blast, 
And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining — 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining : 
Tliy fate is the coniinon fate of all; 
Into each life some rain must fall — 

Some days must be dark and dreary. 



RAIN IN SUMMER. 

How beautiful is the rain ! 

After the dust and heat. 

In the broad and fiery street, 

In the narrow lane, 

How beautiful is the rain ! 

How it clatters along the roofs, 

Like the tramp of hoofs ! 

How it gushes and struggles out 

From the throat of the overflowing spout ! 

Across the window-pane 

It pours and pours ; 

And swift and wide. 

With a uniddy tide. 

Like a river down the gutter roars 

The rain, the welcome rain ! 

The sick man from his chamber 

Looks at the twisted brooks ; 

Ho can feel the cool 

Breath of each little pool; 

His fevered brain 

Grows calm again, 

And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 

From the neighboring school 

Come the boys, 

With more than their wonted noiso 



And commotion ; 
And down the wet streets 
Sail their mimic fleets. 
Till the treacherous pool 
Engulfs them iu its whirling 
And turbulent ocean. 

In the country, on every side, 

Where far and wide, 

Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide. 

Stretches the plain. 

To the dry grass and the drier grain 

How welcome is the rain ! 

In the furrowed land 

The toilsome and patient oseit stand ; 

Lifting the yoke-encumbered head. 

With their dilated nostrils spread. 

They silently inhale 

The clover-scented gale. 

And the vapors that arise 

From the well-watered and smoking soil. 

For this rest in the furrow after toil 

Their Large and lustrous eyes 

Seem to thank the Lord, 

More than man's spoken word. 

Near at hand. 

From under the sheltering trees. 

The farmer sees 

His pastures, and his fields of grain, 

As they bend their tops 

To the numberless beating drops 

Of the incessant rain. 

He counts it as no sin 

That he sees therein 

Only his own thrift and gain. 

These, aud far more than these, 

The Poet sees ! 

He can behold 

Aquarius old 

Walking the fenceless fields of air ; 

Aud from each ample fold 

Of the clouds about him rolled, 

Scattering everywhere 

The showery rain. 

As the farmer scatters his grain. 

He can behold 

Things manifold 

That have not yet been wholly told, — 

Have not been wholly sung nor said, 



{i32 



CTCLOI'^DIA OF BEITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



For Lis tbouglit, that never stops, 

Follows the water-drops 

Down to the graves of the dead, 

Down throngh chasms and gulfs profound, 

To the dreary fountain-head 

Of lakes and rivers un<lerground ; 

And sees them, when the rain is done, 

On the bridge of colors seven 

Climbing up once more to heaven. 

Opposite the setting snn. 

Thus the Seer, 

With vision clear, 

Sees forms appear and disappear. 

In tlio iicrpetnal round of strange 

Mysterious change, 

From birth to death, from death to birth. 

From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth ; 

Till glimpses more sublime 

Of things, unseen before. 

Unto his wondering eyes reveal 

The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel 

Turning for evermore 

In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 



SONNET: THE POETS. 

O ye dead poets, who are liviug still 
Immortal in your verse, though life be fled. 
And ye, O living poets, who are dead 
Though ye are liviug, if neglect can kill, — 
Tell mo if in the darkest hours of ill, 
With drops of anguish falling fast and red 
From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head. 
Ye were not glad your erraud to fullil? 
Yes; for the gift aud ministry of song 
Have something in them so divinely sweet, 
It can assuage the bitterness of wrong: 
Not in the clamor of the crowded street. 
Not in the shouts aud plaudits of the throng. 
But in ourselves, are triumph aud defeat. 



PHANTOMS. 

All houses wherein men have lived and died 
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors 

The harmless phantoms on tlieir errands glide. 
With feet that make no sound npou the floors. 

We meet them at the door-way, on the stair, 
Along the passages they come and go. 



Impalpable impressions on the air, 

A sense of something moving to and fro. 

There are more guests at table than the hosts 

Invited ; tire illuminated hall 
Is thronged with quiet, inofl'ensive ghosts, 

As silent as the pictures on the w.all. 

The stranger at my fireside cannot see 

The forms I see, nor hear the souuds I hear ; 

He but perceives what is ; while unto me 
All that has been is visible and clear. 

We have uo title-deeds to house or lauds; 

Owners and occupants of earlier dates 
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands 

And hold in mortmain still their old estates. 

The .spirit-world around this world of sense 
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere 

Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense 
A vital breath of more ethereal air. 

Our little lives are kept in eijuipoise 
By opposite attractions aud desires ; 

The struggle of the instinct that enjoys. 
And the more noble instinct that asiiires. 

The perturbations, the perpetual jar 
Of earthly wants and aspirations high. 

Come from the influence of that unseen star. 
That undiscovered planet in our sky. 

Aud as the moon, from some dark gate of cloud. 

Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light, 
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd. 

Into the realm of mystery and night; 

So from the world (jf spirits there descends 
A bridge of liglit connecting it with this, 

O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends, 
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss. 



SONNET: NATUKE. 

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, 

Leads by the hand her little child to bed, 

Half willing, half reluctant to be led. 

And leave his broken playthings on the floor, 

Still gazing at them through the open door, 

Not wholly reassured and comforted 

By jiromises of others iu their stead, 



EEXET WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



033 



■\Vliicli, though more siilendid, may not please liim 

more ; 
So Nature deals Tritli ns, and takes away 
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand 
Leads ns to rest so gently, that we go 
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, 
Being too full of sleep to understand 
How far the unknown transcends the wli:.\ we know. 



EXCELSIOR. 

The shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior! 

His brow was sad; his eye beneath 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 
Excelsior ! 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone. 
And from his lips escaped a groan. 
Excelsior ! 

" Try not the Pass !" the old man said ; 
" Dark lowers the tempest overhead. 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
Excelsior ! 

"Oh stay," the maiden said, "and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast!" 
A tear stood in his bright blue ej-e, 
But still he answered with a sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! 
Beware the awful avalanche!"' 
This was the peasant's last Good-night, 
A voice replied far up the height, 
Excelsior! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
littered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior! 



A traveller by the faithful hound 
Half-buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
Tliat banner with the strange device. 
Excelsior! 

There in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay ; 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star, 
Excelsior! 



HAWTHORNE. 

How beautiful it was, that one bright day 

In the long week of rain ! 
Though all its splendor could not cliase away 

The omnipresent pain. 

The lovely town was white with apple-blooms. 

And the great elms o'erhead 
Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms. 

Shot through with golden thread. 

Across the meadows, by the gray old manse, 

The historic river flowed : 
I was as one who wanders in a trance, 

Unconscious of his road. 

The faces of familiar friends seemed strange ; 

Their voices I could hear. 
And yet the words they uttered seemed to change 

Their meaning to my ear. 

For the one face I looked for was not there, 

The one low voice was unite; 
Only an unseen presence filled the air. 

And bafBed my pursuit. 

Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream. 

Dimly my thought defines ; 
I oidy see — a dream within a dream — • 

The hill-top hearsed with pines. 

I only hear above his place of rest 

Their tender undertone, 
The infinite longings of a troubled breast, 

The voice so like his own. 

There in seclusion, and remote from men, 

The wizard Iiand lies cold. 
Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen. 

And left the tale half told. 



634 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BUITISH AND AMEIilCAN POETRY. 



Ah ! who shall lift that wand of magic power, 

And the lost clew regain ? 
The uufiuished ■window in Aladdin's tower 

Unfinished must remain ! 
May 23d, 1S04. 



THE BELLS OF LYNN, HEARD AT NAHANT. 

O cnrfew of the setting sun ! O Bells of Lynn ! 
O requiem of the dying day ! O Bells of Lynu ! 

From the dark belfries of you cloud-cathedral wafted, 
Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells of Lynn! 

Borue on the evening wind across the crimson twi- 

light, 
O'er laud and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn ! 

The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the head- 
laud, 
Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lyun ! 

Over the shining sauds the wandering cattle home- 
ward 
Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynu ! 

The distant light-house hears, and witli his fiaraing 

signal, 
Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of 

Lynn ! 

And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous 

surges. 
And clap their hands, and shout to you, O Bells of 

Lynn! 

Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild in- 
cantations. 
Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn ! 

And startled at the sight, like the weird woman of 

Endor, 
Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn I 



iol)n (Erccnlcaf ll1l)itticr. 

AMERICAN. 

Whitticr, a native of Haverhill, Mass., was born Decem- 
Ijer 31st, 1807. His family were of the Society of Friends, 
and he eaiiy learned from them his stronL; and lifelong 
opposition to slavery. Until his cii;liteuntli year he 
worked on liis fallier's farm. A born poet, witli decided 
literary tastes, ho was indebted for liis education chiefly 



to his own exertions. He was not nineteen when his 
first published poem appeared in a Newburyport paper, 
edited by William Lloyd Garrison. The first complete 
collection of his poems was published in 1850. Other 
volumes appeared later: "Songs of Labor," in 1851; 
"The Cliapel of the Hermits," in 1853; "The Panora- 
ma," in 1856; "Home Ballads," in 1860; "In War Time," 
in 1863; " Snow -Bound," in 1865; "The Tent on the 
Beacli," in 1807; "Among the Hills," in 1868; "The 
Pennsylvania Pilgrim," in 1873. 

Whittier was at ditferent periods of his life an editor, 
and he has put forth some four or five volumes in pro.se. 
But it is as a poet, and one indigenous to the soil of 
America, and true to its traditions and associations, that 
lie will be known to posterity. Even his moral and di- 
dactic verse is distinguished by a lyrical grace and free- 
dom that overcomes their gravity. His " Maud Muller " 
(18.55) is one of the choicest of idyllic poems, and savors 
tborons'hly of the native soil. In liis religious utterances 
he shows an earnest and devotional spirit, hopeful in its 
views of the destiny of the race, but too broad for cir- 
cumscription in any sectarian creed. As a ballad-writer 
he is eminently successful — simple, graceful, interesting, 
and never prolix. His "Witch of Wenbam" may be in- 
stanced as a singularly beautiful specimen in this depart- 
ment of verse. Among the tributes sent to him on his 
seventieth birthday was the following little poera by 
Lydia Maria (Francis) Child, born in Mcdford, Mass., in 
1803, and the author of " The Progress of Religious 
Ideas," and other approved works, as well as of some 
admirable poems for the young : 

"I thank thee, fiiend, for words of cheer. 
That made the path of duty c'.ear, 
When thnu and I were yimug, and strong 
To wrestle with a mighty wron>,'. 
And now, when leniztheniiig shadows come, 
And this world's work is nearly done, 
I thank thee for thy genial raj', 
That prophesies a brighter day, 
When we can work, with strength renewed, 
In clearer light, for surer good. 
God bless thee, friend, and give thee peace. 
Till thy fervent spirit linds release 1 
And tnay we meet in worlds afar, 
My Morning aud my Evening Star I" 

Whittier has resided the greater part of his life at 
Ainesbury, Mass. He has never been married, and his life 
has been almost wholly devoted to literary pursuits. In 
1877 he edited " Songs of Three Centuries," a tasteful 
collection of poetry, British and American. 



MAUD MULLER. 

Maud Muller, on a summer's day. 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 

Singing, sho wrouglit, and her merry glee 
The niock-l)ird echoed from bis tree. 



JOHN GREENLEAF WUITTIEB. 



035 



Hilt, when slie glaiiceil to the fjir-otif town, 
White from its bill-slope lookiug down, 

Tlie sweet song died, and a vague unrest 



A wish, that she hardly daied to own. 
For something better than she had known. 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane, 
Smoothing bis horse's chestnnt mane. 

He drew his bridle in the shade 

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, 

And ask a dranght from the spring that flowed 
Throngh the meadow, across the road. 

8he stoojied where the cool spring bubbled up. 
And filled for him her small tin cnj), 

And blushed as she gave it, lookiug down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 



From a fairer baud was never quaffed." 

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees. 
Of the siuging-birds and the bumiuiug-bees ; 

Then talked of the baying, and wondered whether 
The cloud iu the west would bring foul weather. 

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown. 
And her gracefnl ankles bare and brown ; 

And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud Miiller looked and sighed: -'Ah me! 
Tliat I the Judge's bride might be ! 

" He would dress me up in silks so fine. 
And praise and toast me at bis wine. 

" My father should wear a broadcloth coat ; 
My brother should sail a paiuted boat. 

" I"d dress mj- mother so grand and gay, 

Aud the baby should have a new toy each day. 



"And I'd feed the linngry and clothe the poor. 
And all should bless mo who left our door." 

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, 
Aud saw Maud Muller standing still. 

"A form more fair, a face more sweet. 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

"And her modest answer and gracefnl air 
Show her wise aud good as she is fair. 

" Would she were mine, aud I to-day, 
Like her, a harvester of hay : 

" No doubtful balance of rights aud wrongs, 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues; — 

" But low of cattle and song of birds. 
And health aud quiet aud loving words." 

But he thought of his sisters proud and cold. 
And his mother vain of her rank aud gold. 

S:i, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon. 
When he bummed iu court an old love tune; 

And the yonng girl mused beside the well, 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower. 
Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, 
He watched a picture come aud go : 

And sweet Maud Mullei's hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft, when the wine iu his glass was red, 
He longed for the wayside well Instead ; 

Aud closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, 
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. 

And the proud man sighed, with a secret paiu : 
"Ah, that I were free again ! 

"Free as wlien I rode that day, 

W^here the barefoot maiden raked her hay." 



636 



CYCLOPJiDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN FOE TRY. 



SUe -wedikHl a man luilearneil ami poor, 
• Aucl inauy cluldreu played round lier door. 

But caro aud sorrow, and childbirth paiu, 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, 

And she heard the liftle spring-brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall, 

In the shade of the apple-tree again 

She saw a rider draw his rein ; 

And, gazing down with timid grace, 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes lier narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched awaj' into stately halls ; 

The weary wheel to a spiunct turned, 
The tallow-caudle an astral burued, 

And for him who sat by the chiuniey-lng. 
Dozing and grnmbliug o'er pipe aud nuig, 

A manly form at her side she saw, 
And joy was duty, and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again, 
Saying only, " It might have been." 

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, 

For rich repiner and household drudge! 

God pity them botli ! aud pity us all. 
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen. 

The saddest are these : " It might have been !" 

Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from hunum ejes ; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
Roll the stone from its grave away 1 



BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 

Up from the meadows rich witli corn. 
Clear in the cool September morn. 



The clustered spires of Frederick stand 
Greeu-wallcd by the hills of Maryland. 

Round about them orchards sweep, 
Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 

Fair as a garden of the Lord 

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde. 

On that pleasant morn of the early Fall, 
Whcu Lee marched over the mountain wall- 
Over the mountains winding down, 
Horse aud foot into Frederick town — 

Forty Hags with their silver stars. 
Forty flags with their crimson bars. 

Flapped in the morning wind : the sun 
Of noon looked down, aud saw not one. 

Up rose old Barbara Frictchic then. 
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten ; 

Bravest of .all in Frederick town. 

She took up the flag the men hauled down; 

In her attic window the staft' she set, 
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

Up the .street came the rebel tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 

Under his slouched hat left aud right 
He glanced; the old flag met his sight. 

'■Halt!" — the dust-brown ranks stood fast; 
'"Fire!" — out blazed the rifle blast. 

It shivered the window, pane aud sash ; 
It rent the banner with seam and gash. 

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staft', 
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; 

She leaned far out on the wiudow-sill, 
And shook it forth with a royal will. 

" Shoot, if you mnst, this old gray head. 
But spare your country's flag !" she said. 

A shade of sadness, a binsli of shame. 
Over the face of the leader tliero came; 



JOHN GliEENLEAF WHITTIER. 



GA7 



The nobler natiiro within him stirreil 
To life at that woman's deed and word : 

"Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
Dies like a dog ! March ou !" be said. 

All day long through Frederick street 
Sunnded the tread of marchiug feet: 

All day long that free tlag tossed 
Over the heads of the rebel host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell 

Oa the loyal winds that loved it well ; 

And through the liill-ga'i:s sunset light 
Shone over it with a warm good-night. 

Barbara Frietchic's work is o'er, 

And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. 

Honor to her! and let a tear 

Fall, for her sake, ou Stonewall's bier. 

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave 
Flag of Freedom and Uniou wave; 

Peace and order and beauty draw 
Kouud thy symbol of light and law; 

And ever the stars above look down 
On thy stars below iu Frederick town ! 



MR. WHITTIER TO HIS FRIENDS, 

ON THE CELEBn.\TION OF HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHD.iV. 

Beside that mile-stone where the level sun, 
Nigh unto setting, .sheds his last, low rays 
On word and work irrevocably done, 
Life's bleudiug threads of good and ill outspun, 
I hear, oh friends! your words of cheer aud praise. 
Half doubtful if myself or otherwise. 
Like him who, iu the old Arabian joke, 
A beggar slept and crowned Caliph woke. 
Thanks not the less. With not unglad surprise 
I see my life-work through your partial eyes ; 
Assured, in giving to my home-taught songs 
A higher value than of right belongs. 
You do but read between tlie written lines 
Tlie finer grace of uufulfilled designs. 
121I1 rao., 187T. 



MY TWO SISTERS. 

From " Snow-Bocnd." 

There, too, our elder sister plied 
Her evening task the stand beside ; 
A full, rich nature, free to trust. 
Truthful and almost sternly just. 
Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act, 
Aud make her generous thought a fact. 
Keeping with many a light disgui.se 
The secret of .self-sacrifice. 
O, heart sore tried ! thou hast the best 
That Heaven itself could give thee — rest : 
Rest from all bitter thoughts aud things! 
How many a poor one's blessing went 
With thee beneath the low green tent 
Whose curtain never outward swings! 

As one who held herself a part 
Of all she saw, aud let her heart 

Against the household bosom lean. 
Upon the motley-braided mat 
Our youngest aud our dearest sat. 
Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes, 

Now bathed within the fadeless green 
And holy peace of Paradise. 
Oh, looking from some heavenly hill, 

Or from the shade of saintlj' palms, 

Or silver reach of river calms. 
Do those large eyes behold me still ? 
With me one little year ago: — 
The chill weight of the winter suow 

For mouths upon her grave has lain ; 
And now, when summer south-winds blow 

Aud brier and harebell bloom again, 
I tread the pleasant paths we trod, 
I see the violet sprinkled sod 
Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak 
The hill-side flowers she loved to seek, 
Yet following me where'er I went 
With dark eyes full of love's content. 
The birds are glad ; the brier-ro.se tills 
The air with sweetness ; all the hills 
Stretch green to June's unclouded sky ; 
But still I wait with ear and eye 
For something gone which should be nigh, 
A loss in all familiar things, 
In flower that blooms, and bird that sings. 
And yet, dear heart ! remembering thee, 

Am I not richer thau of old ? 
Safe iu thy immortality. 

What change can reach the wealth I hold ? 

What chance can mar the pearl aud gold 



G38 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAX POETRY. 



Thy love hath left in trust witli me ? 
Anil while in life's late afternoon, 

Where cool and long the shadows grow, 
I walk to meet the night that soon 

Shall shape and shadow overflow, 
I cannot feel that thou art far. 
Since near at need the angels are ; 
And when the sunset gates unbar, 

Shall I not see thee waiting stand, 
And, white against the evening star, 

The welcome of thy beckoning hand? 

We sit beneath their orchard-frees, 

We hear, like them, the hum of bees, 
And rustle of the bladed corn ; 
We turn the pages that they read. 

Their written words we linger o'er. 
But in the sun they cast no shade, 
No voice is heard, no sign is made. 

No step is on the conscious floor! 
Yet Love will dream, and Faith will trust 
(Since He who knows our need is just), 
That somehow, somewhere, meet we must. 
Alas for him who never sees 
The stars shine through his cypress-trees 1 
Who, hopeless, lays liis dead away. 
Nor looks to see the breaking day 
Across the mournful marbles play ! 
W^ho hath not learned, in Iionrs of faith, 

The truth to flesh and sense unknown, 
That Life is ever lord of Death, 

And Love can never lose its own ! 



THE POET'S PORTRAIT OF HIMSELF. 

From " The Tent on the Beach." 

And one there was, a dreamer born. 

Who, with a mission to fulfil. 
Had left the Muses' haunts to turu 

The crank of an opinion-mill, 
Making his rustic reed of song 
A weapon in the war with wrong, 
Yoking his fancy to the breaking-plough 
That beam-deep turned the soil for truth to spring 
and grow. 

Too quiet seemed the man to ride 

The wing<5d Hippogrili' Reform ; 
Was his a voice from side to side 

To pierce the tumult of the storm ? 
A silent, shy, peace-loving man. 
He seemed no fiery partisan 



To hold bis way against the public frown. 

The ban of Church and State, the fierce mob's 
honnding down. 

For while he wrought with strenuous will 

The work his hands had found to do. 
He heard the fitful music still 

Of winds that out of dream-land blew. 
The din about him could not drown 
What the strange voices whispered down ; 
Along his task-field weird processions swept. 
The visionary pomp of stately phantoms stepped. 

The common air was thick with dreams, — 

He told them to the toiling crowd ; 
Such music as the woods and streams 

Sang in his ear he sang aloud ; 
lu still, shut bays, on windy capes, 
Ho heard the call of beckoning shapes, 
And, as the gay old shadows prompted him, 
To homely moulds of rhyme he shaped their legends 



THE ETERNAL GOODNESS. 

friends, witli whom my feet have trod 
The quiet aisles of prayer. 

Glad witness to your zeal for God 
And lovo of men I bear. 

1 trace your lines of argument ; 
Your logic, linked and strong, 

I weigh as one who dreads dissent, 
And fears a doubt as wrong. 

But still my human hands are weak 

To hold your iron creeds ; 
Against the words ye bid me speak, 

My heart within me pleads. 

Who fathoms tho Eternal Thought? 

Who talks of scheme and plau ? 
The Lord is God ! He needeth not 

The poor device of man. 

I walk with bare, hushed feet tho ground 
Ye tread with boldness shod; 

I dare not fix with mete and bound 
The love and power of God. 

Ye praise his justice ; even such 
Ilis pitying love I deem ; 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIEIL— CHARLES DOYNE SILLERY. 



6S9 



Ye seek a king ; I fain would touch 
The robe that bath no seam. 

Ye see tlie curse which overbroods 

A world of pain and loss ; 
I hear our Lord's beatitudes 

And prajer upon the cross. 

More than your schoolmen teacli, within 

Myself, alas ! I know : 
Too dark ye cannot paint the sin, 

Too small the merit show. 

I bow my forehead to the dust, 

I veil mine eyes for shame. 
And urge, in trenil)ling self-distrust, 

A prayer without a claim. 

I see the wrong that round me lies, 

I feel the guilt withiu ; 
I hear, with groau and travail-cries, 

The world confess its sin : 

Yet, iu the maddening maze of things, 
And tossed by storm and flood, 

To one fixed stake my spirit clings: 
I know that God is good ! 

Not mine to look wheu cherubim 

And seraphs may not see ; 
But nothing can be good iu Him 

Which evil is in me. 

The wrong that paius my soul below, 

I dare not throue above ; 
I know uot of His hate — I know 

His goodness and His love! 

I dimly guess from blessings kuowu 

Of greater out of sight. 
And, with the chastened Psalmist, owu 

His judgments too are right. 

I long for household voices goue, 

For vauLshed smiles I long; 
But God hath led my dear ones on, 

And He can do no wrong. 

I know not what the future hath 

Of marvel or surprise, 
Assured alone that life and death 

His mercy underlies. 



And if my heart and flesh are weak 

To bear an untried pain. 
The bruised reed He will not break, 

But strengthen and sustain. 

No offering of my owu I have. 
Nor works ray faith to prove ; 

I can but give the gifts he gave, 
Aud plead His love for love. 

And so beside the Silent Sea 

1 wait the muffled oar ; 
No harm from Him can come to me 

On ocean or on shore. 

I know not where His islands lift 
Their fronded palms in air ; 

I only know I cannot drift 
Beyond His love and care. 

O brothers ! if my faith is vain, 
If hopes like these betray, 

Pray for me that my feet may gain 
The sure and safer way ! 

Aud thou, O Lord ! by whom are seen 

Thy creatures as they be. 
Forgive me if too close I lean 

My human heart on Thee ! 



(Jlljarlcs Dojine Billcrn. 

Sillery (1807-1836) was a native of Athloue, Irel;unl, 
but was brought up in Edinburgh. His favorite pursuits 
were poetry and music. In 1839 he published by sub- 
scription a poem iu nine cantos, entitled " VaTlery," aud 
afterward " Eldred of Erin," iu which the devotional 
sentiment prevails. Of sprightly and winning manners, 
he was much esteemed in the literary circles of the Scot- 
tish capital. Poetry, in its every department, he culti- 
vated with the devotion of an enthusiast. 



SHE DIED IN BEAUTY. 

She died iu beauty! like a rose 
Blowu from its parent stem ; 

She died iu beauty ! like a pearl 
Dropped from some diadem. 

She died in beauty! like a lay 

Along a moonlit lake ; 
She died in beauty ! like the soug 

Of birds amid the brake. 



640 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEUICAN POETRY. 



She died iu beauty! like the snow 
Oq flowers dissolved away ; 

She died iu beauty! like a star 
Lost on the brow of day. 

She (ires iu glory ! like uight's gems 
Set round the silver moon ; 

She lives iu glory ! like the sun 
Amid the blue of June! 



llicl)ari) (Uljcncnif Crenel). 

Trench was born in Dublin in 1S07. He studied at 
Cambridge, took orders in the Church of England, was 
made Dean of Westminster in 1856, and Arclibishop of 
Dublin in 1S6-1. He has published theological discourses, 
two volumes on the study of Words, and several volumes 
of verse. Many of his poems cvhice genuine lyrical 
power ; but tlie didactic prevails in his style. 



OUR FATHER'S HOME. 

1 say to thee, do thou repeat 

To the first mau thou raayest meet 

In lane, highway, or open street, — 

Th.at he, and we, and all men, move 

Under a canopy of love 

As broad as the bine sky above ; 

That doubt and trouble, fear and pain 
And anguish, all are shadows vain ; 
That death itself shall not remain ; — 

That weary deserts wc may tread, 
A dreary labyrinth may thread, 
Through dark ways underground be Icd,- 

Yet, if we will our Guide obey, 
The dreariest path, the darkest way, 
Shall issue out in heavenly day ; 

And we, ou divers shores now cast, 
Shall meet, our perilous voyage past, 
All in our Father's home at last. 

And ere thou leave him, say thou this 
Yet one word more : They only miss 
The winning of that final bliss. 

Who will not count it true that love, 
HU>ssing not cursing, rules above, 
And that in it we live and move. 



And one thing further make him know. 
That to believe these things are so. 
This firm faith never to forego, — 

Despite of all which s(f»i« at strife 
With blessing, or with curses rife, — 
That this is blessing, this is life. 



BE PATIENT. 

Be patient, oh, be patient ; imt your car against the 

earth. 
Listen there how noiselessly the germ o' the seed has 

birth ; 
How noiselessly aud gently it upheaves its little way. 
Till it jiarts the scarcely broken grouud, and the 

blade stauds up iu the day. 

Be patient, oh, be patieut ! the germs of mighty 
thought 

Must have their silent undergrowth, must under 
ground be wrought ; 

But as sure as there's a Power, that makes the grass 
appear, 

Our land shall be green with Liberty, the blade- 
time shall be here. 

Be patient, oh, be patient! go and watch the wheat- 
ears grow. 

So imperceptibly, that eye can mark nor change nor 
throe ; 

Day after day, day after day, till the ear is fully 
grown ; 

Aud then again, day after day, till the ripened field 
is browu ! 

Be patient, oh, be patient ! though yet our hopes are 

green. 
The harvest-fields of Freedom shall be crowned with 

the sunny sheen ; 
Be ripening! be ripening! mature your silent w.ny, 
Till the whole broad land is tougued with fire on 

Freedom's harvest-day ! 



SONNET: ON PRAYER. 

Lord, what a change within us one short hour 
Spent iu thy presence will prevail to make — 
AVhat heavy burdens from our bosoms take! 
What parch<5d grounds refresh as with a shower! 
We kneel, and all around us seems to lower: 



mCHABD CHEXEVIX TRENCH.— ARTHUR WILLIAMS AUSTIN. 



641 



We rise, and all, the distant and the near, 
Stands forth in sunny outline, brave and clear ; 
Wo kuecl, how weak, we rise, how full of power! 
Why, therefore, should we do ourselves this wrong, 
Or others — that we are not alwaj's strong ; 
That we are ever overborne with care ; 
That we should ever weak or heartless be, 
Anxious or troubled, when with us is prayer. 
And joy, and strength, and courage are with thee? 



SPRING. 

Who was it that so lately said. 
All i>ulscs in thine heart were dead, 

Old earth, that now in festal robes 
Appearest, as a bride new wed ? 

Oil, wrapped so late in winding-sheet — 
Thy wiuding-sheet, oh! where is tied? 

Lo ! 'tis an emerald carpet now. 

Where tlio young niouarch. Spring, may tread. 

He comes, — and, a defeated king. 
Old Winter to the hills is fled. 

The warm wind broke his frosty spear, 
And loosed the helmet from his head ; 

And he weak showers of arrowy .sleet 
From his strongholds has vainly sped. 

All that was sleeping is awake, 
And all is living that was dead. 

Who listens now can hear the streams 
Leap tinkling from their pebbly bed, 

Or see them, from their fetters free, 
Like silver suakes the meadows thread. 

The joy, the life, the hope of earth, 
They slept awhile, they were not dead : 

O thou, who say'st thy sore heart ne'er 
With verdure can again be sjiread; 

O thou, who monrnest them that sleep, 
Low lying in an earthly bed ; 

Look out on this reviving world, 
And be new hopes within thee bred! 
41 



2lrtljur lllilliams 2lustin. 

AMERICAN. 

Born in Charlestown, Mass., in 1807, Austin was grad- 
uated at Cambridge in 1835, studied law, and in 1856 was 
made Collector of the port of Boston under President 
Buchanan. An excellent Greek scholar, he has made 
some accurate and graceful translations from "The 
Greek Anthology." In 1875 he published a volume en- 
titled " The Woman and the Queen : a Ballad, and other 
Specimens of Verse." 



FROM "THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY." 

EUFINUS: TO RHODA. 

Rhoda ! to thee I send a garland, wove 

From flowers late gathered by these hands of mine : 

Here lily, celandine, and budding rose, 

The tender daffodil, tho violet blue ! 

When crowned with these, abate thy lofty pride: 

Thyself, the flowers, the garland, all will fade ! 

SIM.NirAS: EPITAPH ON SOPHOCLES. 
Around this place where Sophocles reclines, 
Let ivy silent creep, and fruitful vines; 
Let palm-trees overhang his honored tomb. 
And flowering roses shed a sweet perfume : 
Gifted with pleasant words and precepts wise. 
Muses and Graces were his choice allies. 

MARIANUS: TO A STATUE OF CUPID CROWNED. 
Where is that bow of yours, the wings, the dart, 
And those sharp arrows meant to pierce the heart? 
Why on your head a wreath, why garlands hold? 
"Stranger, thiuk not I am of common mould; 
Not of the earth, nor sou of earthly joy, — 
No common Venus owns mo for her boy. 
To tho pure mind of man I send a flame. 
And lead his sonl to heaven, from whence it came; 
Four garlands from the Virtues I entwine. 
And, above all, the prize of Wisdom mine!" 

MARIANUS : THE I.O\'E-GROVE OF AMASIA. 
This Grove of Love hath charms ; the western breeze 
Sends soothing murmurs through the well -pruned 

trees ; 
On dewy meadow sparkling violets grow, 
And from a triple source the waters flow; 
And here at noonday Iris rolls its wave. 
That fair-haired wood-nymphs may at pleasure lave : 
Exposed on all sides to the Sun's caress. 
Here fruitful vine aud fertile olive bless ; 
Here all around the nightingales are heard, — - 
Crickets responding to the tuneful bird : 



042 



CYCLOr^DIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEBICAX POETRY. 



Regard, my friend, a Tvell-meant, kind request : 
Pass not my gate, — I welcome such a guest. 

ALC.EUS : SEVENTH FRAGMENT.' 

Nor porches, theatres, nor stately halls, 

Nor senseless equiiiage, nor lofty walls, 

Nor towers of wood or stone, nor workmen's arts, 

Compose a, State. But men with daring hearts, 

Who on themselves rely to meet all calls, 

Compose a State, — it needs not other walls! 



Iamc9 Ballantinc. 

Ballautine was born in Edinburgh in ISOS. When he 
was a mere boy the loss of his father compelled him to 
work for the family's support ; and he became an accom- 
plislied painter on glass. An edition of his poems was 
published in 1856. They indicate a love of the beauti- 
ful in nature, and a devout faith that the order of things 
means ,!;ood, and not evil, for the human race. He was 
the author of a work on stained glass, which was trans- 
lated and published in Germany. 



ITS AIN DKAP O' DEW. 

Confide ye aye in Providence, 

For Providence is kind. 
An' hear ye a' life's changes 

Wi' a calm an' tranquil mind ; 
Tho' pressed and hemmed ou every side, 

Ha'e faith, an' ye'U win through. 
For ilka hlade o' grass 

Keps its aiu dvap o' dew. 

Gin reft frae friends, or crossed in love, 

As whiles nae douht ye've heen, 
Grief lies deep-hidden in yonr heart, 

Or tears flow frae your e'en. 
Believe it for the hest, and trow 

There's good in store for you, 
For ilka hlado o' grass 

Keps its ain drap o' dew. 

In lang, lang days o' simmer, 

When tho clear and cloudless sky 
Refuses ae wee drap o' rain 

To Nature, parched aiul <lrv, 
Tho genial Night, wi' halmy breath, 

Gars verdure spring auew, 
An' ilka blade o' gra.ss 

Keps its ain drap o' dew. 

' See Ihe amplificntiou of this fi-.igment by Sir William Joues. 



Sao lest 'mid fortune's sunshine 

W^e should feel ower proud an' hie, 
An' iu onr pride forget to wipe 

The tear frae poortith"s' e'e, 
Some wee dark clouds o' sorrow come, 

We ken na whence or hoo, 
But ilka blade o' gr.iss 

Keps its ain drap o' dew. 



Cjcnrn i'otljcrgiU Cljovlcu. 

Chorley (1808-1873) was a native of England. He was 
a good musical critic, and a poet of no ordinary ability. 
His " Song of the Oak " was set to music by Henry Kus- 
sell. He wrote several plays and numerous librettos. 
His "Memoirs" by Hewlett appeared in 1873. 



THE BRAVE OLD OAK. 

A song for the oak, the brave old oak, 

Who hath ruled in the greenwood long; 
Here's health and renown to his broad green crown, 

And his fifty arras so strong. 
There's fear iu his frown when the sun goes down. 

And tho fire iu tho west fades out; 
And he showeth his might on a wild midnight. 
When the storms through his branches shout. 
Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak, 

Who stands in his pride alone ; 
And still flourish he, a hale, green tree. 
When a hundred years are gone! 

In tho days of old, when tho spring with gold 

Had brightened his branches gray, 
Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet. 

To gather the dew of May. 
And ou that day to the rebec gay 

They frolicked with lovesome swains ; 
They are gone, thoy are dead, iu the church-yard laid, 

But the tree it still remains. 
Then here's to the oak, etc. 

He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes 

Were a merry sound to hear. 
When the squire's wide hall and the cottage suuiU 

Were filled with good English cheer. 
Now gold hath the sway we all obey. 

And a ruthless king is he ; 
But he never shall send our ancient friend 

To bo tossed on the stormy sea. 
Then here's to tho oak, etc. 

' Scottish for povertJ/, 



LVCRETIA AXD MARGARET DATIDSOX. 



6415 



£iurctia anb fllargavct PaBibsou. 

AMERICANS, 

Lucrctia Maria (1S08-1S25) and Marsai-et Miller David- 
son (1833-1838), sisters, were tlie daughters of Dr. Oliver 
Davidson and Margaret Miller, liis wife, both persons of 
culture and refmemcut. Lucretia was born at--Platts- 
burg, on the shore of Lake Champlain. She was a 
[irecocious child and an assiduous student, and began to 
write verses before she was ten years old. In 1824 she 
was sent to Mi-s. WiUard's well-known school in Troy. 
Here she applied herself too closely to study. Iler health 
soon failed, and she died of consumption one month be- 
fore herseventeenth birthday. A volume, entitled " Amir 
Khan, and other Poems," being a collection of her pieces, 
with a memoir, was published in 1829 by Mr. S. F. B. 
Jlorse. It attracted much attention, and was very favor- 
ably noticed in the London Quaiicrlt/ Re>!kw,x\i,,2S9, by 
Southey, who wrote: "In our own language, except in 
the eases of Chattertou and Kirke White, we can call to 
mind no instance of so early, so ardent, and so fatal a 
pursuit of intellectual advancement." She showed as 
much talent for drawing as for literary work. 

JIargarct, the sister, was about two years old at the 
time of Lucretia's death. She had the same imaginative 
traits, the same ardeut, impulsive nature, and her life 
seems like a repetition of that of her elder sister. She 
improvised stories, wrote plays, and advanced so rapidly 
in her studies that it was necessary to check her dili- 
gence. She had tlie most lively reverence for her de- 
parted sister, and believed that she had close and inti- 
mate communion with her. At the age of six she took 
j>lLasurc in reading Milton, Cowper, Thomson, and Scott. 
"She was at times," says Irving, "in a kind of ecstasy 
from the excitement of her imagination aud the exuber- 
ance of her pleasurable sensations. In such moods every 
object of natural heauty inspired a degree of rapture al- 
ways mingled with a feeling of gratitude to the Being 
' who had made so many beautiful things for her.' * * * 
A beautiful tree, or shrub, or flower would fill her with 
delight; she would note with surprising discrimination 
the various effects of the weather on the surrounding 
landscape. A bright starlight night would seem to awa- 
ken a mysterious rapture in her infant bosom." 

Margaret died even younger than Lucretia; being at 
her death but fifteen years and eight months old. The 
wife of Southey (Caroline Bowles) addressed the follow- 
ing beautiful sonnet (1843) "To the Mother of Lucretia 
and Margaret Davidson :" 

" O, lady ! greatly favored ! greatly tried ! 
Was ever glor.v, ever ixrief like thine, 
Siuce hers, the mntlier of Ihe Man divine — 
The pei'fect one — the crowned, the crucified? 
Wonder and joy, high hopes and chastened pride 
Thrilled thee ; intently watching, hour by hour. 
The fast unfolding of each human flower, 
In hues of more than earthly brilliance dyed — 
Aud then, the blight— the fading— the first fear — 
The sickening hope — the doom— the end of all; 
Heart-withering, if indeed all ended here. 
But from the dnst, the coffin, and the pall, 
^lother bereaved ! thy tearful eyes upraise — 
Mother of angels I join their songs of praise !" 



Lucretia's poems, with a memoir by Miss C. M. Sedg- 
wick, were republished 1843; Margaret's poems were in- 
troduced to the public under the kind auspices of Wash- 
ington Irving in 1841; and a revised edition of botii, in 
one volume, appeared in 1850. There was a brother. Lien- 
tenant L.P.Davidson of the United States Army, who also 
wrote verses, and died young. We regard Margaret as 
evincing the superior genius. Among her productions 
is a poem of some fourteen hundred lines, entitled "Le- 
nore." It has a "Dedication" to the spirit of her sis- 
ter, also an "Introduction," both of which we give en- 
tire. They are quite equal to the best work accomplished 
by Chattertou. A volume of selections from the writings 
of Mrs. Davidson, the mother of these gifted children, 
with a preface by Jliss C. M. Sedgwick — all showing no 
ordinary degree of literary ability — appeared in 1844. 



TO MY SISTER. 

Lucretia M. Davidson. 

Lucretia had an elder sister, and was often moved by her 
music; particularly by Moore's " Farewell to my Harp." This 
she would ask to have sung to her at twilight, when it would 
excite a shivering through her whole frame. On one occasion 
she became cold and pale, aud was near fainting, and afterward 
poured her excited feelings forth in the following address. This 
was in her fifteenth ye;u-. See Miss Sedgwick's Memoir. 

When evening spreads her shades around, 
And darkness fills the arch of heaven ; 

When uot a murmur, iiot a sound 
To Fancy's sportive ear is given ; 

When the broad orb of heaven is bright, 
And looks around Tvith golden eye; 

When Nature, softened by her light. 
Seems calmly, solemnly to lie ; 

Then, when onr thoughts are raised above 
This world, and all this world can give, — 

Oh, sister, sing the song I love, 
Aud tears of gratitude receive. 

The song which thrills ray bosom's core. 
And hovering, trembles, half-afraid ; 

O, sister, sing the song once more 

Which ne'er for mortal ear was made ! 

'Twere almost sacrilege to sing 

Those notes amid the glare of day; 

Notes borne by angels' purest wing, 
Aud -wafted by their breath away. 

When sleeping in my grass-grown bed, 
Should'st thou still linger here above, 

Wilt thou not kneel beside my head, 
And, si-ster, sing the song I love ! 



044 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



PROPHECY: TO A LADY. 

LccnETiA 51. Davidson, 

I Lave told a maiden of hours of grief; 
Of a bleediiig lieart, of a joyless life ; 
I have read her a tale of future woe ; 
I have marked her a pathway of sorrow below ; 
I have read on the page of her blooming cheek 
A darker doom than my tongue dare speak. 
Now, maiden, for thee, I will turn my eye 
To a brighter path through futurity. 
The clouds shall pass from thy brow away, 
And bright be the closing of life's long day ; 
The storms shall murmur in silence to sleep, 
And angels around thee their watches shall keep ; 
Thou shalt live in the sunbeams of love and delight, 
And thy life shall flow on till it fades into night : 
And the twilight of age shall come quietly on ; 
Thou wilt feel, yet regret not, that daylight hath 

flown ; 
For the shadows of evening shall melt o'er thy soul, 
And the soft dreams of Heaven around thee shall roll, 
Till sinking in sweet dreamless slumber to rest. 
In the arms of thy loved ouo,8till blessing and blessed, 
Tliy soul shall glide on to its harbor in Heaven, 
Every tear wiped away — every error forgiven! 



DEDICATION OF "LENORE." 

TO THE SPIRIT OF MY SISTER LUCRETIA. 

Yet more remarkable in some respects thau any of the poems 
by Lucretia, is the following, we thiuk, written by Margaret bc- 
ft>re her fifteenth year. 

O thou, so early lost, so long deplored ! 

Pure spirit of ray sister, be thou near ! 
And while I touch this hallowed harp of thine, 

Bend from the skies, sweet sister, bend and hear ! 

For thee I pour this unaffected lay. 

To thee these simple numbers all belong ; 

For though thine earthly form hath passed away. 
Thy memory still inspires my childish song. 

Then take this feeble tribute! 'lis thine own! 

Thy fingers sweep my trembling heart-strings o'er ; 
Arouse to harmony each buried tone, 

And bid its wakened music sleep no more ! 

Long hath thy voice been silent, and thy lyre 
Hung o'er thy grave in death's inibroken rest. 

But when its last sweet tones were borne away, 
One answering echo lingered in ray breast. 



O thon pure spirit ! if thou hoverest near. 

Accept these lines, unworthy though they be, 
Faint echoes from thy fount of song diviue, 

By thee inspired, and dedicate to thee. 



JOY. 

Margaret 51. Davidson. 

Oh ! my bosom is throbbing with joy, 
AVith a rapture too full to express : 

From within and without I am b!es.sed ; 
And the world, like myself, I would bless. 

All nature looks fair to my eye. 

From beneath and around and above: 

Hope smiles in the clear azure sky. 

And the broad e.arth is glowing with love. 

I stand on the threshold of life. 

On the shore of its wide-rolling sea ; — 

I have heard of its storms and its strife, 
But all things are traurinil to me. 

There's a veil o'er the future, — 'tis bright 

As the wing of a spirit of air; 
And each form of enchantment and light 

Is trembling in Iris hues there. 

I turu to the world of affection. 

And warm, glowing treasures are mine; — 

To the past, — and my fond recollection 
Gathers roses from memory's shrine. 

But oh! there's a fountain of joy 

More rich than a kingdom beside: 
It is holy ; — death cannot destroy 

The flow of its heavenly tide. 

'Tis the love that is gushing within ; — 

It would bathe the whole world in its light. 

Which the cold stream of time shall not queuch, 
The dark frown of woe shall not blight. 

Though age, with an icy-cold finger, 
May stamp his pale seal on my brow. 

Still, still in ray bosora shall linger 
The glow that is warming it now. 

Youth will vanish, and Pleasure, gay charmer, 
May depart on the wings of to-day; 

But that spot iu my heart shall grow warmer. 
As year after year rolls away. 



LUCRETIA JXD MARGARET DATIDSOX. 



645 



INTRODUCTION TO "LENOEE: A POEM." 

The following, written by Margaret before she was fifteen 
years old, is among the most remarkable of her poems, in vigor 
and maturity of expression. 

Why should / sing ? The scenes T\hich roused 

The bards of old arouse no more ; 
The reigu of Poesy hath passed, 

And all her glowiug dreams are o'er: — 
■\Vhy should I sing? A thousand harps 

Have touched the self-same chords before, 
Of love and hate and lofty pride, 

And fields of battle bathed iu gore ! 
Why should I seek the burning fount 

From -nheuce their glowiug fancies sprung ? 
My feeble muse can only slug 

What other, nobler bards have sung ! 

Thus did I breathe my sad complaint. 

As, bending o'er my silent lyre, 
I sighed for some romantic theme 

Its slumbering music to inspire. 
Scarce had I spoke wheu o'er my soul 

A low, reproving ■whisper came ; 
My heart instinctive shrank witli awe, 

And conscience tinged my cheek with shame. 
"Down with thy vain, repining thoughts! 

Nor dare to breathe those thonghts again ; 
Or endless sleep shall bind thy lyre. 

And scorn repel thy bursting strain ! 

" What thongh a thousand bards have sung 

The charms of earth, of air, or sky ! 
A thousand minstrels, old and young, 

Poured forth their varied melody ! 
What thongh, inspired, they stooped to drink 

At Fancy's fonutain o'er and o'er! 
Say, feeble warbler, dost thou think 

The glowing streamlet flows no more? 
Because a nobler hand hath culled 

The loveliest of our earthly flowers. 
Dost thou belie\-o that all of bloom 

Hath fled those bright, poetic bowers ? 

" Know, then, that long as earth shall roll. 

Revolving 'neath yon azure sky. 
Music shall charm each purer soul, 

And Fancy's fount shall never dry ! 
Long as the rolling seasons change. 

And Nature holds her empire here; 
Long as the human eye can range 

O'er yon pure heaven's expanded sphere ; 



Long as the ocean's broad expanse 

Lies spread beneath yon broader sky ; 
Long as the jilayful mooubeams dance, 
Like fairy forms, on billows high, — 

"So long, Hubound by mortal chain. 

Shall Genius spread her soaring wing ; 
So long the pure, poetic fount 

Unchecked, unfettered, on shall spring ! 
Thou say'st the days of song have passed, — ■ 

The glowing days of wild romance. 
When War poured out his clarion blast, 

And Valor bowed at Beauty's glance! 
When evcrji hour that onward sped 

Was fraught with some bewildering tale ; 
Wheu Superstition's shadowy hand 

O'er trembling nations cast her veil ; — 

"Thou say'st that life's unvaried stream 

In peaceful ripples wears away ; 
And years produce no fitting theme 

To rouse the Poet's slumbering lay : — 
Not so ! while yet the hand of God 

Each year adorns his teeming earth ; 
While dew-drops deck the verdant sod. 

And birds and bees and flowers have birth ; 
While every day unfolds anew 

Some charm to meet the searching eye ; 
While buds of every varying hue 

Arc bursting 'ucath a summer sky ! 

"'Tis true that War's unsparing hand 

Hath ceased to bathe our fields in gore. 
That Fate hath quenched his burning brand, 

And tyrant princes reign no more ; — 
But dost thou think that scenes like these 

Form all the poetry of life f 
Would thy untutored muse delight 

In scenes of rapine, blood, and strife ? 
No! there are boundless fields of thought, 

Where ro\-ing spirit never soared ; 
Which wildest Fancy never sought, 

Nor boldest Intellect explored! 

"Then bow not silent o'er thy lyre, 

But tune its chords to Nature's praise : 
At every turn thine eye shall meet 

Fit themes to form a Poet's lays! 
Go forth, prepared her sweetest smiles 

In all her loveliest scenes to view ; 
Nor deem, though others there have knelt. 

Thou may'st not weave thy garland too!" 



646 



CYCLOPJEDU OF JilUTISH AND AMEllICAN POETRY. 



— It paused: I felt Imw true the words, 
How sweet tlic comfort they conveyed ! 

I chased my uiouriiiiig thoughts away — 
I lieard — I trusted — I oheyed! 



FROM "LIXES TO LUCRETIA." 

Of the poem, written by ]M:irgaret Davidson wlien she wns 
not fourteen j-ears old, from which we here give an extract, 
^Vashington Irving remarks: " We may have read poetry more 
ariificially perfect in its structure, but never any more trnly 
divine iu its inspiration." 

My sister! with this mortal eye, 
I ne'er shall see thy form agtjiu ; 

And never shall this mortal car 

Drink in the sweetness of thy strain : 



Yet fancy wild, aiul glowing Inve, 
Reveal thee to my spirit's view, 

Enwreathed with graces from ahove. 

And decked iu Heaven's own fadeless hue. 

I hear thee in the summer breeze, 
See thee in all that's pure or fair ; 

Thy whisper iu the murmuring trees, 
Thy breath, thy spirit everywhere! 

Thy lingers wake my youthful lyre, 
Aiul teach its softer strains to flow ; 

Thy spirit checks each vain desire, 
And gilds the lowering bi'ow of woe. 

When all is still, and fancy's realm 

Is opeuing to the eager view, 
Mine eye full oft, in search of thee. 

Roams o'er that vast expanse of bine. 

I know that here thy harp is mute. 
And fiuenched the bright poetic tire ; 

Yet still I iM'ud my ear to catch 
The hymnings of thy seraph lyre. 

Oh ! if this partial converse now 

So joyous to my heart can be. 
How must the streams of rapture flow 

When both are chainless, both are free! 



Caroline 3\''iDrtou. 

Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Sheridan (1808-18T7),(laiigli- 
tcr of Thomas Sheridan, son of the cclebrntud Richard 
Brinslcy Slieridaii, author of "The Rivals," "The School 
for Scandal," etc., was a native of London. She was one 



of three sisters ; one became Lady Seymour, and the oth- 
er Mrs. Blaclcwood (afterward Lady DiiiTerin). They all 
manifested a taste for poetry. Caroline began to write 
earl3'; she had inherited the literary gift both from the 
paternal and the matei-nal side. In her nineteenth year 
she married Mr. Norton, son of Lord Grantley. Tliis 
union was dissolved iu 1840, after Mrs. Norton had been 
the object of suspicion and persecution of the most pain- 
ful description. "The Sorrows of Rosalie," "The Un- 
dying One," "Tlie Dream, and other Poems," "The 
Child of the Islands," are among her productions in 
verse. She also wrote novels, and entered into political 
discussions on reformatory questions. A year or two 
before her death she married Sir "William Sterling Max- 
well (1817-1879), author of "The Cloister Life of Charles 
V." (1852), and other works. A critic in the QuarltrUj 
lieview says of Mrs. Norton : " She has much of that in- 
tense personal passion by which Byron's poetry Is dis- 
tini;uished from tlie larger grasp and deeper eommuuiou 
with nature of Wordsworth." 



BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 

A soldier of the Legion, 

Lay dying at Algiers; 
There was lack of woman's uursing. 

There was dearth of woman's tears ; 
But a comrade stood beside him. 

While his life-blood ebbed away, 
And bent with pitying glances 

To hear what he might say. 
The dying soldier faltered 

As he took that comrade's hand, 
Aud ho said,"! never more shall see 

My own, my native laud ; 
Take a message and a token 

To some distant frieuds of mine; 
For I was born at Bingen, 

Fair Bingen on the Rhine. 

"Tell my brothers and companions, 

When they meet and crowd around 
To hear ray mournful story. 

In the pleasant vineyard ground, 
That we fought the battle bravely ; 

Aud when the day was done, 
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale 

Beneath the setting sun ; 
And 'mid the dead aud dying 

Were some grown old iu wars, 
The death-wound on their gallant breasts, 

The last of many scars ; 
But .some were yonug, and suddenly 

Beheld life's moru decline ; 
And one had come from Bingen, 

From Bingeu on the Rhine. 



CAROLINE NOUTOX. 



647 



"Tell my mother tbat her other sous 

Shall comfort her old age, 
Aud I was aye a truant hird 

That tliougUt Ills home a cage ; 
For my father was a soldier, 

And, eveu as a child, 
My heart leaped forth to Lear him tell 

Of struggles fierce aud wild ; 
And wheu he died, aud left us 

To divide his scanty hoard, 
I lot them take whate'er they would, 

But kept my father's sword; 
Aud with boyish love I hung it 

Where the bright light used to shine, 
Ou the cottage wall at Biugen — 

Calm Biugeu ou the Rhine! 

" Tell my sister not to weep for me, 

Aud sob with drooping head, 
When the troops are marching home again, 

With glad and gallaut tread! 
But to look upon them proudly. 

With a calm and steadfast eye. 
For her brother was a soldier. 

And not afraid to die. 
And if a comrade seek her love, 

I ask her in my name, 
To listen to him kindly, 

Without regret or shame. 
And hang the old sword in its place, 

(Jly father's sword aud mine,) 
For the honor of old Biugen, 

Dear Bingeu ou the Rhine. 

" There's another, not a sister — 

In the happy days gone by 
You'd have known her by the merriment 

That sparkled iu her eye ; 
Too iuuoceut for coquetry. 

Too fond for idle scorniug — 
Oh ! friend, I fear the lightest heart 

Makes sometimes heaviest mouruiug ! 
Tell her the last night of my life — 

For ere the moru be risen 
My body will be out of pain, 

My soul be out of prison — 
I dreamed that I stood with her 

And saw the yellow sunlight shiue 
Ou the vine-clad Mils of Biugeu, 

Fair Biugeu ou the Rhiue. 

" I saw the blue Rhiue sweep along ; 
I heard, or seemed to hear. 



The German songs we used to sing, 

In chorus sweet aud clear ; 
Aud down the pleasant river, 

And up the slanting hill 
That echoing chorus sounded 

Through the eveuiug calm and still ; 
And her glad blue eyes were on me. 

As we passed with friendly talk, 
Down many a path beloved of yore, 

Aud well-remembered walk ; 
Aud her little hand lay lightly. 

Confidingly iu mine — 
But we'll meet no more at Biugen, 

Loved Biugeu on the Rhiue." 

His voice grew faint and hoarser. 

His grasp was childish weak. 
His eyes put on a dying look, 

He sighed, and ceased to speak ; 
His comrade bent to lift him. 

But the spark of life had fled — 
The soldier of the Legion 

In a foreign land was dead ! 
And the soft moon rose up slowly. 

And calmly she looked down 
On the red sand of the battle-field. 

With bloody corses strewn — 
Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene, 

Her pale light seemed to shino 
As it shone ou distant Biugeu, 

Fair Biugen ou the Rhine! 



THE CHILD OF EARTH. 

Fainter her slow step falls from day to day. 

Death's hand is heavy ou her darkening brow ; 
Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, aud say, 

"I am content to die, but oh, not now! 
Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring 

Make the warm air such luxury to breathe ; 
Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing; 

Not while bright flowers around my footsteps 
wreathe. 
Sp.are me, great God, lift up my drooping brow ! 
I am content to die — but oh, not now!" 

The spring hath rii)eued into sunmier-time. 
The season's viewless boundary is past ; 

The glorious sun hath reached his burning prime ; 
Oh ! must this glimpse of beauty be the last ? 

"Let me not perish while o'er land aud lea, 
With silent steps the lord of light moves on ; 



648 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Nor while the miirniur of the mouutain bee 

Greets my dull ear with music in its tone! 
Pale sickness ilinis my eye, autl clouils my brow ; 
I am content to die — but oh, not now !" 

Summer is gone, and autumn's soberer hues 

Tiut the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn ; 
The huntsman swift the flying game pursues, 

Shouts the halloo, and winds his eager horn. 
"Spare mo awhile to wander forth and gaze 

On the broad meadows and the quiet stream, 
To watch iu silence while the evening rays 

Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam ! 
Cooler the breezes play around my brow ; 
I am content to die — but oh, not now !'' 

The bleak wind whistles, snow-showers, far and near, 

Drift without echo to the whitening ground ; 
Autumn hath passed away, and, cold and drear. 

Winter stalks on, with frozen mantle bound. 
Yet still that praj^er ascends: — "Oh! laughingly 

My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd. 
Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, aud higli, 

And the roof rings with voices glad ami loud ; 
Spare me awhile ! raise up mj' drooping brow ! 
I am content to die — but oh, not now!" 

Tlie spring is oome again — the joyful spring! 

Again the banks with clustering flowers are 
spread ; 
The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing — 

The child of earth is numbered with the dead! 
" Thee never more the suushiue shall awake, 

Beamiug all redly through the lattice-pano; 
The steals of friends thy slumbers may not break, 

Nor fond familiar voice arouse again ! 
Death's silent shadow veils thy darkened brow ; 
Why didst thou linger? — thou art happier now!" 



TO MY BOOKS. 

Mrs. Norton preferred to write her sonnets in tlie " Shnlvspea- 
ri.in stanza," as, to her miu(], "abetter Engl isli model tliau that 
adopted by Milton." 

Silent companions of the lonely hour. 
Friends, who can never alter or forsake ! 
Who, for inconstant roving have no power, 
And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take, — 
Let me return to you : this turmoil ending 
Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought, 
Aud o'er your old familiar pages bending 
Eefresh my mind with many a tranquil thought I — 



Till, haply meeting there, from time to time, 
Fancies, the audible echo of my own, 
'Twill be like hearing iu a foreign clime 
My native language, spoke in friendly tone, 
Aud with a sort of welcome I shall dwell 
On these, my unripe musings; told so well! 



LOVE NOT. 

Love not, love not, ye hapless sous of clay ! 

Hope's gayest wreatlis are made of earthly flowers — 
Things that are made to fade and fall away, 

Ere thej' have blossomed for a few short hours. 

Love not, love not ! The thing you love may change. 
The rosy lip may cease to smile on you ; 

Tlie kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange. 
The heart still warmly beat, yet not bo true. 

Love not, love not ! The thing you love may die — 
May perish from the gay and gladsome earth; 

The silent stars, the blue and smiliug sky. 
Beam on its grave as once upon its birth. 

Love not, love not! Oh warning vainly said 
In present hours as iu the years gone by ; 

Love flings a halo round the dear one's head, 
Faultless, immortal — till they change or die. 



THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. 

Word was brought to the Danish King 

(ffio-n/.') 
Tbat the love of his heart lay suft'ering, 
j\ud pined for the comfort his voice would bring; 

{Oh! ride as though you were flijUuj '.) 
Better he loves each golden curl 
On the brow of that Scandinavian girl, 
Th.an his rich crown-jewels of ruby and pearl: 
Aud his Rose of the Isles is dying! 

Thirty nobles saddled with speed; 

(Hm-ry !) 
Each one mounting a gallant steed. 
Which he kept for battle and days of need ; 

(Oh! ride as though you were flying !) 
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank — 
Worn-ont chargers staggered and sank — 
Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst — 
But ride as they would, the King rode first, 
For his Rose of the Isles lay dying! 



CAROUSE NORTON.— CHARLES (^TENNYSON) TURNER. 



649 



His uobles are beaten, one by oue, 

{Hurry!) 
They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone ; 
His little fair page now follows aloue — 

For strength and for courage trying! 
The King looked back at that faithful child ; 
Wan was the face that answering smiled ; 
They passed the drawbridge with clattering din. 
Then he dropped ; and only the King rode in 
Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying ! 

The King blew a blast ou his bngle-horu ; 

{Silence !) 
No answer came ; but faint and forlorn 
An echo returned on the cold gray morn, 
Like the breath of a spirit sighing. 
The castle portal stood grimly wide ; 
None welcomed the King from that weary ride ; 
For dead, in the light of the dawning day, 
The pale sweet form of tlie welcomer lay, 
Who had yearned for his voice while dying ! 

The panting steed, with a drooping crest, 

Stood wear}- ! 
The King returned from her chamber of rest, 
The thick sobs choking in his breast, 

And, that dumb compauiou eying — 
The tears gushed forth Tvhich he strove to check. 
He bowed his head ou his charger's neck — 
" O steed ! that every nerve didst str.ain, 
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain 
To the halls where my love lay dying !" 



(Uljarks (Scnnysou) (aurner. 

Charles Tennyson (1808-1879), a native of Somersby, 
Lincolnshire, was educated, like his illustrious brother, 
AllVed, at tlie Grammar School of Louth, from which the 
two youths put forth iu 1827 "Poems by Two Brothers." 
Subsequently tlicy removed to Trinity College, Cam- 
bridge, where another brother, Frederick, the eldest, lu\d 
preceded them. Some time after leaving college, Charles, 
for family reasons, assumed his grandmother's name of 
Turner. In 1836 he took holy orders, and became Vicar 
of Grasby. He published (1830) "Sonnets and Fugitive 
Pieces." Of the sonnets, Coleridge says, in his "Table- 
Talk," they " have many of the characteristic excellences 
of those of Wordsworth and Southcy." A second vol- 
ume was issued in 1804; a third in 1808; in 1873, "Son- 
nets, Lyrics, and Trauslations ;" and in 1880, a posthu- 
mous volume of Turner's collected poems. His sonnets 
have the charm of unambitious simplicity and concrete 
clearness. In one of them, addressed (1868) to Ids brother 
Alfred, the poet-laureate, he pays the following beautiful 



and affectionate tribute to the "In Memoriam" of the 

latter ; 

" Ttiat book of memory 
Which is to grieving hearts like the sweet soulli 
To the parched meadow, or the dying tree ; 
Which fills with elegy the craving mouth 
Of sorrow — slakes with song her piteous drouth, 
Aud leaves her calm, though weepiug silently." 



MORNING. 

It is the fairest sight iu Nature's realms 

To see ou summer morning, dewy-sweet, 

That very type of freshuess, the greeu wheat, 

Surging through shadows of the hedge-row elms ; 

How tho eye revels iu the many shapes 

And colors which the risen day restores ! 

How the wind blows the poppy's scarlet capes 

About his urn ! and how the lark upsoars ! 

Not like the timid corn-crake scudding fast 

From his own voice, he with him takes his song 

Heavenward, then striking sideways, shoots along, — 

Happy as sailor-boy that, from the mast, 

Runs out upon the yard-arm, — till at last 

He sinks into his uest, those clover tufts among. 



THE LATTICE AT SUNRISE. 

As on my bed at dawn I mused aud prayed, 

I saw my lattice prankt upon the wall. 

The flaunting leaves and flitting birds withal, — 

A sunny phantom interlaced with shade. 

" Thanks be to Heaven," iu happy mood, I said ; 

" What sweeter aid my matins could befall 

Thau this fair glory from the East hath made ? 

What holy sleights hath God, the Lord of all, 

To bid us feel and see ! Wo are not free 

To say we see not, for tho glory comes 

Nightly and daily, like the flowing sea : 

His lustre pierceth through the midnight glooms; 

And, at prime hour, behold. He follows me 

With goldeu shadows to my secret rooms!" 



A BRILLIANT DAY. 

O, keen pellucid air ! nothing can lurk 

Or disavow itself on this bright day ; 

The small rain-plashes shine from far away. 

The tiny emmet glitters at his work ; 

The bee looks blithe and gay, aud as she plies 

Her ttisk, aud moves and sidles rouud the cup 

Of this spring flower, to drink its honey up. 

Her glassy w ings, like oars that dip aud rise, 



650 



CYCLOFMDIA OF BRITISH JXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Gleam momently. Pure-bosomed, clear of fog, 
The long lake glistens, ■nbile the glorious beam 
Bespangles the ivet joints and floating leaves 
Of water-plants, whose every point receives 
His light ; and jellies of the spawning frog, 
Unmarked before, like piles of jewels seem ! 



LETTY'S GLOBE. 

ON SO.ME IRREGULARITIES IN A FIIiST LESSON IN 
GEOGRAPHY. 

When Letty had scarce passed her third glad year. 

And her young artless ■words began to flow. 

One day we gave the child a colored sphere 

Of the wide Earth, that she might mark and know 

By tint and outline all its sea and laud. 

She patted all the world; old empires peeped 

Between her baby-fingers ; her soft hand 

Was welcome at all frontiers ; how she leaped. 

And laughed, aud prattled, in her pride of bliss ! 

But when we turned her sweet nulearudd eye 

Ou our own Isle, she raised a joyous cry, 

" Oh yes ! I see it, Letty's home is there !" 

And while she hid all England with a kiss. 

Bright over Europe fell her golden hair. 



^oratius 33onar. 



Bonar (1808-1869), a distinguished evangelical hymn- 
writer, was a native of Edinburgh. His ancestors for 
eereral successive generations were ministers of the 
Church of Scotland. EtUicatcd at the University of 
Edinburgh, and ordained to the ministry at Kelso in 
18.37, he was the author of several theological works. 
Latterly he ministered to the Chalmers Memorial Free 
Church, Edinburgh. Ills poetical woi'ks consist of his 
"LyraConsolationis," and "Hymns of Faitli and Hope," 
of which a third series has been published. 



HOW TO LIVE. 

lie liveth long who livetli well! 

All other life is short aud vain: 
He liveth longest who can tell 

Of living mo.st for heavenly gain. 

He liveth long who liveth well! 

All else is being flung away ; 
He liveth longest who can tell 

Of true things truly done each day. 

Waste not thy being ; back to Him 
Who freely gave it, freely give ; 



Else is that being but a dream : 
'Tis but to 6c, and not to live. 

Be what thon secmest ! live thy creed! 

Hold up to earth the torch divine ; 
Be what thon prayest to be made ; 

Let the great Master's steps be thine. 

Fill np each hour w ith what will last ; 

Bny up the moments as they go : 
The life above, when this is past, 

Is the ripe fruit of life below. 

Sow truth, if thou the true wonldst reap ; 

Who sows the false shall reap the vain ; 
Erect and sound thy conscieuce keep : 

From hollow words aud deeds refrain. 

Sow love, aud taste its fruitage pure ; 

Sow peace, aud reap its harvests bright ; 
Sow sunbeams ou the rock aud moor. 

And find a harvest-homo of light. 



THE INNER CALM. 

Calm me, my God, aud keep me calm, 
While these hot breezes blow : 

Be like the night-dew's cooling balm 
Upon earth's fevered brow. 

Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, 

Soft resting on thy breast ; 
Soothe mo with holy hymn and psalm, 

And bid my spirit rest. 

Calm me, my God, and keep me calm ; 

Let thine outstretched wing 
Be like the sliado of Elim's palm 

Beside her desert spring. 

Yes, keep mo calm, though loud and rude 
The sounds my ear that greet ; 

Calm in the closet's solitude. 
Calm in the bustling street ; 

Calm in the hour of buoyant healtJ, 

Calm in the hour of pain ; 
Calm in my poverty or we.alth, 

Calm in my loss or gain ; 

Calm in the sufferance of wrong, 
Like Ilim who bore my shame} 



WILLIAM I). GALLAGHER. 



651 



Calm 'mid the threateuiug, taunting throng, 
AVlao bate thy holy name. 

Calm -when the great world's news with power 

My listening spirit stir : 
Let not the tidings of the hour 

E'er find too fond an ear. 

Calm as the ray of snn or star, 

Which storms assail in vain, 
Moving unrnffled through earth's war 

The eternal calm to gain ! 



lUilliam D. (P>allagil)cr. 

AMERICAN. 
Gallagher was born in 180S in Philadelphia, but went 
Wust at an early age, loarnetl the trade of a printer, and 
betanie connected with various journals, literary and 
political. He held several offices of trust under govern- 
ment; but in 1853 retired to a farm near Louisville, Ky. 
His Western b.allads and some of his lyrical pieces entitle 
bini to an honorable place among the natural poets who 
sin^ with the spontancousncss of the bird. Esteemed for 
his liigh personal qualities, Gallaslier is one of the best 
representatives of tlie American cliaracter in literature. 



FROM "MY FIFTIETH YEAR.'" 

Beautiful, beautiful youth! that in the soul 
Liveth forever, where sin liveth not, — 

How fresh Creation's chart doth still unroll 
Before our eyes, although the little spot 

That knows us now shall know us soon no more 

Forever ! We look bacljward and before, 
And inward, and wo feel there is a life 

Impelling us, that need not with this frame 

Or tlesh grow feeble, hut for aye the same 
May live on, o'eu amid this worldly strife. 

Clothed with the beauty and the freshness still 

It brought with it at first ; and that it will 
Glide almost imperceptibly away. 
Taking no taint of this dissolving clay; 

And, joining with the incorrnptilde 
And spiritual body that awaits 
Its coming at the starred and golden gates 

Of Heaven, move on with the celestial train 
Whose shining vestments, as along they stray. 
Flash with the splendors of eternal day; 

And mingle with its Primal Source again, 

Where Faith, Hope, Charity, aud Love and Truth, 
Dwell with the Godhead in immortal youth. 

' Coiitiibnted to Coggeshall's " Poete nud Poetry of the West " 
(Columbus, Oliio, lS6n). 



LINES. 

When last the maple hud was swelling. 

When last the crocus bloomed below. 
Thy heart to mine its love was telliug ; 

Thy soul with mine kept ebb aud flow : 
Again the maple bud is swelling, 

Again the crocus blooms below: — 
In heaven thy heart its love is telling. 

But still our souls keep ebb and flow. 

When last the April bloom was flinging 

Sweet oilors on the air of Spring, 
In forest aisles thy voice was ringing, 

Where thou didst with the red-bird sing. 
Again the April bloom is flinging 

Sweet odors on the air of Spring, 
But now in heaven thy voice is ringing, 

Where thou dost with the angels sing. 



THE LABORER. 

Stand up — erect ! Thou hast the form 
And likeness of thy God ! — who more ? 

A soul as dauntless 'mid the storm 

Of daily life, a heart as warm 
And pure as breast e'er wore. 

What then ? — Thou art as true .a man 
As moves the human mass among ; 
As much a part of the great jilau. 
That with creation's dawn began. 
As any of the throng. 

Who is thine enemy ? the high 

In station, or in wealth the chief? 
The great, who coldly pass thee by, 
With proud step and averted eye? 
Nay! nurse not such belief. 

If true unto thyself thou wast. 

What were the proud one's scorn to thee ? 
A feather, which thou mightest cast 
Aside, as idly as the blast 

The light leaf from the tree. 

No: — uncurbed passions, low desires, 

Aliseuce of noble self-respect. 
Death, in the breast's consuming tires. 
To that high nature which a.spires 

Forever, till thus checked ; 



652 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



These are thine enemies — thy ^vo^st ; 

They chaiu thee to thy lowly lot: 
Thy labor and thy life accursed. 
Oh, stand erect ! and from them bnrst ! 

And longer suffer not ! 

Thou art thyself thine enemy ! 

The great ! — what better they than thou i 
As theirs, is not thy will as free ? 
Has God with equal favors thee 

Neglected to endow ? 

True, wealth thou hast not — 'tis but dust! 

Nor place — uncertain as the wind! 
But that thou hast, which, with thy crust 
And water, may desiiise the lust 

Of both — a noble mind ! 

With this, and passions under ban, 
True faith, and holy trust in God, 

Thou art the peer of any man. 

Look up, then, that thy little span 
Of life may be well trod ! 



FROM "MIAMI WOODS." 

The autnmn-time is with us! Its ajiproach 
Was heralded, not many days ago, 
By hazy skies that veiled the brazen sun. 
And sea-like murmurs from the rustling corn, 
And low-voiced brooks tliat wandered drowsily 
By purpling clusters of the juicy grape, 
Swinging upon the vine. And now 'tis here ! 
And what a change hath passed upon the face 
Of Nature, where the waving forest spreads. 
Then robed in deepest green ! All through the night 
The subtle frost hath plied its mystic art ; 
And in the day the golden sun hatli wrought 
True wonders; and the winds of morn and even 
Have touched with magic breath the changing 

leaves. 
And now, as wanders the dilating eye 
Athwart the varied landscape, circling far, 
What gorgeousness, what blazonry, what pomp 
Of colors bursts upon the ravished sight! 
Hero, where tlio maple rears its yellow crest, 
A golden glory : yonder, where the oak 
Stands monarch of tlio forest, and the ash 
Is girt with flame-like parasite, and broad 
The dog-wood spreads beneath, a rolling field 
Of deepest crimson ; and afar, where looms 
The gnarldd gum, a cloud of bloodiest red ! 



Out in the woods of Autumn ! — I have cast 
Aside the shackles of tlie town, tliat vex 
Tlie fetterless soul, and come to hide myself, 
Miami ! in thy venerable shades. 
Low on thy bank, where spreads the velvet moss, 
My limbs recline. Beneath me, silver-bright, 
Glide the clear waters, with a plaintive moan 
For summer's parting glories. High o'erhead. 
Seeking the sedgy lakes of the warm South, 
Sails tireless the unerring water-fowl, 
Screaming anmug the cloud-racks. Oft from whore, 
Erect on mossy trunk, the partridge stands. 
Bursts suddenly the whistle clear and loud. 
Far-echoing through the dim wood's fretted aisles. 
Deep murmurs from the trees, bending with brown 
And ripened mast, are interruiited now 
By sounds of dropi^ing nuts ; and warily 
The turkey from the thicket comes, and swift. 
As flies au arrow, darts the pheasant down. 
To batten on the autumn ; and the air, 
At times, is darkened by a sudden rush 
Of myriad wings, as the wild pigeon leads 
His squadrons to the banquet. 



(Dliucv lUciiLicll tjolmci; 



Holmes was born in Cambridge, Mass., in ISOO. .ind ed- 
ucated at Harvard College, where lie graduated in 1S29. 
His father, tlie Rev. Abdiel Holmes, w.is the author of 
"American Annals" (1805). Our poet studied medicine 
aliroad some three years. He received his degree of M.D. 
ill 183G, and in 1847 was appointed Professor of Anatomy 
in Harvard College— succeeding Dr. Warren. As a lect- 
urer on medical science, he was dislinguislied and popu- 
lar. Indeed his scientific tastes seem to have equalled 
his literary. As a microscopist he has had few superiors 
in America. Holmes began to publish poetry in The C'ul- 
hyiau (1830), a magazine somewhat on the plan of The 
E/oiiiuii, and containing pieces from John O. Sargent, 
William H. Simmons, and otlier undergraduates of Har- 
vard ; also from Epes Sargent. Here some of the witti- 
est of Holmes's early poems appeared. He contributed 
to the 3'tw Enijland Magazine (1830) certain luinioi-ous 
iiapers, entitled "The Autocrat of llie BreaUfast-table." 
These he resumed, some twenty years afterward, in the 
Atlantic Monthhj, and the result was the wittiest book 
by which American literature had yet been distinguished. 
II has been as much a favorite in England as in his own 
country, and has been translated into German. He sub- 
sequently contributed two novels, "Elsie Venncr" and 
"The Guardian Angel," to the Atlantic Monthly. 

The first collection of his poems was published in Bos- 
ton in 1836; a second appeared in 1848; and collections 
were published in England in 184.5, ISa'i, 1853, and 1S78. A 
complete American collection appeared in 1877. Holmes's 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 



653 



strength lies in his lyries and his short poems. Indeed, 
he has attempted no sustained flight of an epic or dra- 
matic character. In his " Astr;ea" and other rhymed 
essaj-s he shows a mastery of the heroic measure, not ex- 
celled by Pope or Goldsmith in its vigorous but melliflu- 
ous flow. He belongs, however, neither to the old nor 
the new school of verse. He has created a school of liis 
own. In no poet of the day is the individuality more 
marked. In his poems of wit, humor, and pathos, whicli 
form the larger part of his productions, he reminds us of 
no predecessor or contemporary ; and in his serious po- 
ems, like " The Nautilus," ho is fresh and original, never 
imitative iu style and thouglit. These qualities give to 
his verse enduring elements, which must commend them 
to a late posterity, equally with the works of the most 
eminent poets among his contemporaries, English and 
American. In his prose and in his poetry his wit has 
never a taint of coarseness or asperity. Brilliant, inci- 
sive, and delicate in style, it attains its end only by means 
the most pure and legitimate. Happy in his domestic 
and pate;nal relations, and in his host of friends, few 
poets have had so smooth a lot as Holmes, or such a 
foretaste of that posthumous fame which his writings 
must command. His seventieth birthday called forth a 
grand entertainment given by his Boston publishers, at 
which many of the leading men and women of letters iu 
the country were present. 



BILL AND JOE. 

Come, dear, old comrade, you and I 
Will steal an hour from days gone by,— 
The sliiuing days when life was new, 
And all was blight with morning dew, — 
The lusty dajs of long ago, 
When you were Bill and I was Joe. 

Your name may flaunt a titled trail, 
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail; 
And mine as brief appendi.x wear 
As Tarn O'Sbantcr's luckless mare ; 
To-day, old friend, remember still 
That I am Joe, and you are Bill. 

You've won the great world's envied prize, 

And grand you look in people's eyes, 

With HON and L L D 

In big brave letters, fair to see, — 

Your fist, old fellow ! off they go ! — 

How are you, pill ? How are yon, Joe ? 

You've won the judge's ermined robe ; 
You've taught your name to half the globe ; 
You've sung maiikiud a deathless strain; 
You've made the dead past live again: 
The world may call you what it will. 
But you and I are Joe and Bill. 



The chaffing young folks stare and say, 
"See those old buffers, bent and gray, — 
They talk like fellows in their teens! 
Mad, poor old boys ! That's what it means,"- 
And shake their heads ; they little know 
The throbbing hearts of Bill aud Joe! — 

How Bill forgets his hour of pride. 
While Joe sits smiling at his side ; 
How Joe, iu spite of time's disguise, 
Finds the old school-mate iu his eyes, — 
Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill. 
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill. 

Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame ? 

A fitful tongue of leaping flame ; 

A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust. 

That lifts a pinch of mortal dust ; 

A few swift years, and who can show 

Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe? 

The weary idol takes his stand. 

Holds out his bruised and aching hand, 

While gaping thousands come and go, — 

How vain it seems, this empty show! — 

Till all at once his pulses thrill ; — 

'Tis poor old Joe's "God bless you, Bill!" 

Aud shall we breathe in happier spheres 
The names that pleased our mortal ears, 
Iu some sweet lull of harp and song 
For earth-born spirits none too long, 
Just whisperiug pf the world below 
Where this was Bill aud that was Joe? 

No matter; while our home is here. 
No sounding name is half so dear; 
When fades at length our liugeriug day, 
Who cares what pompous tombstones say ? 
Head on the hearts that love us still, 
Bic jacet Joe. Sic jacct Bill. 



OLD IRONSIDES. 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 

Long has it waved on high, 
And many an eye has danced to see 

That banner iu the sky ; 
Beueath it rung the battle-shout, 

Aud burst the canuou's roar; — 
The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more ! 



654 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEBICAX POETRY. 



Her deck, once red witli lieioes' blood, 

Where knelt the vanquished foe. 
When winds were liiiirying o'er the flood, 

And waves were white below. 
No more shall feel the victor's tread, 

Or know the conqnered knee ; — 
Tlio harpies of the shore sliall pluck 

The eagle of the sea ! 

Oh, better that her shattered hulk 

Should sink beneath the wave ; 
Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 

And there should be her grave; 
Nail to the mast her holy tlag. 

Sot every threadbare sail, 
And give her to the god of storms, — 

The lightning and the gale ! 



RUDOLPH, THE HEADSMAN. 

Rudolph, professor of the headsman's trade, 
Alike was famous for his arm and blade. 
One day, a prisoner justice had to kill 
Kuelt at the block to test the artist's skill. 
Bare -armed, swart- visaged, gaunt and shaggy- 
browed, 
Rudolph the headsman rose above the crowd. 
His falchion lightened with a sudden gleam. 
As the pike's armor tlashes in the stream. 
He sheathed his blade ; he turned as if to go ; 
The victim knelt, still waiting for the blow. 
" Why strikest not ? Perform thy murderous act," 
The prisoner said. (His voice was slightly cracked.) 
" Friend, I hare struck," the artist straight replied ; 
"Wait but one moment, and yourself decide." 
He held his snuff-box, — " Now, then, if you please !" 
The prisoner sniffed, and, with a crashing sneeze, 
Off his head tumbled, — bowled along the floor, — 
Bounced down the steps ; — the prisoner said no more. 



NEARING THE SNOW-LINE. 

Slow toiling upward from the misty vale, 

I leave the bright enamelled zones below; 

No more for me their beauteous bloom shall glow, 

Tlieir lingering sweetness load the morning gale ; 

Few are the slender flowerets, scentless, pale, 

That on their ice-clad stems all trenibling blow 

Along the margin of unmelting snow; 

Yet witli nusaddened voice thy verge I hail, 

White rc'alm of peace above the flowering-line ; 



Welcome thy frozen domes, thy rocky spires! 
O'er thee undimmed the moon-girt planets shine, 
On thy majestic altars fade the fires 
That tilled the air with smoke of vain desires, 
And all the unclouded blue of heaven is thine! 



THE CHAilBERED NAUTILUS. 

Dnring Ihe gi-owth of the uautilns, parts of its shell nre pro- 
j^ressiveiy vi\cated,.nud these are successively partitioned uff 
into air-tight chambers. 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign. 

Sails the unshadowed main, — 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare, 
AVhere the cold sea-maids rise to sun their stream- 
ing hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 

Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 

And every chambered cell. 
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell. 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell. 

Before thee lies revealed, — 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 

Tliat spread his lustrous coil ; 

Still, as the spiral grew. 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new, 
Stole with soft step its shining archway through. 

Built up its idle door, 
Stretched in his last-found homo, and knew the old 
no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thi'c, 

Child of the -wandering sea, 

Cast from her lap forlorn ! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is l)orne 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 

While on mine ear it rings, 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice 
that sings: 

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 

As the swift seasons roll! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last. 
Shut thee from heaveu with a dome more vast, 

Till thou at length art free, 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! 



OLIVER WEXDELL HOLMES. 



655 



THE TWO STREAMS. 

Behold the rocky wall 
That down its sloiiiiig sides 
Pours the swift raiu-drops, hleudiug, as they fall, 
la rushing river-tides! 

You stream, whose sources ruu 
Turned by a pebble's edge, 
Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sun 
Through the cleft niouutain-ledge. 

The slender rill had strayed. 
But for the slanting stone. 
To evening's ocean, with the taugled braid 
Of foam-flecked Oregon. 

So from tho heights of Will 
Life's parting stream descends, 
And, as a moment turns its slender rill. 
Each widening torrent bends, — 

From the same cradle's side, 
From the same mother's kuee, — 
One to long darkness and the frozen tide, 
One to tho Peaceful Sea! 



TO JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE. 

I bring the simplest pledge of love, 

Friend of my earlier days ; 
Mine is the hand without the glove, 

The heart-beat, not the i)hrase. 

How few still breathe this mortal air 
We called by scliool-boy names ! 

You still, whatever robe you wear. 
To me are always James. 

That name the kind apostle bore 

Who shames the sullen creeds. 
Not trusting less, but loving more. 

And showing faith by deeds. 

What blending thoughts our memories share I 

What visions youi-s and mine 
Of May-days in whose morning air 

The dews were golden wiue. 

Of vistas liright with opening day. 
Whose all-awakening sun 



Showed in life's landscape, far away, 
The summits to be won! 

The heights are gained. — Ah, say not so 

For him who smiles at time. 
Leaves his tired comrades down below. 

And only lives to climb ! 

His labors, — will they ever cease, — 
With hand and tongue and pen 1 

Shall wearied Nature ask release 
At threescore years and ten ? 

Our strength the clustered seasons tax, — 
For him new life they meau ; 

Like rods around the lictor's axe, 
They keep him bright and keen. 

The wise, the brave, the strong, we know,- 
We mark them here or there, 

But he, — we roll our eyes, and lo ! 
W^e find him cverywhei'e ! 

With truth's bold cohorts, or alone, 
Ho strides through error's field ; 

His lance is ever manhood's own, 
His breast is woman's shield. 

Count not his years while earth has need 
Of souls that Heaven inflames 

With sacred zeal to save, to lead, — 
Long live our dear Saint James ! 
Apiil 4lh, ISSO. 



CONTENTxMENT. 

"Man wants but little here below." 

Little I ask ; my wants are few ; 

I only wish a hut of stone, 
(A very plain brown-stone will do,) 

That I may call my own ; — 
And close at hand is such a one, 
In yonder street that fronts the sun. 

Plain food is quite enough for me ; 

Three courses are as good as ten ; — 
If Nature can subsist on three. 

Thank Heaven for three. Amen ! 
I alw.iys thought cold victual nice ; — 
My choice would be vanilla ice. 

I care not much for gold or land: — 
Give me a mortgage here and there,- 



656 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Some good bank-stock, — some iioto of hand, 

Or trifling railroad share ; — 
I only ask that Fortnue send 
A little more than I shall spend. 

Honors are silly toys, I know, 

And titles are but empty names; — 

I would, perhaps, be Pleuipo, — 
But only near St. James; — 

I'm very sure I should not care 

To fill our Guberuator's chair. 

Jewels are baubles ; 'tis a sin 

To care for such unfruitful things; — 

One good-sized diamond in a pin, — 
Some, not so large, in rings, — ■ 

A ruby, and a pearl, or so, 

Will do for me ; — I laugh at show. 

My dame shall dress in cheap attire 
(Good, heavy silks are never dear) ; — 

I own perhaps I might desire 
Some shawls of true cashmere, — 

Some marrowy cr.ipes of China silk, 

Like wrinkled skius ou scalded milk. 

Of pictures, I should like to own 

Titiaus and R.apliaels three or four, — 

I love so much their style and tone, — 
One Turner, and no more — 

(A landscape, — foreground, golden dirt; 

The sunshine iiainted with a squirt.) 

Of books but few, — some fifty score 
For daily use, and bound for wear; 

The rest upon an upper floor; — 
Some little lu.^nry there 

Of red morocco's gilded gleam, 

And vellum rich as country cream. 

Busts, cameos, gems, — such things as these. 
Which others often show for pride, 

/ value for their power to please, 
And selfish churls deride ; — 

One Stradivarius, I confess, 

Two meerschaums, I would fain possess. 

Wealth's w.astcful tricks I will not Icaru, 
Nor ape the glittering upstart fool ; — 

Shall not carved tables servo my turn. 
But all must be of buhl ? 

Give grasping pomp its double share, — 

I ask but one recumbent chair. 



Thus humble let me live and die. 
Nor long for Midas' golden toneli 

If Heaven more generous gifts deny, 
I shall not miss them much, — 

Too grateful for the blessings lent 

Of simple tastes and mind coutent. 



THE VOICELESS. 

We count the broken lyres that rest 

Where the sweet wailing singers slumber. 
But o'er their silent sister's breast 

The wild flowers who will stoop to number ? 
A few can touch the magic string. 

And noisy fame is proud to win them ; 
Alas for those that never sing, 

But die witli all their music in them ! 

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone. 

Whose song has told their hearts' sad story : 
Weep for the voiceless, who have known 

The cross without the crown of glory ! 
Not where Leucadian breezes sweei> 

O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, 
But where the glistening night-dews weep 

Ou nameless sorrow's church-yard pillow. 

O hearts that break, and give no sign. 

Save whitening lip and fading tresses. 
Till Death pours out his cordial wine. 

Slow-dropped from misery's crushing presses ! 
If singing breath or echoing chord 

To every hidden pang were given. 
What endless melodies were jioured. 

As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven ! 



L'INCONNUE. 

Is thy name Mary, maiden fair? 

Such should, methinks, its music be ; 
The sweetest name that mortals bear, 

Were best befitting thee; 
And she to whom it once was given, 
Was half of earth and half of heaven. 

I hear thy voice, I see thy smile, 
I look upon thy folded hair ; 

Ah! while we dream not they beguile. 
Our heaits are iu the snare ; 

And she, who chains a wihl bird's wing, 

Must start not if her captive sing. 



ALBERT PIKE. 



657 



So, lady, take tbe leaf that falls, 
To all but thee uuseeu, uuknowu; 

When evening shades thy silent walls, 
Then read it all alone ; 

lu stillness read, lu darkness seal, 

Forget, despise, hut not reveal ! 



Qiibtxi |]tkc. 



PiUe was born in Boston in 1809, but his boyhood was 
passed at Newburyport. He entered Harvard College, 
but left before graduating. After teaching school for 
awhile, he went South, and settled in Little Rock, Arkan- 
sas, where he practised law and publislied a newspaper. 
He fought in tlie Mexican War against the Mexicans, and 
in the Civil War on the side of the Confederates. He 
published in 1834 "Prose Sketches and Poems;" and in 
18.54, "NugaB, a Collection of Poems." His " Hymns to 
tlie Gods," in the style of Keats, show a kindred poeti- 
cal gift. 



BUENA VISTA. 

From the Rio Grande's waters to the icy lakes of 

Maine, 
Let all exult! for we have met the enemy again — 
Beneath their steru old mountains, wo have met 

them in their pride. 
And rolled from Biiena Vista back the battle's bloody 

tide : 
AVherc the enemy came surging, like the Mississippi's 

Hood ; [with blood. 

And the reaper, Death, was busy, with his sicl.le red 

Santa Anna boa.stcd loudly that, before two hours 

were past, 
His lancers through Saltillo should pursue us thick 

and fast : 
On canio his solid regiments, line marching after 

line ; 
Lo ! their great .standards in the sun like sheets of 

silver shine ! 
With thousands upon thousands, yea, with more than 

four to one, 
A forest of bright bayonets gleams fiercely in the sun ! 

Upon them with your sqnadrou.s. May ! — Out leaps 
the flaming steel ! 

Before his serried eolnmu how the frightened lan- 
cers reel! 

They flee amain. — Now to the left, to stay their tri- 
umph there, 

Or else the day is surely lost in horror and despair : 
43 



For their hosts are pouring swiftly on, like a river 

iu the spring — 
Our flank is turned, and on our left their cannon 

thundering. 

Now brave artillery ! Bold dragoons ! — Steady, my 

men, and calm! 
Through rain, cold, hail, and thuuder; now nervo 

each gallant arm ! 
What though their shot falls round us here, still 

thicker than the hail ! 
We'll stand against them, as the rock stands firm 

against the gale. 
Lo ! — their battery is silenced now: our iron hail 

still showers : 
They falter, halt, retreat I — -Hurrah! the glorious 

day is ours ! 

Now charge again, Santa Anna! or the day is surely 

lost ; 
For back, like broken waves, along our left yonu 

hordes are tossed. 
Still louder roar two batteries — his strong reserve 

moves on ; — 
More work is there before you, men, ere the good 

fight is won ; 
Now for your wives and children stand! steady, my 

braves, once more ! 
Now for your lives, your honor, fight ! as you never 

fought before. 

Ho! Hardin breasts it bravely! — McKee and Bissell 
there 

Stand firm before the storm of balls that fills the 
astonished air. 

The lancers are upon them, too ! — the foe swarms 
ten to one — 

Hardin is slain — McKee and Clay the last time see 
the sun ; 

And many another gallant heart, iu that last desper- 
ate fray, 

Grew cold, its last thoughts turning to its loved ones 
far away. 

Still snllenly the cannon roared — hut died awny at 

last : [ows fast, 

And o'er the dead and dying came the evening shad- 

And then above the mountains rose the cold moon's 

silver shield, [field ; — 

And patiently and pityingly looked down upon the 

And careless of his wounded, and neglectful of his 

dead, [fled. 

Despairingly and sullen, iu the night, Santa Anna 



f.o3 



CYCLOPEDIA OF liRITISH AND AMERICAN POETET. 



Sijomas illiller. 



Miller (1809-1874) was a native of Gainsborougli, Eng- 
land, " one of the liumble, bapjiy, industrious, self-taught 
sous of genius." He was brought up to the trade of a 
basket-maker ; and while thus obscurely laboring " to 
consort with the Muse and support a family," he at- 
tracted attention by his poetical effusions. He was as- 
sisted by Rogers, the poet, and through hira obtained the 
more congenial employment of a bookseller. He pro- 
duced several novels, and some poems that entitle him 
to honorable mention among tlie poets that have fought 
their way to notice from very humble beginnings. He 
published "A Day in the Woods" (1836), "Gideon Giles, 
the Roper" (1811), "Fair Rosamond," "Lady Jane Grey," 
and other novels ; also several volumes of rural descrip- 
tion, besides contributing largely to periodical literature. 



EVENING SONG. 

How many days with mute adieu 
Have gone down yon nntroddeu sky, 
And still it looks as clear and blue 
As when it flr.st was bung ou high. 
The rolling sun, the frowning cloud 
That drew the lightning in its rear, 
The thunder tramping deep and loud, 
Have left no footmark there. 

The village-bells, with silver chime, 
Come softened by the distant shore ; 
Though I have heard them many a time. 
They never rang so sweet before. 
A silence rests upon the hill, 
A listening awe pervades the air ; 
The very flowers are shut and still, 
And bowed as if iu x>rayer. 

And in this hnslied and breathless close, 
O'er earth and air and sky and sea, 
A still low voice iu silence goes, 
Which speaks alone, great God, of thee. 
The whispering leaves, the far-ofl' brook. 
The linnet's warble faiuter grown. 
The hive-bound bee, the building rook, — 
All these their Maker own. 

Now Nature sinks iu soft repose, 
A living semblance of the grave ; 
The dew steals noiseless on the rose. 
The boughs have almost ceased to wave ; 
The silent sky, the sleeping earth. 
Tree, mountain, stream, the humble sod, 
All tell from whom they had their birth, 
And crv, " Behold a God !" 



^i^niircu) Woung. 



Young, a native of Edinburgh, was born about 1809. 
His father was a successful teacher, and Andrew followed 
the same occupation for a time. The following sacred 
song from his pen, composed early in life, appears as 
anonymous in many collections. 



THE HAPPY LAND. 

There is a hapiiy land, 

Far, far away. 
Where saints in glory stand, 

Bright, bright as day. 
Oh, how they sweetly sing, 
Worthy is our Saviour King; 
Loud let bis praises ring — 

Praise, praise for aye. 

Come to this happy laud. 

Come, come away ; 
Why will ye doubting stand, 

Why still delay ? 
Oh, we shall happy be. 
When, from sin and sorrow free. 
Lord, we shall live with Thee — 

Blest, blest for aye. 

Bright in that happy land 

Beams every eye : 
Kept by a Father's hand. 

Love canuot die. 
On then to glory run ; 
Be a crown and kingdom wou ; 
And bright above the sun, 

Reign, reigu for aye. 



Hume (1809-1851) was a native of Kelso, Scotland, tlu' 
sou of a respectable retail trader. His family moved to 
London, and in 1827 he got a situation iu a brewery in 
Mark Lane. He published a volume of songs dedicated 
to Allan Cunningham ; married in 1837, and had six chil- 
dren. In 184.5 a complete edition of his " Songs and 
Poems" was published in London. 



MY WEE, WEE WIFE. 

My wee wife dwells in youdcr cot. 
My bounio liairuies three ; 

Oh ! happy is tln^ husband's lot, 
Wi' bairnies ou his knee. 



'ALEXANDER HU2IE.—F,ICHAED MOXCEION MUXES (^LORD HOUGHTOX). 



GSt) 



My Tvee, wee wife, my weo, wee wife, 

My bouuio bairuics three, — 
How briglit is day. Low sweet is life, 

Wlien love lights up the e'e ! 

The king o'er me may wear a crown. 

Have millions bow the knee, 
But lacks he love to share his throne, 

How iioor a king is he ! 
My wee, wee wife, my wee, weo wife. 

My bouuie bairuies three, 
Let kings ha'e thrones, 'mang warld's strife. 

Your hearts are thrones to me. 

I've felt oppression's galliug chain, 

I've shed the tear o' care, 
But' feeling ay lost a' its pain, 

When my wee wife was near. 
My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife. 

My bonuie bairuies tliree, 
The chaius we wear are sweet to bear, — 

How sad could wo go free ! 



Uicljarli illoncK'ton illilncs 
(£orD Cjougljton). 

Milucs, who bec.ime Lord Houghton in 1S63, was a na- 
tive of Yorkshire, and bom in 1S09. He published " Po- 
itry for the People," in 1S40; "Palm Leaves," in 1844; 
edited the "Life and Remains of John Keats" in 1848. 
An edition of his complete poetical works appeared in 
1876. He made two visits to the United States, where 
he left many warm friends. He has fully vindicated his 
claim to the name of poet. As a member of the House 
of Commons, and (1863) of the House of Peers, he has 
been the efficient supporter of all measures for social 
auiclioratiou and reform. 



ALL THINGS ONCE ARE THINGS FOREVER. 

All things once are things forever. 
Souls once living live forever ; 
Blame not what is only once, 
Wheu that once endures forever ! 
Love once felt, though soon forgot. 
Moulds the heart to good forever ! 
Once betrayed from chilly faith, 
Man is conscious man forever: 
Once the void of life revealed, 
It must deepen on forever. 
Unless God fill np the heart 
With himself for once and ever : 
Ouce made God and man at once, 
God and man are one forever. 



THE WORTH OF HOURS. 

Believe not that your inner eye 

Can ever in just measure try 

The worth of hours as they go by : 

For every man's weak self, alas ! 

M.akes him to see them while they pass. 

As through a dim or tinted glass. 

But if, with earnest care, yon would 
Mete out to each its part of good. 
Trust rather to your after mood. 

Those surely are not fairly spent. 
That leave your spirit bowed and bent, 
lu sad unrest and ill conteut. 

And more, though free from seeming harm 
You rest from toil of mind or arm, 
Or slow retire from pleasure's charm — 

If then a painful sense comes on 
Of something wholly lost and gone, 
Vainly enjoyed, or vainly done — 

Of something from your being's chain 
Broke oft", not to be linked agaiu 
By all mere memory can retain — 

Upon your Iie.ait this truth may rise — 
Nothing that altogether dies 
Suffices m.an's just destiuies. 

So should we live, that every hour 
May die as dies the natural flower, 
A self-reviving thing of power; 

That every thought and every deed 
May hold within itself the seed 
Of future good and future need ; 

Esteeming sorrow, whose employ 
Is to develop, not destroy, 
Far better than a barren joy. 



YOUTH AND MANHOOD. 

Youth, that pursuest with such eager pace 

Thy even way. 
Thou pautcst on to win a mournful race ; 

Then stay ! oh, stay ! 



660 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISS AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Pause and luxuriate in fliy siiuiiy plain : 

Loiter — enjoy ; 
Oucc iiast, thou uevcr wilt come back again 

A second hoy. 

The hills of manhood wear a noble face, 

When seeu from afar ; 
The mist of light from which they take their grace, 

Hides what they are; 

The dark aud dreary jiath those cliffs between 

Tlion canst not know, 
Aud how it leads to regions never green, 

Dead fields of snow. 

Pause, while thou may'st, nor deem that fate thy 
gain, 

Which, all too fast. 
Will drive thee forth from this delicious plain 

A man at last. 



I WANDERED BY THE BROOK-SIDE. 

I wandered by the brook-side, 

I wandered by the mill, 
I could not hear the brook How, 

The noisy wheel was still. 
There was no burr of grasshopper, 

No chirp of any bird; 
But the beating of my own heart, 

Was all the sound I heard. 

I sat beneath the elm-tree, 

I watched tho long, long shade, 
And as it gi'ew still longer, 

I did not feel afraid; 
For I listened for a footfall, 

I listened for a word ; 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

Ho came not — no,' he came not, — 

The night came on alone, 
The little stars sat, one by one. 

Each on his golden throne ; 
The eveniug air passed hy my cheek, 

The leaves above were stirred ; 
But the beating of my own heart, 

Was all the sound I heard. 

Fast, silent tears were flowing. 
When something stood behind, 



A hand was on my shoulder, 
I knew its touch was kind; 

It drew me nearer, nearer, 
Wo did not speak one word; 

For the beating of our own hearts, 
Was all the sound we heard. 



FROM "THE LONG-AGO." 

On that d(;ep-retiring shore 

Frequent pearls of beauty lie. 
Where the passion-waves of yore 

Fiercely beat and mounted high: 
Sorrows that are sorrows still 

Lose the bitter taste of woe; 
Nothing's altogether ill 

In the griefs of Long-ago. 

Tondis where lonely love repines. 

Ghastly tenements of tears. 
Wear the look of happy shrines 

Through the golden mist of years : 
Death, to those who trust in good. 

Vindicates his hardest blow; 
Oh, we would not, if wo could. 

Wake the sleep of Long-ago! 

Though the doom of swift decay 

Shocks the soul where life is strong. 

Though for frailer hearts the day- 
Lingers sad and overloug — 

Still the weight will find a leaven. 
Still the spoiler's hand is slow. 

While the future has its heaven, 
And the past its Long-ago. 



AMERICAN. 

Foe is one of the small class of poets whose posthu- 
mous fame has largely esceeded that of their lifetime. 
It rests chiefly, in Ids case, on one striking poem, "The 
Kaven," which seems to have done for liini what the 
"Elegy in a Country Church-yard" did for Gray. Voe 
was boru in Boston, Mass., on the 19th of January, bSOS), 
and died in lialtimorc in 1S49. His father, David Poe, 
of Baltinunv, while a law-student, full in love with Eliza- 
beth Arnold, an Englisli actress, married her, and went 
Inmsclf upon the stage. Edgar, a briglit and handsome 
youth, at an early age lost his parents, aud was adopted 
by Mr. and Mrs. .Jolm Allan, of Virginia, who, wealthy 
but childless, tool; him witli tlicm to England, and sent 
him to school at Stoke-Newhigton. Returning to Amer- 



EDGAR ALLAN FOE. 



661 



iea in his eleventh year, lie entered the University of Vir- 
uinia, wliere lie beciime tlie foremost scliolur of liis class. 
Jlis unruly liabits caused liim to be expelled. He then 
quarrelled with Mr. Allan, and started for Europe to DgUt 
for the Greeks. But Greece he never saw. He shaped 
his course northward instead of southward, and drifted 
ns far as St. Petersburg, where the ambassador of the 
United States, Mr. Middleton, fouud hiih in a state of 
destitution, and provided him with the means of return- 
inii,' home. Mr. Allan now procured for him an appoint- 
meut as cadet at West Point; but dislilcinj; the routine 
of a military education, Poe soon qualifled himself for 
dismissal by just the necessary amount of insubordina- 
tion. Meanwhile his benefactor had married a young 
wife, and the wayward young' man was cut off from all 
hopes of further pecuniary supplies from the quarter on 
which he had hitherto relied for help. 

In 1829 he published, at Baltimore, a thin volume enti- 
tled "Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and other Poems:" it con- 
tains little of any enduring value. In 1833 he obtained a 
prize offered by the Baltimore Saturdny Visitor for a sto- 
ry. This introduced him to John P. Kennedy, a well- 
known lawyer and man of letters, through whose good 
offices he became editor of the Literary Mcxsenger, a re- 
spectable monthly magazine published at Richmond ; but 
with this work his connection lasted only two years. At 
Richmond he married his cousin, Virginia Clemm,wlio 
died after a union of some ten years. Removing to Phil- 
adelphia, he edited Uurton^s Magazine, and then Graham^R 
Marjaziiic. His " Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque " 
had meauwhile appeared. In 1S44 he took up his resi- 
dence in New York, where the present writer was brought 
into frequent communication with him. Personally he- 
was, as AVillis called him, a "sad-mannered gentleman," 
grave and somewhat reticent. He had more the appear- 
ance and bearing of a sedate clergyman than of a writer 
of romance. While editing the Xew Wvrhl weekly, we 
bought and published some of his j^rose pieces, and, but 
for lack of means, would have been glad to engage him 
permanently as a contributor. Referring to our inabili- 
ty to oblige him on one occasion, he said, "If you could 
liave done it, S., I would have immortalized you — yes, 
immortalized you, sir." Perhaps he was here wiser than 
he know. We had done for him what we could. Like 
Shakspcare and other men of genius, he seems to liave 
had previsions of a posthumous renown far exceeding 
what he could hope for in his lifetime. The movement 
for the erection of his statue in Central Park, New York, 
is one of the latest proofs of the veracity of his anticipa- 
tions. 

Poe's great poetical hit, "The Raven," appeared first 
in Colton's Whig liaiiew for February, 1845. The same 
year, in company with the late Charles F. Bi-iggs, an 
estimable gentleman well known to us, he started The 
Broadway Journal. The partnership soon ended, and Mr. 
Briggs's account of his experience in it is not flattering 
to Ills wayward associate. It corroborates the estimate 
of Poe's character given by James Russell Lowell, who 
knew him personally, and wrote of him: 

"Three-fifths of him genius and two-flfths sheer fudge, 
****** 
Who has written some things quite the best of their kind, 
But the heart somehow seems all squeezed out by the mind." 



Poe struggled on single-handed with his newspaper en- 
terprise for about a year, when it became extinct. He 
next wrote for Godey's TM(b/s Book a series of random 
sketches of the New York literati, in which tlie bias of 
merely personal partialities is quite apparent. In 1847-'48 
he became affianced for a short time to Mrs. Whitman, 
of whom some account will be found on page 583 of this 
volume. The present writer, who had long known her 
through an intimate mutual friend, had frequent corre- 
spondence with her up to within a year of her death ; and 
perhaps tlie strongest point in Poe's favor is the loyal, 
enthusiastic attachment of this gifted lady, thoroughly 
sincere, clear-sighted, and cultivated as she was, to his 
memory. Slie could not tolerate a word prejudicial to 
his lionor. In opposition to the estimate of some of his 
male friends, she believed in his heart as well as in his 
lieail, Poe was far from being habitually intemperate; 
his countenance at once contradicted the supposition. 
But he was almost morbidly sensitive to the effect of a 
very slight quantity of the lightest intoxicating drink. 
In the autumn of 1849, while in Baltimore, he fell into 
bad company, was tempted, overcome, became a wander- 
er about the streets, and was iiually taken to a hospital, 
where he died October 7th. 

Whatever dispute there may be as to his qualities as a 
man, there can be none as to his rare and unique genius 
as a poet. What he has written is slight in quantity, and 
some of that of little value; but the dross is readily tol- 
erated in consideration of the release of so much pure 
gold. He had that force and vividness of imagination 
which made him for the moment keenly sensitive to the 
high-strung emotions to which he gave utterance in most 
harmonious verse. That these emotions were often fu- 
gitive docs not seem to have impaired his power of im- 
parting to them a rare beauty and intensity of expres- 
sion. While the fervor lasted ho was sincere. His re- 
markable lines to S. W. (Mrs. Whitman) are an example. 
Analyze them — throw off the first eflect — and they issue 
in a glitter of sensuous but poetical fimeies, highly hy- 
perbolical, yet cold as icicles, and having hardly one touch 
of nature. The poem of "The Bells," while it shows the 
same power over the unreal, fails as a work of art in the 
frequent repetition of the word bdU, where the sibilant 
plural destroys all the metallic, ouomatopoetie quality 
of sound that would have been appropriate. But Poe's 
posthumous fame seems to be increasing rather than di- 
minishing. The best of his writings have been translated 
into all the principal European languages, and the pub- 
lic interest in his life and his literary productions seems 
to be unabated. That he anticipated the celebrity has 
already been suggested. 



TO S. H. W. 

I saw thee once — once only — years ago : 

I must not say how many — but not many. 

It xvas a July midnight; uiid from ont 

A full-oi'bed moon that, like thine own son], soaring, 

Sought a precipitant pathway up tlirongli lieaveu, 

There fell a silvery-silken veil of light. 

With quietude, and sultriness, and slnmbcr, 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BBITISB ASD AMERICAN I'OETRY. 



Upon the npturued faces of a thousand 
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, 
Where no ivind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe — 
Fell on the uiitnrned faces of these roses 
That gave out, in return for the love-light, 
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death — 
Fell on the npturued faces of these roses 
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted 
By thee and by the poetry of thy presence. 

Clad all in white, upon a violet bank 
I saw thee half rccliuiug ; while the moon 
Fell on the faces of the upturned roses, 
Aud on thine own, upturned — alas! in sorrow. 

Was it not Fate that, on this July midnight — 
Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow) 
That bade me pause before that garden-gate 
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses? 
No footstep stirred ; the hated world all slept. 
Save only thee and me. I paused — I looked — 
Aud in an instant all things disappeared, 
(Ah, bear iu miud this garden was enchanted !) 
The pearly lustre of the moou went out : 
The mossy banks aud the meandering paths. 
The happy ilowcis and the repining trees, 
Were seen uo more ; the very roses' odors 
Died iu the arms of the adoring airs ; 
All, all expired save thee — save less than thou: 
Save only the divine light iu thine eyes — 
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes. 
I saw but them — they were the world to me. 
I saw but them — saw only them for hours — 
Saw only them until the moon went down. 
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie euwritteii 
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres ! 
How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope ! 
How silently serene a sea of pride! 
How dariug an ambition ! yet how deep — 
How fathomless a capacity for love! 

But now, at length, dear Diau sank from sight 
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud, 
Aud thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees 
Didst glide away. Ouly thine eyes remained. 
Tlicy would not go — they never yet have gone. 
Lighting my lonely pathway homo that night, 
Tlicy have not left me (as my hopes have) since. 
They follow me, they lead nie through the years. 
They are my ministers — yet I their slave. 
Their office is to illumine and enkindle — 
My duty, to be saved by their bright light. 
And purified in their electric fire — 
Aud .sanctified iu their elysian fire. 
They Sil my soul with beauty (which is hope), 
And arc far up iu Heaven, the stars I kneel to 



In the sad, silent watches of ray night ; 
While even iu the meridian glare of day 
I see them still — two sweetly scintillant 
Veuuses, uuestiuguished by tlie sun ! 



THE BELLS. 
I. 
Hear the sledges with the bells — ■ 
Silver bells ! 
What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 

In the icy air of night ! 
While the stars that overspriuklc 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
With a cryst.alliue delight ; 
Keepiug time, time, time, 
Iu a sort of Enuie rhyme. 
To the tintiuabulatiou that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells— 
From the jingling aud the tinkling of the bells. 



Hear the mellow weddiug-bells — 
Golden bells! 
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells 1 
Tlirough the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight ! 
From the molten-golden notes. 

And all in tune, 
What a liquid ditty lloats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
On the moon! 
Oh, from ont the sounding cells. 
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! 
How it swells! 
How it dwells 
Ou the Future ! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 

Of the bells, bells, bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells— 
To the rhymiug aud the chimiug of the bells! 

III. 

Hear the loud .alarum bells — 
Brazen bells ! 
Wliat a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! 
In the startled ear of night 
How thev scream ont their affright ! 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 



663 



Too much horrified to speak, 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tuue, 
III a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, 
Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire. 
And a resolute endeavor 
Now — now to sit, or never. 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh, the hells, hells, hells ! 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of Despair ! 
How they clang, aud clash, and roar ! 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air! 
Yet the ear, it fully kuows, 
By the twanging 
And the clanging. 
How the danger ehhs and flows ; 
Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
In the jangling 
And the wrangling. 
How the danger siuks and swells, [hells — 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the 
Of the bells— 
Of the bells, hells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, hells — 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 



Hear the tolling of the bells — 

Iron bells ! [pels ! 

What a world of solemn thought their mouody com- 
In the silence of the night. 
How wo shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their tone : 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust withiu their throats 

Is a groan. 
Aud the ijeople — ah, the people. 
They that dwell up in the steei)le, 

All alone, 
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, 

In that muffled monotone, 
Feel a glory in so rolling 

Ou the human heart a stone — 
They are ueither man nor woman — 
They are ueither brute nor human — 
They are Ghouls ; 
Aud their king it is who tolls ; 
Aud he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
KoUs 



A pa!au from the bells ! 
Aud his merry bosom swells 

With the pjBau of the bells ! 
And he dances, aud he yells ; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
To the preans of the bells^ 

Of the beUs ; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 

To the throbbing of the bells — 
Of the hells, bells, bells— 

To the sobbing of the bells ; 
Keeping time, time, time. 

As he kuells, knells, knells, 
In a happy Ruuic rhyme. 

To the rolling of the hells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells ; 

To the tolling of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, hells, bells— 
To the moaning aud the groaning of the bells. 



THE RAVEN. 

Once upou a midnight dreary. 
While I pondered, weak aud weary. 
Over m.auy a quaint aud curious 

Volume of forgotten lore, 
While I nodded, nearly napping, 
Suddenly there came a tappiug. 
As of some one gently rapping. 

Rapping at my chamber door. 
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, 

" Tapping at my chamber door — 

Only this, and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember. 

It was in the bleak December, 

And each separate dying ember 

Wrought its ghost upon the floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow ; 
Vainly I had tried to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow — 

Sorrow for the lost Lenore — 
For the rare aud radiant maiden 

Whom the angels name Leuore — 

Nameless here for evermore. 

Aud the silken, sad, uncertain 
Rustling of each jinrple curtain 
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic 
Terrors never felt before ; 



664 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAS POETRY. 



So that now, to still the beating 
Of my heart, I stood repeating, 
•' 'Tis some visitor entreating 

Entrance at my chamber door — 
Some late visitor entreating 

Entrance at my chamber door ; 

This it is, and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger; 
Hesitating then no longer, 
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly 

Your forgiveness I implore ; 
But the fact is, I was napping, 
And so gently you came rapping. 
And so faintly you came tajiping, 

Tapping at my chamber door. 
That I scarce was sure I heard yon," — 

Here I opened wide the door : 

Darkness there, and nothing more ! 

Deep into that darkness peering. 
Long I stood there, wondering, fearing. 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal 

Ever dared to dream before ; 
But the silence was unbroken. 
And the darkness gave no token. 
And the only word there spoken 

Was the whispered word, " Leuore !" 
This / whispered, and an echo 

Murmured back the word, "Lenoro!" 

Merely this, and nothing more. 

Then into the chamber turning, 
All my soul within me burning, 
Soou I heard again a tapping 

Somewhat louder than before. 
" Surely," said I, " surely that is 
Something at my window lattice ; 
Let me see, then, what thereat is. 

And this mystery explore — 
Let my heart be still a moment. 

And this mystery exiilore ; 

'Tis the wind, and nothing more !" 

Open here I flung the shutter, 
AVhen, with many a flirt and flutter, 
In there stepped a stately Raven 

Of the saintly days of yore ; 
Not the least obeisance made he ; 
Not an instant stopped or stayed he ; 
But, with mien of lord or lady, 

Perched above my chamber door — 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas 



Just above my chamber door — 
Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling 

My sad fancy into smiling, 

By the grave and stern decorum 

Of the couuteuauce it wore, 
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, 
Thon," I said, " art sure no craven. 
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven, 

Wandering from the Nightly shore — 
Tell me what thy lordly name is 

On the Night's Plutonian shore !" 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

Much I marvelled this ungainly 
Fowl to hear discourse so plainly. 
Though its answer little meaning — • 

Little relevancy bore ; 
For we cannot help agreeing 
That no living human being 
Ever yet was blessed with seeing 

Bird above his chamber door — 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured 

Bust above his chamber door, 

With such name as " Nevermore." 

But the Raven sitting lonely 
Ou the placid bust, spoke oidy 
That one word, as if his soul in 

That one word he did outpour. 
Nothing further then he uttered — 
Not a feather then he fluttered — 
Till I scarcely more than muttered, 

" Other friends have flown before — 
On the morrow he will leave me. 

As my hopes have flown before." 

Then the bird said, " Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken 

By reply so aptly spoken, 

" Doubtless," said I, " what it utters 

Ls its only stock and store. 
Caught from some unhappy master 
Whom unmerciful Disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster 

Till his songs one burden bore — 
Till the dirges of his Hope the 

Melancholy burden bore 

Of ' Nevermore ' — of ' Nevermore.' " 

But the Raven still beguiling 
All my sad soul into smiling, 



EDGAR ALLAN FOE.— JOHN STUART BLACEIE. 



665 



Straiglit I wheeled a ciishioued seat iu 
Flout of bird, and bust, aud door; 

Thcu iipou the velvet siukhig, 

I betook myself to linking 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking 

What this omiuons bird of yore — • 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, 
Ganut and ominous bird of yore 
Meant in croaking, " Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged iu guessing. 

But no syllable expressiug 

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now 

Burned into my bosom's core ; 
This and more I sat divining. 
With my head at ease reclining 
Ou the cushion's velvet liuiug, 

That the lamplight gloated o'er ; 
But whose velvet violet lining 

With the lamplight gloatiug o'er, 

She shall press, ah, never more ! 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, 
Perfumed from an unseen censer, 
Swung by angels whose faint footfalls 

Tinkled ou the tufted lloor. 
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee, 
By these angels he hath sent thee, 
Respite — respite aud nepenthe 

From thy memories of Lenore ! 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, 

And forget this lost Lenore I" 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

'• Prophet," said I, " thing of evil ! — 
Prophet still, if bird or devil ! 
Whether tempter seut, or whether 

Tempest tossed thee here ashore. 
Desolate yet all undaunted, 
On this desert land enchanted — 
On this home by Horror haunted — ■ 

Tell me truly, I implore — 
Is there — is there balm iu Gilead? 

Tell me — tell me, I implore !" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil — 

Prophet still, if bird or devil 1 

By that heaven that bends above us — 

By that God we both adore — 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden 
If, within the distant Aldenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden 



Whom the angels name Leuore — 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden 
Whom the angels name Lenore." 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

" Be that word our sign of parting. 
Bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting — 
" Get thee back into the tempest 

And the Night's Plutonian shore! 
Leave no black plume as a token 
Of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! 
Leave my loneliue.ss unbroken ! — 

Quit the bust above my door ! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, 

And take tliy form from off my door I" 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

And the Raven, never flitting. 
Still is sitting, still is sitting 
Ou the pallid bust of Pallas 

Just above my chamber door ; 
And his eyes have all the seeming 
Of a demon that is dreaming. 
And the lamplight o'er him streaming 

Throws his shadow on the floor ; 
And my soul from out that shadow 

That lies floating on the floor 

Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 



TO FR.VNCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 

Thou wouldst be loved ? — then let thy heart 

From its present pathway part not I 
Being everything which now thou art, 

Be nothing which thou art not. 
So with the world thy gentle ways. 

Thy grace, thy more than beauty, 
Shall be an endless theme of praise, 

And love — a simple duty. 



ioljn Stuart Blacliic. 

Blackie, the son of a banker, was born in Glasgow in 
1809. He was educated jiartly at Aberdeen and partly at 
the University of Edinbnrgh. In 18i9 he went to the 
Continent, studied at Gottingen and Berlin, and passed 
fifteen months in Italy. In 1831 appeared his transla- 
tion of Goethe's "Faust.'' He contributed to various 
periodicals, and wrote a deeply earnest article on Jung 
Stilling, the German Spiritualist. In 1852 he was elect- 
ed to the chair of Greek in Edinburgh University. In 
1853 he travelled in Greece, and learned to speak modern 



mii 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Greek fluently. In 1857 he published " Lays and Le- 
gends of Ancient Greece, with other Poems;" in 1861, 
"Lyrical Poems;" and in 1866 a translation of Homer's 
"Iliad." His "Natural History of Atheism" (1878) 
shows high culture, breadth, and insitjlit. His volume 
entitled "Songs of Religion and Life" (1S76) was repub- 
lished in New York. lu versatility he stood conspicu- 
ous among the literary men of his day. His writings 
evince deep religious feeling, earnestness, and simplicity, 
united to great liberality of thought. 



THE HOPE OF THE HETERODOX. 

lu thee, O Wess^d God, I Lope, 

lu Thee, in Thee, in Tbee! 
Though l-'anued by Presbyter and Pope, 

My trust i.s still in Thee. 
Thou ■wilt not cast thy servant out 

Because he chanced to see 
With his own eyes, and dared to doubt 

What iiraters preach of Thee. 
Oh no ! no ! uo ! 

For ever and ever and aye, 

(Though Pope and Presbyter bray), 

Thou wilt not cast away 
An honest soul from Thee. 

I look around on earth and sky, 

And Thee, and ever Thee, 
With open heart and open eye 

How can I fail to see ? 
My ear drinks iu from field and fell 

Life's rival floods of glee : 
Where finds the priest his private hell 

When all is full of Thee ? 
Oh no ! no ! uo ! 

Though flocks of geese 

Give Heaven's high ear no peace : 

I still enjoy a lease 

Of happy thoughts from Thee. 

My faith is strong; ont of it.self 

It grows erect and free ; 
No Talmud on tlie Rabbi's shelf 

Gives amulets to me. 
Small Greek I know, iior Hebrew much, 

But this I plainly see : 
Two legs without the Bishop's crutch 

God gave to thee and me. 
Oh no ! no ! uo ! 

The Church may loose and bind, 

But Mind, immort.al Mind, 

As free as wave or wind, 

Came forth, God, from thee ! 



O pious quack ! thy pills are good ; 

But mine as good may be, 
And healthy men on healthy food 

Live without you or me. 
Good lady ! let the doer do ! 

Thought is a busy bee, 
Nor honey less what it doth brew. 

Though very gall to thee. 
Oh no ! uo ! uo ! 

Though Councils decree aud declare, 

Like a tree in open air, 

The soul its foliage fair 

Spreads forth, O God, to Thee ! 



BEAUTIFUL WORLD. 

Beautiful world ! though bigots condemn thee. 
My tongue finds no words for the graces that gem 

thee! 
Beaming with sunny light, bountiful ever, 
Streaming with gay delight, full as a river ! 

Bright world ! brave world ! let ca\iUers bhiine 

thee! 
I bless thee, and bend to the God who did frame 
thee ! 

Beautiful world ! bursting around me, 
Manifold, million-hued wonders confound me! 
From earth, sea, and starry sky, meadow and moun- 
tain, 
Eagerly gushes life's magical fountain. 

Bright world! bravo world! though witlings may 

bliime thee. 
Wonderful excellence only could frame thee ! 

The bird iu the greenwood his sweet hymn is trolling, 
Tlie fish in blue ocean is spouting aud rolling! 
Liglit things on airy wing wild dances weaving. 
Clods with new life in siiring swelling aud heaving! 
Thou quick-teeming world ! though seotfers may 

blame thee, 
I wonder, and worship the God who could frame 
thee ! 

Beautiful world ! what poesy measures 

Thy strong - flooding passions, thy light - trooping 

jileasures ? 
Mustering, marshalling, striving aud straining, 
Conquering, triumphing, ruling and reigning ! 
Thou bright - armied world, so strong, who can 

tamo thee f 
Wonderful power of God only could frame thee ! 



JOHN S. BLACKIE.— JOSEPH A. ALEXANDER.— ELIZABETH B. BROWNING. 



667 



Beautiful wovlcl ! while godlilje I deem thee, 

No culd wit sliall move me with bilo to blaspheme 

tliee ! 
I have lived in thy liglit, and whcu Fate ends my 

story, 
Jliiy I leave on death's cloud the trail of life's glory ! 
Wondrous old world! no ages shall shame thee! 
Ever bright with jiew light from the God who did 
frame thee ! 



TO THE MEMORY OF SYDNEY DOBELL. 

And thou, too, gone ! cue more bright soul away 
To swell the mighty sleei)ers 'ueath the sod ; 
One less to honor aud to love, and say. 
Who lives with thee doth live half-way to God ! 
My chaste-souled Sydney ! thou wast carved too fine 
For coarse observance of the geueral eye ; 
But who might look into thy soul's fair shrine 
Saw bright gods there, aud felt their preseuce nigh. 
Oh! if we owe warm thauks to Heaven, 'tis when 
In the slow progress of the struggliug years 
Our toueli is blessed to feel the pulse of men 
Who walk in light aud love above their peers 
Wbite-robed, and forward jioint with guidiug lini;d, 
Breathiug a heaven around them wherp they staud ! 



iJoscpl) vliiLiison ^Icitanbcr 



A native of Philadelpliia, Alexander (1809- ISGO) Ije- 
came a Professor in the Theological Seminary at Prince- 
ton ; bis specialty being in Orieutal literature. He was 
accomplished in almost every department of letters, was 
master of seven languages, and near to being a proficient 
in many more. His articles in the Princctoti Review re- 
nifiiu an evidence of his varied powers and attainments. 
His elaborate work on the Prophecies of Isaiah (1846-'47) 
was republished in Glasgow. 



THE POWER OF SHORT WORDS. 

Think not that strength lies in the big round word. 

Or that the brief and plain must needs be weak. 
To whom can this be trne who once has heard 

The cry for help, the tongue that all men speak, 
When want, or woe, or fear Is in the tliroat. 

So that each word gasped out is like a shriek 
Pressed from the sore heart, or a strange, wild note 

Sung by some fay or fiend ? There is a strength 
Which dies if stretched too far or si)un too fine, 

Which has more height than breadth, more depth 
than length. 



Let but this force of thought and speech be mine. 
And he that will may take the sleek fat phrase 

Which glows and burns not, though it gleam and 
shine ; 
Light, but not beat — a flash, but not a blaze! 

Nor mere strength is it that the short word-boasts : 

It serves of more than light or storm to tell — 
The roar of waves that clash on rock-bound coasts. 

The crash of tall trees when the wild winds swell, 
The roar of guns, the groans of men that die 

On blood-staiued fields. It has a voice as well 
For them that far off on their sick-beds lie ; 

For them that weep, for them that mourn the 
dead ; 
For them that laugh, and dance, and clap the hand ; 

To Joy's quick step, as well as Grief's slow tread. 
The sweet, plain words we learn at first keep time ; 

And though the theme be sad, or gaj', or grand. 
With each, with all, these may be made to chime. 
In thought, or speech, or song, in prose or rhyme. 



(Pluabetlj Barrett Croiiming. 

Miss Barrett was born in London in 1800, married Rob- 
ert Browuing, the poet, in 1846, and died at Florence iu 
1861. Her father was a wealthy London merchant, and 
she had the advantage of a superior education. She be- 
gan to write both in prose aud verse at the age of ten, 
aud at seventeen published a volume of poems. In 183:3 
appeared her translation of the "Prometheus Bound" of 
^^Sschylus. In 1838 she put forth "The Seraphim, aud 
other Poems," which was followed by " The Roraaunt 
of the Page," 1839. About this time the breaking of a 
blood-vessel kept her for some years a prisoner to her 
room. In 1844 she sent forth a collected edition of her 
poems in two volumes. In 18.50 and 1853 new editions 
appeared. In 1851 she published "Casa Guidi Windows," 
a poem which reviews the state of Italy. In 18.50 "Au- 
rora Leigh," the longest of her poems, appeared. It is 
rather a novel in blank verse than a poem, and is of very 
unequal merit. In 1860 "Poems before Congress" were 
published — suggested by the political events of the time. 
This was the last work from her pen. Her delicate con- 
stitution gave way, and, to the grief of a large circle of 
friends and admirers of her genius, she died. Her re- 
mains wci-e interred in the Protestant cemetery at Flor- 
ence. All her works show intellectual power of the high- 
est order, and will compare favorably with the best pro- 
ductions of masculine genius. She was a Spiritualist in 
the modern sense of the word, having satisfied herself of 
the genuineness of certain phenomena, which were sutfi- 
cient for her convictions as to spiritual realities. " Such 
is the influence of her manners," wrote Miss Mitford, 
" that those who know her best are apt to lose sight of 
her learning and her genius, aud to think other only as 
the most charming person that they have ever met." 



068 



CYCLOFMDIA OF BlilTlSn AND AMEItlCAX FOETHT. 



SOXNET: CHEERFULNESS TAUGHT BY REA- 
SON. 

I think we are too ready ■with complaint 

lu this fair world of God's. Had we no hope 

Indeed bej'oud the zenith and the slope 

Of yon gray hlank of sky, we might bo faint 

To nuise upon eternity's constraint 

Round our aspirant sonls. Bnt since the scope 

Must wideu early, is it well to droop 

For a few days cousumed in loss aud taint ? 

Oh, pusillanimous Heart, he comforted, — 

Aud, like a cheerful traveller, take the road, 

Singing beside the hedge. What if the bread 

Be bitter in thine inn, and tliou unsliod 

To meet the flints? — At least it may be said, 

" Becanse the way is short, I thank thecj God !" 



COWPER'S GRAVE. 

It is a place where poets crowned may feel the 

heart's decaying: 
It is a place where happy saints may weep amid 

their praying: 
Yet let tlie grief aud Immbleuess, as low as sileucc, 

languish ! 
Earth surely uow may give her calm to whom she 

gave her anguish. 

O poets! from :i maniac's tongue was ponrcd the 

deathless singing ! 
O Christians ! at your cross of hope, a hopeless hand 

was clinging! 
O men ! this man in brotherhood your weary jiaths 

beguiling. 
Groaned inly while he taught you peace, aud died 

wliilo ye were smiling! 

Aud now, what time ye all may read through dim- 
ming tears his story. 

How disconl on the music fell, and darkness on 
the glory; 

And how, when one by one, sweet sounds and wan- 
dering lights departed. 

He wore no less a loving face because so broken- 
hearted : 

He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vo- 
cation ; 

And bow the meekest Cliristiau down in meeker 
adoration : 



Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good 

forsaken, 
Named softly, as the household name of one whom 

God hath taken. 

AVith quiet sadness and no gloom I learn to think 

upon him. 
With meekness that is gratefulness to God whoso 

heaven hath won him — 
Who suffered once the madness-cloud to His own 

love to blind him, 
But gently led the blind along where breath and 

bird could find him. 

And wroiiglit withiu his sluittercd brain such quick 

poetic senses 
As hills have language for, aud stars, harniouions 

influences! 
The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his witliin 

its uumber, 
And silent shadows from tlie trees refreslicd him 

like a slumber. 

Wild, timid hares were drawn from woods to share 
liis home-cares.ses, 

Uplooking tq his human eyes witli sylvan tender- 
nesses; 

The very world, by God's constraint, from false- 
hood's ways removing. 

Its women aud its men became, beside him, true 
and loving. 

And though lu blindness he remained unconscious 
of that guiding. 

And things provided came without the sweet sense 
of providing, 

Ho testified this solemn truth, while frenzy deso- 
lated : 

Nor man nor natni* satisfy, whom only God createil ! 

Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother 

while she blesses 
And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of 

lier kisses; 
That turns his fevered eyes around, — "My mother! 

Where's my mother?" — 
As if such tender words and looks could come from 

any other ! — 

The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her bend- 
ing o'er liim, 

Iler face all pale from watchful lovo, the unweary J 
love she bore him ! — 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWSING. 



669 



Thus woke, the iioet from the dream liis life's long- 
fever gave liiiu, 

BeueatU those deep pathetic Eyes, which closed in 
death to save him ! 

Tlins? Oh, not ihm! uo type of eartli can image 

that awaking. 
Wherein lie scarcely heard the chant of seraphs 

round him breaking. 
Or felt the new immortal throb of sonl from body 

parted, 
But felt those eyes alone, and knew, "^T/>/ Savionr! 

not deserted !" 

Deserted! who hath dreamed that when the cross 
in darkness rested, 

Upon the Victim's hidden face, no love was mani- 
fested 1 

Wliat frantic liands ontstretehed have e'er the aton- 
ing drops averted ? 

What tears have washed them from the sonl, that 
one should be deserted ? 

Deserted! God could separate from His own es- 
sence rather: 

And Adam's sins Anre swept between the i-ighteous 
Son and Father ; 

Yea, once, Immannel's orphaned cry his universe 
hath shaken — 

It went up single, echoless, " Jly God, I am forsaken !" 

It went up from the Holy's lips amid his lost 

creation, 
That of the lost no son should use those -words of 

desolation ; 
That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope, should 

mar not hope's fruition. 
And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture 

in a vision ! 



THE SLEEP. 

*'Hc giveth his beloved sleep."— Ps.il in cssvii. 2. 

Of all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward unto souls afar. 

Along the Psalmist's music deep — 
\ow tell me if that any is. 
For gift or grace surpassing this — 

"He giveth Ilis belovdd sleep?'' 

What would we give to our beloved ? 
The hero's heart, to be unmoved, 



The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweeji, 
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse. 
The monarch's crown, to light the brows? — 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

What do wc give to our beloved? 
A little faith, all undisproved, 

A little dust, to overwcep. 
And bitter memories, to make , 

The whole earth blasted for our sake. 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

"Sleep .soft, beloved !" we sometimes say, 
But have uo tnno to charm away 

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep : 
But never doleful dream again 
Shall break the happy slumber, when 

" He giveth His belovM sleep." 

O earth, so full of dreary noises! 
O men, with wailing in your voices! 
O delved gold, the wallers heap ! 

strife ; O curse, that o'er it fall ! 
God makes a silence through you all, 

And " giveth His beloved sleep." 

His dews drop mutely on the hill, 
His cloud above it saileth still. 

Though ou its slope men sow and reap. 
More softly than the dew is shed. 
Or cloud is floated overhead, 

" He giveth His belov(5d sleep." 

Yea! men may wonder while they scan 
A living, thinking, feeling man. 

Confirmed, in sncli a rest to keep; 
But angels say — and through the word 

1 think their happy smile is limrd — 
" He giveth His beloved .slecii." 

For me, my heart that erst did go 
Most like a tired child at a show. 

That sees through tears the jugglers leap,— 
Would now its wearied vision close. 
Would childlike on His love repose, 

Who "giveth His beloved sleep!" 

And, friends, dear- friends, — when it shall be 
That this low breath is gone from me. 

And round my bier ye come to weep. 
Let one, most loving of you all, 
Say, " Not a tear must o'er her fall — 

He giveth His beloved sleep." 



670 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AilEBICAX POETUY. 



A WOMAN'S QUESTION. 

Do yon know yon liave asked for the costliest tLiiig 

Ever made by the band above — 
A woman's heart and a woman's life, 

And a woman's wonderful love ! 

Do joii know yon have asked for this iiricelcss 
thing 

As a cliild might ask for a toy? 
Demanding what others have died to win, — 

With the reckless dash of a boy. 

You have written my lesson of duty out, 
Man-like yon have questioned me — 

Now stand at the bar of my woman's soul, 
Until I shall qnestion thee. 

You require your mutton shall always be hot, 
Your socks and your shirts shall be whole; 

I require your heart to be true as God's stars. 
And pure as heaven your soul. 

Yon require a cook for your mutton and beef; 

I require a far better thing; 
A seamstress you're wanting for stockings and 
shirts — 

I look for a man and a king : — 

A king for a beautiful realm called home, 

And a man that the maker, God, 
Shall look upon as he did the first, 

And say, " It is very good." 

I am fair and young, but the rose will fade 
From my soft, young cheek one day — 

Will yon love then, 'mid the falling leaves, 
As yon did 'mid the bloom of May ? 

Is your heart an ocean so strong and deep 

I may launch my all on its tide? 
A loving woman finds heaven or hell 

On the day she is nuido a bride. 

I require all things that are grand aud true. 

All things that a man should be ; 
If you give this all, I would stake my life 

To be all you demand of me. 

If you cannot do this — a laundress aud cook 

You can hire with little to pay ; 
But a woman's heart and a woman's life 

Are not to be won that way. 



SONNET : FUTURITY. 

And, oh belov(^d voices, upon which 

Ours passionately call, because ere long 

Ye brake oif iu the middle of that song 

We sang together softly, to enrich 

The poor world with tlie sense of love, aud witcli 

The heart out of things evil, — I am strong, — 

Knowing ye are not lost for aye among 

The hills, with last year's thrush. God keeps a niche 

In heaven to hold our idols : and albeit 

Ho brake them to our faces, and denied 

Tliat our close kisses should impair their white, — 

I know we shall behold them raised, conqilete, — 

Tlie dnst shook from their beauty, — glorified 

New Mcmnons singing in the great God-light. 



SONNET : INSUFFICIENCY. 

When I attain to utter forth in verse 

Some inward thought, my soul throbs audibly 

Along my pulses, yearning to be free. 

And something farther, fuller, higher, rehearse. 

To the individual, true, and to the universe. 

In consummation of right liarmony. 

But, like a wind-exposed, distorted tree, 

We are blown against forever by the curse 

Which breathes through nature. Oh, the world is 

weak — 
The efflnenco of each is false to all ; 
And what we best conceive, we fail to speak. 
Wait, soul, until thine ashen garments fall! 
And theu resume thy broken strains, and seek 
Fit iieroration, without let or thr.all. 



SONNETS ^FEOM THE PORTUGUESE. 

Uiulei' the title of "Sonnets from the Portiisnese," Mrs. 
Browning wrote a series of forty-three ori<;inal love-poenis 
addressed to Robert Browning, her future husband. Of IhCM 
remarkable productions we give four specimens. 

VI. 

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand 
Henceforward iu thy shadow, nevcrnioro 
Alone upon the threshold of my door 
Of individual life, I shall command 
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 
Serenely iu the sunshine as before, 
Without the sense of that which I forbore, — 
Thy touch upon my palm. The widest land 
Doom takes to part ns, leaves thy heart in mine 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.— LADY DUFFERIN. 



671 



With pulses that beat double. What I ilo 
Ami what I dream include thee, as the win6 
Must taste of its owu grapes. And when I sue 
God for myself, he hears that name of thine, 
And sees within my eyes the tears of two. 



If thou must love me, let it be for nangbt 
Except for love's sake only. Do not say 
"I love her for her smile ... her look ... her way 
Of speaking gently, ... for a trick of thought 
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought 
A sense of jileasaut ease on such a day " — 
For these things in themselves. Beloved, may 
Be changed, or change for thee — and love so wrought, 
May be unwronglit so. Neither love me for 
Thine owu dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry. 
Since one might well forget to weep who bore 
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby. 
But love mo for love's sake, that evermore 
Thou may'st love on through love's eternity. 



I never gave a lock of hair away 

To a man, Dearest, except this to thee, 

Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully 

I ring out to the full brown length, and say, 

"Take it." My day of youth went yesterday; 

My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee ; 

Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree, 

As girls do, any more. It only may 

Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears. 

Taught drooping from the head that hangs aside. 

Through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral-shears 

Wonld take this first, but Love is justified, — 

Take it thoii, — finding pure, from all those years. 

The kiss my mother left here when she died. 



I lived with visions for n\y company 

Instead of men and women, years ago, 

And found them gentle mates, nor thought to know 

A sweeter music than they played to me. 

But soon their trailing purple was not free 

Of this world's dust, — their lutes did silent grow. 

And I myself grew faint and blind below 

Their vanishing eyes. Then thod didst come ... to he, 

Beloved, what they seemed. Their shining fronts. 

Their songs, their splendors ... (better, yet the same, 

As river-water hallowed into fonts ...) 

Met in thee, and from out thee overcame 

My soul with satisfaction of a'.l wants — 

Because God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame. 



£ait2 Puffer in. 

Helen Selina Sheridan, daughter of Thomas Sheridan, 
grandd-iughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and sister 
of Mrs. Norton, married the Hon. Price Blackwood, only 
son of the fourth Lord Diifleriu, and became Lady Duf- 
ferin on the death of her husband's father. Her son, 
Fredcricli Temple Blackwood, Earl of Dulferin (born 
1836), is known as an accomplislied statesman, the autiicir 
of "Letters from High Latitudes," and other works. He 
was for a time Governor-general of Canada. Lady Dnf- 
ferin (1807-18157) first published " Tlie Lament of the 
Irish Emigrant" about the year 1838, when she was the 
"Hon. Mrs. Price Blackwood." It is one of the most 
tenderly beautiful idyls in the language. It was set to 
an appropriate melody by Wm. B. Dempster, a Scottish 
vocalist and composer well known in the United States. 



L.UIENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, 

Where wo sat side by side, 
On a bright May mornin', long ago, 

When first you were my bride ; 
The corn was springin' fresh and green, 

And the lark sang loud and high ; 
And the red was on yonr lip, JIary, 

And the love-light in your eye. 

The place is little changed, Mary, 

The day is bright as then, 
The lark's loud song is in my ear. 

And the corn is green again : 
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, 

And yonr breath warm on my cheek ; 
And I still keep listeniu' for the words 

You never more will speak. 

'Tis hut a step down yonder lane, 
And the little church stands near. — 

The church where wo were wed, Mary ; 
I see the spire from here. 

But the graveyard lies between, Mary, 
And my step might break your rest, — 

For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep. 
With your Ijaby on your breast. 

I'm very lonely, now, Mary, — 

For the poor make no new friends ; 
But, oh ! they love the better still 

The few our Father sends! 
And you were all I had, Mary — • 

Mj' blessin' and my jiride : 
There's nothing left to care for now, 

Since my poor Mary died. 



672 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEIilCAN POETRY. 



Youvs was the good, brave heart, Mary, 

That still kept hoping on. 
When the trust in God had left my soul, 

And my arm's young strength was goue ; 
There was comfort ever on your lip, 

And the kind look on your brow, — • 
I bless you, Marj-, for tliat same, 

Though you cannot hear me now. 

I thank you for the patient smile 

When your heart was fit to break, — 
When the hanger pain was guawiu' there, 

And you hid it for my sake ; 
I bless you for the pleasant word. 

When your heart was sad and sore, — 
Oh, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, 

Where grief can't reach you more ! 

I'm bidding you a long farewell. 

My Mary, — kind and true ! 
But I'll not forget you, darling. 

In the land I'm going to ; 
They say there's bread and work for all, 

And the sun shines always there, — 
But I'll not forget old Ireland, 

Were it fifty times as fair! 

And often in those grand old woods 

I'll sit, and shut my eyes. 
And my heart will travel back again 

To the place where Mary lies ; 
And I'll think I see the little stile 

Where we sat side by side. 
And tlie springiu' corn, and the bright May morn, 

When first you were my bride. 



Tialpl) t^ont. 



Hoyt (lSOS-1878) was a native of the city of New York. 
He studied for the ministry, took orders (1843), and be- 
came Kcctor of the Episcopal " Church of the Good 
Shepherd." lie pubHshed in 1844 "The Chant of Life, 
and other Poems;" and, in 18.59, "Sketches of Life and 
Landscape." His poetic vein is peculiar and orisjinal, 
but some of the best of his poems would be improved by 
abridi'ment. 



STANZAS FROM "NEW." 

Still sighs the world for something 
For something new ; 



Imploring me, imploring you. 

Some Will-o'-wisp to help pursue : 

Ah ! hapless world, what will it do ? 
Imploring me, imploring you. 
For something new ! 

Each pleasure, tasted, fades away, 

It fades Jiway : 
Nor yon nor I can bid it stay, — 

A dew-drop trembling on a spray ! 
A rainbow at the close of day ! 
Nor you nor I can bid it stay ; — 
It fades awa.y. 

The rose, once gathered, cannot please, — 

It cannot please : 
Ah ! simple maid, a rose to seize 

That only blooms to terajjt and tease, 
With thorns to rob the heart of case ; — 
Ah ! simple maid, a rose to seize — 
It cannot jilease ! 

So pants for change the fickle fair, 

The fickle fair : 
A feather floating in the air, 

Still wafted here, and wafted there, — 
No charm, no hazard worth her care ! 
A feather floating in the air, — 
The fickle fair! 

How sad his lot, the hapless swain, — 

The hapless swain ! 
With care and toil, in heat and rain, 

To speed the plough or harvest-wain ; 
Still reaping only fields of grain. 

With care and toil, in heat and rain, — 
The hapless swain ! 

Y'outh, weary*-youth, — 'twill soon be past, — 

'Twill soon be past ! 
His manhood's happiness shall last ; 

Renown and riches, far and fast. 
Their potent charms shall round him cast ; 
His manhood's happiness shall last — 
'Twill soon be jiast ! 

The dream fulfilled, — rank, fortune, fame — 

Rank, fortune, fame ! — 
Vain fuel for celestial flame! 

He wins and wears a glittering name ; 
Yet sighs his longing soul the same ! 
Vain fuel for celestial flame, 
Rank, fortune, fame ! 



RALPH HOYT.— WILLIAM BARNES.— SAMUEL WILLIAM PARTRIDGE. 



673 



ludulgent Heaven, ob grant but this, — 

Oh grant but tbis, — 
Tlio boon sball bo enough of bliss : 

A home, with true aft'ection's kiss, 
To mend whate'er may bap amiss, — 
The boon sball be enough of bliss : 
Ob grant but tbis! 

The Eden won : — insatiate still ; 

Insatiate still ! 
A wider, fairer range be will ; 

Sume mountain higher than bis hill ; 
Some prospect Fancy's map to till ; — 
A wider, fairer range he will — 
Insatiate still ! 

Still sighs the world for something uew,- 

For something new : 
Imploring me, imploring you. 

Some Will-o'-wisp to help pursue ; 
Ah! hapless world, what will it do? 
Imploring me, imploring you, 
For something new ! 



llHlliam Btarncs. 

Barnes, clergyman, poet, and pliilologist, was born in 
1810. lie is the author, among otlicr worlds, of "Poems 
of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect," "A Grammar and 
Glossary of the Dorset Dialect," "An Anglo-Saxon De- 
lectus." An edition of tlie " Rural Poems," witli illus- 
trations by Hammatt Billings, au American artist, was 
published in Boston in 18G9. 



PLOR.iTA VERIS LACHRYMIS. 

Oh now, my true and dearest bride. 
Since thou ]ia.st left my lonely side. 
My life has lost its hope and zest. 
The sun rolls on from east to west. 
But brings no more that evening rest, 
Thy loving-kindness made so sweet, 
And time is slow that once was fleet, 
As day by day was waning. 

The last sad day that showed thee lain 
Before me, smiling in tliy pain, 
The sun soared high along his way 
To mark the longest summer day. 
And show to me the latest play 
Of thy sweet smile, and thence, as all 
Tlie days' lengths shrunk from small to small, 
My joy began its waning. 
43 



And now 'tis keenest pain to see 
Whate'er I saw in bliss with thee. 
The softest airs that ever blow, 
Tlie fairest days that ever glow, 
Unfelt by thee, but bring me woe. 
And sorrowful I kneel in prayer. 
Which thou no longer now canst share. 
As day by day is waning. 

How can I live my lonesome days? 
How can I tread my lonesome ways ? 
How can I take my lonesome meal ? 
Or how outlive the grief I feel ? 
Or how, again, look on to weal ? 
Or sit, at rest, before the heat 
Of winter fires, to miss thy feet. 

When evening light is waning. 

Thy voice is still I loved to hear, 

Thy voice is lost I held so dear. 

Since death unlocks thy band from mine. 

No love awaits me such as thine: 

Ob ! boon the hardest to resign ! 

But if we meet again at last 

In heaven, I little care how fast 

My life may now be waning. 



SONNET: RURAL NATURE. 

Where art thou loveliest, O Nature, tell ! 

Ob, where may be thy Paradise? Where grow 

Thy happiest groves? And down what woody dell 

Do thy most fancy-winniug waters flow ? 

Tell where thy softest breezes longest blow ? 

And where thy ever blissful mountains swell 

Upon whose sides the cloudless sun may throw 

Eternal summer, while the air may quell 

His fury. Is it 'neatb bis morning car. 

Where jewelled palaces, and golden thrones. 

Have awed the Eastern nations through all time ? 

Or o'er the Western seas, or where afar 

Our winter sun warms up the southern zones 

With summer? Where can be the happy climes? 



Samuel lllilliam |]artiitigc. 

P-irtridge is a native of London, born November 23d, 
1810. He became a publisher, having his establishment 
in Paternoster Row. His little poem, "Not to Myself 
Alone," has been wonderfully popular. It has been oft- 
en quoted from the jjulpit, aud lias found a place in many 



674 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



of the school reading-books of the United States. It oc- 
curs in " Our English Months, a Poem on tlie Seasons in 
England." Partridge is also the author of a collection 
of poems entitled " Voices from the Garden, or the Chris- 
tian Language of Flowers." 



" NOT TO MYSELF ALONE." 

" Not to myself alone," 
The little opening Flower, transported, cries, 
"Not to myself alone I bud and bloom ; 
With fragrant breath the breezes I perfume. 
And gladden all things with my rainbow dyes : 
The bee comes sipping, every eventide. 

His dainty fill ; 
The butterfly within my cnp doth hide 
From threatening ill." 

" Not to myself alone," 
The circling Star, with honest pride, dotb Ijoast ; 
" Not to myself alone I rise and set : 
I write upon night's coronal of jet 
His power and skill who formed onr myriad host: 
A friendly beacon at heaven's open gate, 

I gem the sky. 
That man might ne'er forget, in every fate. 
His home on high." 

" Not to myself alone," 
The heavy-laden Bee doth mnrmnring hum, — 
"Not to myself alone from flower to ilower, 
I rove the woods, the garden and the bower, 
And to the hive at evening weary come : 

For man, for man, the luscious food I pile 

With busy care. 
Content if this repay my ceaseless toil — 
A scanty share." 

" Not to myself alone," 
The soaring Bird with lusty pinion sings, 
" Not to myself alone I raise my song : 
I cheer the drooping with my warbling tongue, 
And bear the mourner on my viewless wings ; 
I bid the liymnless churl my anthem learn, 

And God adore ; 
I call the worldling from his dross to turn, 
And sing and soar." 

" Not to myself alone," 
The Streamlet whispers on its pebbly way, 

"Not to myself alone I sparkling glide; 

I scatter health and life on every side, 
And strew the fields with herb and floweret gay. 



I sing unto the common, bleak and bare, 

My gladsome tune ; 
I sweeten and refresh the languid air 

In droughty June." 

Not to myself alone, — 
O Man, forget not thou — earth's honored priest ! 
Its tongue, its soul, its life, its pulse, its heart — 
In earth's great chorus to sustain thy part. 
Chiefest of guests at Love's ungrudging feast, 

Play not the niggard ; spurn thy native clod, 

And self disown : 
Live to thy neighbor, live unto thy God, 
Not to thyself aloue. 



3o\)\\ iTraiuis lllallcr. 

Waller (born 1810), for many years editor of The Ihih- 
lin ImvendUj Jfagazme,'ha& published "Tlie Slingsby Pa- 
pers " (1S52), " Poems " (1854), " Pictures of English Lit- 
erature," etc. (1870). He has contributed largely to pe- 
riodical literature, and was editor of" The Imperial Dic- 
tionary of Universal Biography." 



KITTY NEIL. 

"Ah! sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel, 

Your neat little foot will be weary with spinning ; 
Come trip down with me to the sycamore-tree : 

Half the parish is there, and the dauce is be- 
ginning. 
The sun is gone down, but the full harvest -moon 

Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whiteued val- 
ley ; 
While all the air rings with the soft loving thing.s 

Each little bird sings in the green-shaded alley." 

With a blush and a smile Kilty rose up the while, 
Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, glan- 
cing ; 

'Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues, 
So she couldn't but choose to go oft' to the dancing. 

And now on the greeu the glad groups are seen, 
Each gay-hearted lad w ith the lass of his choos- 

And Pat without fail leads out sweet Kitty Neil. 
Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought of re- 
fusiug. 

And Felix Mageo put his pipes to his knee, 
And with flourish so free sets each couple in mo- 
tion : 



JOHN FRAyX'IS WALLER.—MKS. LOUISA S. 2ICC0HD. 



With a cheer aud a houiul the lads patter the grouud, 
The maids move around just like swans ou the 
ocean. 
Cheeks bright as the rose, feet light as the doe's, 

Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing : 
Search the world all around iiom the sky to tlie 
ground. 
No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dan- 
cing. 

Sweet Kate, who could view j-our bright ej-es of deei) 
blue. 
Beaming humidly through tlieir dark lashes so 
mildly. 
Your fair turn&l arm, heaving breast, rounded form. 
Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb 
wildly ? 
Young Pat feels his heart, as ho gazes, depart, 
Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet 
love : 
The sight leaves his eye as ho cries, with a sigh, 
" Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, 
love !" 



fllrs. £ouisa S. fllcCorir. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs. McCorcl (1S10-1S79) was the (laughter of Langdon 
Cheves, a distinguished lawyer and statesman, who as 
member of Congress helped Clay and Calhoun to cany 
the declaration of war in 1S13. She inherited much of 
her father's intellectual vigor, and wrote ably on politics 
and political economy, translating Bastian's well-kuown 
work. She married a proraiucut lawyer, the well-known 
author of" McCord's Reports." Her first essay in poe- 
try was a little volume entitled " My Dreams," published 
in 1S48. This was followed in 1851 by " Caius Gracchus," 
a tragedy in five acts, aboundiug in striking passages, 
full of noble thought aptly expressed. Though not writ- 
ten for the stage, it has many flashes of dramatic power. 
Born to affluence, literature was to her, however, a pas- 
time rather than a pursuit. A devoted daughter of the 
Slate of her birth, proud of its history, and sensitive to 
its honor, she generously gave her aid to the South in 
its struggle for independence, sincerely believing she was 
OQ the side of right. Her only son, Cheves McCord, fell 
gallantly in battle. To the mother's heart it was a fatal 
blow. She was a large contributor, both in money and 
personal efl'ort, to the hospitals and other institutions, 
and she lived to be cheered by the dawu of brighter 
prospects for South Carolina. 



WHAT USED TO BE. 

Happiness that ne'er was fading. 
Dreams that darkness ne'er was shadi 



Flowers that were not born to wither; 

These are things I used to see ! 
Fancy, aye the fnture wooing, 
Hope, her heavenward course pursuing, 
Pluming each unruffled feather ; 

These are things that used to be! 

But alas! their transient being, 

To the future's uight was fleeing; 

And when brightest they were fading, — 

Those bright things I used to see! 
Life, no more such pleasures giving; 
Memory, with onr present striving, 
All her stock of joys unlading, 

Points us to what used to be. 

But doth not this past deceive us, 
Cheating thus, with joys that leave us, 
Souls which have a higher duty 

Thau those things I used to see ? 
These were toys for youthful folly ; 
Life has duties high and holy, 
Kobed in Truth's, not Fancy's, beauty, 

Like those things that used to be. 

Duties holy — duties binding — 
Where the soul, its errors finding. 
Reason's light from Truth deriving. 

Learns, those things it used to see 
Were bnt beacon-lights, to guide us 
Where life's battle-fields betide ns; 
Where, in nobler efforts striving. 

We forget what used to be. 



THY WILL BE DOXE. 

Thy will be done! Almighty God, 
Our weakness knows no other prayer 

But this: "God's will be done I" 
We cannot shape our future good ; 
To mark thy mercy's bounds we fear: 

Father ! thy will be done ! 

Still to our weakness clinging fast. 
With naught to point or guide our way. 

We cry " God's will be done !" 
And 'mid the storm of life, — the blast 
Of warring tempest, still we say, 

"Father! thy will be done!'' 

.4.nd this the surest charm to lull 
The tempest in its raging miglit. 



G76 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Great God ! tby will bo doue ! 
Sliould universal nature fall 
To ■nTeck aud ruin, — 'mid its Niglit, 

Father! thy will be doue! 

Wo know that Thou caust guide us best ; 
Aud if we live, or if we die, 

Thy will, oh God! be doue! 
Our weakuess seeks on thee to rest, 
It loves to cliug to thee and cry, 

"Father! thy will be done!" 



PASSAGES FROM "CAItJS GRACCHUS." 

ORIGIN OF GREAT THOUGHTS. 

From bead aud heart alike great thoughts are born ; 

The truly noble cannot sever them : 

I'd shun the man who at his nature scoti's, 

Aud, tranipliug on his own divinity. 

Feels not the consciousness of human greatness. 

THE PEOPLE'S IIE.VRT. 

It is a noble duty to awake 
The heart of truth, that slumbers in them still. 
It is a glorious rigbt to rouse the sonl, 
The reasoning heart that iu a nation sleeps! 
Aud Wisdom is a laggard at her task, 
AVhen but iu closet speculations wrapped 
She doth forget to share her thought abroad. 
And make mankind her heii'. 

TRUTH THROUGH STRUGGLE. 

Each dirty rivulet its ripple brings. 

Which in the sweeping current mingling, drops 

Its dust aiul dross. Its purer part goes on, 

Aud on, aud on, — until at last the whole, 

]iy the great alchemy of reason, flows 

Pure — as it must be, from its origin ! 

Thought sprang from God; and all bestained with 

earth, 
Struggling aud creeping .still, at last the truth 
Is forced upon the day! The world's great mind. 
Though stumbling oft in error, must at last 
Work out its vex^d problem, and perfection, 
Wrought from reflected deity iu man. 
Burst snu-liko from the luist of error forth. 

NO GOOD EFFORT VAIN. 

For the right, 
Man, even in despair, should ever strive: 
The very efl'ort, howsoever vain, 
Is .'ilways something gained. To the great work 



It warms the blood of the world which wrestles ou 

Still against failure, like the strong 

Until the end of truth at last is reached. 



DEDICATION OF "CAIUS GRACCHUS." 

TO MY SON. 

Too young thou art to read a mother's heart ; 
Too young to guess that quenchless fount of love 
Which ever gushes forth in joy aud woe, 
Limitless, always ! If care-worn and sad, 
By want or sickness bowed almost to earth, — 
Or yet if triumphing iu life's success, 
Flattered, beloved, admired, — the mother finds 
(Be she true woman with a true woman's heart) 
No moment when that heart can idly rest 
From the long love which ever fetters it 
Iu boudage to her child ! — My boy, thine eye 
Some day ijerchance may fall upon these lines, 
And, catching here the shadow of my love, 
Thy soul may guess its fulness, and may feel, 
Through every struggle in this changing life, 
That, like a guardian angel hovering rouud, 
To comfort, check, — to pity, or to blame, — 
To chide, to hope, to pray, — it watching stands. 
But never to condemn! — A mother's heart 
Might throb itself away in patient woe, — 
Might break to end its pang, — but never, never. 
Could deem her child a thing of vice or shame. 
God bless thee, boy! aud m.ake thee stainle-ss, pure, 
Upright, and true, e'en as my thought doth paint 
thee! 



illargarct J^ullcr. 



AMERICAN. 

Sar.ah Margaret Fuller (1810-1850) is better known by 
her maicU'n name, tliouuh she became, by marriage at 
Rome in 1847, the Marchioness Ossoli. She was born in 
Cambridge, Mass., M.iy 33d. Educated by lier fatlier, 
slie became eminent for her rapid attainments in liter.v 
turc, her acquirement of languages, her general learning, 
and her brilliant conversational powers. In 1840 slic 
edited T/ic Dial; in 1844, became connected witli the Xcm 
Yoi'k Tribmic ; and in 1846 went to Itaiy as tlic corro- 
spontlcnt of that journal. In May, 1850, she embarked 
with lier husband and infant son at Legborn, in the sliip 
EUzabcl/i , (or New York, and perished with them in the 
wreck of that vessel on Fire Island. Her life was writ- 
ten by Ralph Wahlo Emerson, William Henry Channint', 
and James Freeman Clarke, each contributing bis indi- 
vidual view of her character. She was a woman of de- 
cided genins, bnt had so confident an estimate of her own 
powers, that her manner was at times too supercilious 



MAKGAEET FULLER.— JAMES FREEMAX CLARKE. 



G77 



toward inferior or undeveloped minds. Slie wrote but 
little poetry ; but wlmt she wrote is marked by the idi- 
osyncrasies of an independent thinker. She published 
" Summer on the Lakes " (1S43), "At Home and Abroad " 
(1S46), and several minor works. She lacked personal 
attractions, but in spite of this defect won the admira- 
tion of some of tlie most gifted of her contemporaries. 



SONNETS. 



I. OnPHEUS. 



Eacli Ofplieus must to tlie depths descend, 

For ouly thus tho poet cau l)e Tvise, — 

JInst make the .sad Perseplione liis friend, 

And buried love to second life arise ; 

Again his love must lose through too much love, 

Must lose his life by living life too true. 

For what he sought below is passed above, 

Already done is all that he would do ; 

Must tune all being with his single lyre, 

Must melt all rocks free from their iirini.al pain, 

Must search all Nature with his one soul's tire, 

Must bind anew all forms ia heavenly chain. 

If he already sees what he must do. 

Well may he shade his eyes from the far-shiniug view. 

II. BEETHOVEN. 

Most intellectual master of the art. 
Which, best of all, teaches the mind of mau 
The universe in all its varied plan — 
What strangely mingled thoughts thy strains impart ! 
Here the faint tenor thrills the inmost heart, 
There tlic rich bass tho Reason's balauco shows ; 
Hero breathes tho softest sigh that Love e'er knows ; 
There sudden fancies, seeming without chart. 
Float into wildest breezy interludes ; 
The past is all forgot — hopes sweetly breathe. 
And our whole being glows — when lo! beneath 
The flowery brink, Despair's deep sob concludes! 
Startled, we strive to free us from the chain, 
Notes of high triumph swell, and we are thine again! 



ON LEAVING THE WEST. 

Farewell, ye soft and sumptuous solitudes ! 

Ye fairy distances, ye lordly woods. 

Haunted by paths like those that Poussin knew. 

When after bis .all gazers' eyes he drew: 

I go — and if I never more may steep 

An eager heart in your enchautments deep, 

Yet ever to itself that heart may say, 

Be not exacting — thou hast lived one day — 



Hast looked on that which matches with thy mood, 
Impa-ssioned sweetness of full being's flood. 
Where nothing checked the bold yet gentle wave. 
Where naught repelled the lavish love that gave. 

A tender blessing lingers o'er the scene 
Like .some young mother's thought, fond, yet serene. 
And through its life new-born our lives have been. 
Once more farewell — a s.ad, a sweet farewell ; 
And if I never must behold you more. 
In other worlds I will not cease to tell 
Tho rosarj' I here have numbered o'er : 
And bright-haired Hope will lend a gladdened ear, 
And Love will free him from the grasp of Fear, 
And Gorgon critics, while the tale they hear, 
Shall dew their stony glances with a tear, 
If I but catch one echo from your spell : 
And so farewell — a gratefnl, sad farewell ! 



3amc5 Jrccman (HUavkc. 

AMERICAN. 

Clarke was born in 1810, in Hanover, N. H., where bis 
parents, residents of Boston, were accidentally on a visit. 
He graduated at Harvard College in 1829, and at the Cam- 
bridge Divinity School in 1833. He was pastor of a So- 
ciety in Louisville, Ky., from 1833 to 1840. He then re- 
turned to Boston, where he became liighly popular as a 
preacher. He is the author of several volumes of ser- 
mons, which have bad a wide circulation. He has writ- 
ten original poems of high merit as well as translations, 
very happily executed. On bis seventieth birthd.ay (April 
4, 1880), in reckoning up the personal friends to whom 
he had been intellectually indebted, Mr. Clarke remark- 
ed :" I am especially thankful to Margaret Fuller. From 
her I learned the power that is in us all, the mighty pow- 
ers of the human soul. She roused me to the value of 
life ; she taught me bow to live for an end, and a good 
one." See the poem by Holmes (page 655) on Clarke's 
birthday. 



PRAYER OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 

WRITTEN IN HER BOOK OF DEVOTIONS JUST BEFORE 
HER EXECUTION. 

"O Domine Dens! pperavi in te ; 
O care mi Jesu 1 nunc libera me. 
lu dura catena, iu niisera poena, 

Desidero te. 
Lauguendo, gemendo, et gennflectendo, 
Adoro, iniploro, ut liberes me !'' 

Oh Master and Maker! my hope is iu thee. 
My Jesus, dear Saviour ! now set my soul free. 
From this my hard prison, my spirit uprisen, 

So.ars upward to thee. 
Thus moaning, and groaning, and bending the knee, 
I adore, and implore that thou liberate me. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



THE EULE WITH NO EXCEPTION. 

After toe German of Goetue. 

Tell me, friend, — as you are bidden, — 
What is hardest to bo hidden ? 
Fire is hard. The smoke betrays 
Its place, by day — by night, its blaze. 
I will tell, as I am bidden, — 
FlliE is hardest to be hidden. 

I will tell, as I am bidden! 
Love is hardest to be hidden. 
Do your best, you can't conceal it ; 
Actions, looks, and tones reveal it. 
I will tell, as I am bidden, — 
Love is hardest to be hidden. 

I will tell, as I am bidden! 

POETUY cannot be hidden. 

Fire may snionlder, love be dead ; 

But a Poem must be read. 

Song intoxicates the Poet ; 

Ho will .sing it, he will show it. 

Ho must show it, ho must sing it. 
Tell the fellow then to bring it ! 
Though he knows you can't abide it, 
'Tis impossible to hide it. 
I will tell, as I am bidden, — 
Poems never can be hidden. 



WHITE-CAPPED WAVES. 

Wliite-capped waves far round the Oce.an, 
Leaping in thanks or leaping in pl.ay, 

All your bright faces, in happy commotion, 
Make glad matins this summer day. 

The rosy light through the morning's portals 
Tinges your crest with an August hue. 

Calling on us, thonght-prisonod mortals. 
Thus to live in the moment too. 

For, graceful creatures, yon live by dying. 
Save your life when you fling it away, 

Flow through all forms, all forms defying. 
And in wildest freedom strict rnlo obey. 

Show us your art, oh genial daughters 
Of solenm Oce.an, thus to combine 

Freedom and force of rolling waters 
With sharp observance of law divine. 



A EEMINISCENCE. 

"C'^tait en Avril, le Diinanche."— Ed. Paii.leiion. 

'Twas April; 'twas Sunday; the day was fair, — 

Yes! sunny and fair. 

And how happy was I ! 
You wore the white dress you loved to wear; 
And two little flowers wore hid in your hair — 

Yes ! in your hair — 

On that day — gone by ! 

We sat on the moss ; it was shady and dry ; 

Yes ! shady and dry ; 

And we sat in the shadow. 
W^e looked at the leaves, we looked at the sky; 
We looked at the brook which bubbled near by,- 

Yes! bubbled near by. 

Through the quiet meadow. 

A bird sang on the swinging vine, — 

Yes ! on the vine, — 

And then, — sang not; 
I took yonr little white hand in mine ; 
'Twas April ; 'twas Sunday ; 'twas warm sunshine, - 

Yes! warm sunshine: 

Have you forgot ? 



A SHELTER AGAINST STOKil AND RAIN. 

"Wer Weuis sucht, der fiudet Vicl." 
After tce German of Ruckert,' 

Only a shelter for my head I sought, 

Ono st<n-my winter night; 
To mo the blessing of my life was brought, 

Making the whole world briglit. 
How shall I thank thee for a gift so sweet, 

Oh dearest He^avenly Friend? 
I sought a resting-place for weary feet. 

And found my journey's end. 

Only the latchot of a friendly door 

My timid fingers tried ; 
A loving heart, with all its precious store, 

To me was opened wide. 
I asked for shelter from a passing shower, — 

My sun shall alw.ays shine! 
I would have sat beside the hearth an hour,-- 

And the whole heart was mine ! 



' For this graceful version, Mr. Clai-kc wns iiiilohti'il Id lii- 
dauslitei- Lilian. 



JJMES F. CLARKE.— WILLIAM H. CWANNINa.— EDMUND H. SEARS. 



679 



THE PERFECT WHOLE. 

After the German of Geibel, 

Live in that Whole to which all parts belong; 
Thus Beauty, Action, Truth, shall be thy dower. 
Compose thyself in God, and, so he strong, 
Since only iu life's fulness is its power. 
As, in a plant, leaves, flowers, and fruits must grow 
Out of one germ, each centred iu the whole, — 
Sii must Love, Thought, and Deed forever flow 
Forth from one fountain iu the human soul. 



lllilliam fjcnrw (llljanning. 

AMERICAN. 

CUanning, tlie neplicw anil biographer of the cele- 
brated divine, Dr. William Ellery Channing, and the son 
of Francis Dana Clianniiig, was born in Boston, M.iy 25th, 
1810. His biography of his uncle is written with marli- 
ed ability. His translations from the German are render- 
ed witli great skill. Clianning was settled for some time 
over a Unitarian Church in Liverpool ; tlien became a 
resident of London. In 1880 he revisited his native 
country, and forwarded the movement for a memorial 
church at Newport, R. I., in commeraoratiou of his uncle. 
His daughter is the wife of Edwin Arnold, the gifted Eng- 
lish poet. 



MIGNON'S SONG. 

From Goethe. 

Know'st thou the land where flowers of citron bloom? 
The golden orange glows through leafy gloom ? 
From the blue heavens the breezes float so bland ? 
The myrtles still, and tall the laurels stand? 
Know'st thou the land ? 

Oh there, — oh there ! 
Loved one, with thee I long to wander there. 

Know'st thou the house? Its roof the columns bear, — 
The polished floors, the halls so bright and fair, 
Where marble figures standing look on me; 
" Thou poorest child, what have they done to thee?" 
Know'st thou the house 1 

Oh there, — oh there! 
With thee, kind guardian, oh could I be there!" 

Know'st thou the mountain peak ? the airy bridge, 
Where loaded mules climb o'er the misty ridge ? 
In hollows dwell the serpent's ancient brood ; 
The rent crag rushes dowu the foaming flood : 
Know'st thou the nionnt ? 

Oh there, — oh there 
Lcadeth onr way — father, lead us there! 



OrDmuni) fjamilton Scars. 

AMERICAN. 
Sears (1810-1876) was a native of Berkshire, Mass. He 
graduated at Union College, Schcecctady, N. Y., in 1834, 
and at the Theological School in Cambridge in 1837. He 
became a Unitarian minister, and preached at Wayland, 
Mass., till 186.5, when he became pastor over the Society 
in Weston. He was the author of " Ath.anasia, or Fore- 
gleams of Immortality," a work highly esteemed both 
in England and America ; also, " The Fom-th Gospel the 
Heart of Christ." He visited England in 1873, where he 
was received with much kindness in religious circles. 
O. W. Holmes, the poet, pronounces the hymn we quote 
to be "one of the finest and most beautiful ever written." 



CHRISTMAS SONG. 
Calm on the listening ear of night 

Come Heaven's melodious strains, 
Where wild Judea stretches far 

Her silver-mantled plains ; 
Celestial choirs from, courts above 

Shed sacred glories there ; 
And angels with their sparkling lyres 

Make music on the air. 

The answering hills of Palestine 

Send back the glad reply, 
And greet from all their holy heights 

The day-spring from on high : 
O'er the blue depths of Galilee 

There comes .a holier calm. 
And Sharon waves, iu solemu praise, 

Her silent groves of palm. 

" Glory to God !" The lofty strain 

The realm of ether fills: 
How sweeps the song of solenni joy 

O'er Judah's sacred hills ! 
" Glory to God !" The sounding skies 

Loud with their anthems ring : 
" Peace on the earth ; good-will to men. 

From Heaven's eternal King !" 

Light on thy hills, Jerusalem ! 

The Saviour now is born: 
More bright on Bethlehem's joyous plains 

Breaks the fir.st Christmas moru ; 
And brighter on Moriah's brow, 

Crowned with her temiile-spires. 
Which first proclaim the new-born light, 

Clothed with its Orient fires. 

This day shall Christian lips bo mnte, 
And Christian hearts be cold? 



680 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Oil, catch tlie autbem that from heaveu 
O'er Jndah's moiuitaius rolled ! 

When nightly burst froiii scraph-harps 
The high and solemn lay, — 

" Glory to God ! on earth bo peace ; 
Salvation comes to-day !" 



THE ANGELS' SONG. 

It canio upon the midnight clear, 

That glorious song of old. 
From angels bending near the earth 

To touch their harps of gold : 
" Peace to the earth, good-will to meu 

From Heaven's all-gracioiis King :" 
The world in solemn stillness lay 

To hear the angels sing. 

Still through the cloven sky they come, 

With peaceful wings unfurled; 
And still their heavenly music lloats 

O'er all the weary world : 
Above its sad and lowly plains 

They bend on heavenly wing, 
And ever o'er its Babel sounds 

The blessdd angels sing. 

Yet with the woes of sin and strife 

The world has suffered long ; 
Beneath the angel strain have rolled 

Two thousand years of wrong ; 
And men, at war with men, hear not 

The love-song which they bring : 
Oh ! hush the noise, ye meu of strife, 

And hear the angels sing ! 

And ye, beneath life's crushing load 

Whose forms are bending low, 
Who toil along the climbing way 

With painful steps, and slow, — 
Look now ! for glad and golden hours 

Come swiftly on the wing : 
Oh ! rest beside the weary road, 

And liear the angels sing! 

For lo ! the days are hastening on. 

By prophet-bards foretold, 
When with the ever-circling years 

Comes round the ago of gold ; 
When Peace sli.'iU over all the earth 

Its ancient splendors fling. 
And the whole world send back the son^ 

Which now the angels sing. 



'^Ifrcb (Lcnnijson. 

The third son of the Rev. George Clayton Tennyson, 
D.D., Alfred, was born in the parsouage of Somersby 
(near Spilsby), in Lincolnshire, in 1810. He received his 
early education at the school of his native town. From 
thence both he and his elder brothers, Frederic and 
Charles, proceeded to Cambridge, entering at Trinity 
College when Dr. Whewell was tutor. In 1829 Alfred 
won the Chancellor's Medal for his poem in blank verse, 
entitled " Timbuctoo." While at Cambridge, Charles 
(who subsequently took the name of Tamer) and Alfred 
published privately a small volume of poems, which was 
favorably noticed by Coleridge. In 1830 Alfred put forth 
a volume entitled "Poems, chiefly Lyrical." It con- 
tained, among other pieces, "Claribel," tlio "Ballad of 
Oriana," "Lilian," and "The Merman." It commanded 
no immediate success, though the discerning few saw in 
it the promise of a new and original poet. 

In 1833 another volume appeared, and from that time 
Tennyson's fame began to broaden and flourish. It was 
greatly increased by the appearance in 1843 of a collec- 
tion of his smaller pieces, with the addition of "Lockslcy 
Hall," "Godiva," "Lady Clara Vcre de Vere," the "Lord 
of Burleigh," the "Two Voices," "Dora," "St. Simou 
Stylites," etc. His position among contemporary poets 
was now established. Wliatevor has appeared since has 
only extended and confirmed his reputation. In 1847, 
"The Princess" was published; in 18.50, the author's 
genius culminated in "In Memoriani," the most mem- 
orable of all his works, and the best suslaiucd poem of 
the kind in all literature. It was a tribute to the memo- 
ry of his college chum, Arthur Hallam, son of the histo- 
rian, and betrothed to the poet's sister Emily. Charlotte 
Bronte characterized the work as " beautiful but monot- 
onous ;" but the poet's skill is shown in making- his one 
theme so replete with interest and with profound I'cflee- 
tions on the destiny of man. Wordswortli died in 18.50, 
and tlie office of Poet-laureate was conferred upon Ten- 
nyson, with a pension of £200 per annum. In 1852 ap- 
peared his "Ode on the Death of the Duke of Welling- 
ton." In 1855, "Maud" was published; in 1858, the 
"Idyls of the King;" in 1804, "Enoch Arden ;" in 1875 
and 1876, his dramas of "Queen Mary" and "Harold." 

For many years Tennyson has lived in the midst of his 
f;\mily in retircment'at Freshwater, in the Isle of Wight, 
not wholly secure, however, from the intrusive curiosity 
of tourists and visitors to the island. 



EDWARD GRAY. 

Sweet Emnm Morcland, of yonder town. 
Met me walking on yonder way, 

"And have you lost your heart?" she said ; 
"And are you married yet, Edward Gray ?" 

Sweet Emma Morcland spoko to me : 
Bitterly w eeping I turned away : 

" Sweet Emma Morcland, lovo no more 
Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 



681 



" EUeu Adair she lovcil mo well, 

Against iier father's ami mutber's will : 

To-day I sat for an hour and wept 
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. 

" Shy she was, and I thought her cold ; 

Thought her proud, and lied over the sea ; 
Filled I was with folly and spite. 

When Ellen Adair was dying for lue. 

" Cruel, cruel the words I said ! 

Cruelly came they back to-day : 
'You're too slight and fickle,' I said, 

' To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.' 

" There I put my face iu the grass — 
Whispered, ' Listen to my despair : 

I repent me of all I did: 
Speak a little, Ellen Adair!' 

" Then I took a pencil, and wrote 

On the mossy stone, as I lay, 
' Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; 

And here the heart of Edward Gray !' 

" Love may come, and love may go, 
And f.y, like a bird, from tree to tree : 

But I will love no more, uo more, 
Till Ellen Adair come back to me. 

" Bitterly wept I over the stone : 
Bitteily weeping I turned away: 

There lies the body of Ellen Adair! 
And there the heart of Edward Gray!" 



GO NOT, HAPPY DAY. 



FaoM *' JIaud.' 



Go not, happy day, from the shining fields. 

Go not, happy day, till the maiden yields. 

Rosy is the West, rosy is the South, 

Roses are her cheeks, and a rose her mouth. 

When the happy Yes falters from her lips, 

Pass and blush the news o'er the blowing ships. 

Over blowing seas, over seas at rest. 

Pass the happy news, blush it through the West, 

Till the red man dance by his red cedar-tree, 

.-\nd the red man's babe leap, beyond the sea. 

Blush from West to East, blush from East to West, 

Till the West is East, blush it tlirough the West. 

Rosy is tho West, rosy is the South, 

Ruses are her cheeks, and a rose her mouth. 



WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. 

M.'^RCH 7tb, 1863. 

Sea-king's daughter from over tho sea, 

Alexaiulra ! 

Saxon and Norman and Dane are we. 

But all of us Danes in our welcome of thee, 

Alexandra! 

Welcome her, thunders of fort and of fleet! 

Welcome her, thundering cheer of the street ! 

Welcome her, all things youthful and sweet, 

Scatter the blossom under her feet ! 

Bieak, happy land, into earlier flowers! 

Make music, O bird, in the new-budded bowers! 

Blazon your mottoes of blessing and prayer ! 

Welcome her, welcome her, all that is ours ! 

Warble, O bugle, and trumpet, blare ! 

Flags, flutter out upon turrets and towers ! 

Flames, on the windy headland flare! 

Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire ! 

Clash, ye bells, iu tho merry March air ! 

Flash, ye cities, In rivers of fire ! 

Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and higher 

Melt into tlio stars for tlie land's desire ! 

Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice. 

Roll as the ground-swell dashed on tho strand, 

Roar as the sea when he welcomes the land. 

And welcome her, welcome the laud's desire, 

Tho sea-king's daughter, as happy as fair, 

Blissful bride of a blissful heir. 

Bride of the heir of the kings of tho sea — 

O joy to the people and joy to the throne, 

Come to us, love us, and make us your own ; 

For Saxon or Dane or Norman we. 

Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be. 

We are each all Dane iu our welcome of thee, 

Alexandra ! 



ASK ME NO MORE. 

From " Tue Princess : A Medley."* 

Ask me no more: the moon m.ay draw the sea; 
Tho cloud may stoop from heaven and take the 

shape, 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; 
But O too fond, when have I answered thee? 
Ask me no more. 

1 "The PrincesB" is a story of a prince nnd princess con- 
tr.icled by Iheii* parents without having seen each other. The 
lady repndiates the alliance ; but after a series of adventures 
and incidents, somewhat improbable and incolierent, she relents 
and surrenders. The mixture of modern ideas with those of 
the a^e of chivalry makes "The Princess" truly a viedley. 



6)52 



CYCLOFJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEFICAX FOETRY. 



Ask me no more ; what answer should I give ? 
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : 
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die ! 

Ask mo no more, lest I should hid thee live; 
Ask mo uo more. 

Ask mo no more ; thy fate and mine are sealed ; 

I strove agaiust the stream, and all in vain ; 

Let the great river take me to the maiu ; 
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; 
Ask me uo more. 



TO , 

AFTER I!E.\DING A LIFE AND LETTERS. 

" CaiBed be he that moves my bouea." 

Shakspcarti's Epitaph. 

You might have won the Poet's name — 
If such be worth the wiuning now — • 
And gained a laurel for your brow. 

Of sounder leaf than I can claim : 

But }'ou have made the wiser choice — 
A life that moves to gracious ends 
Through troops of unrecording friends — - 

A deedful life, a silent voice ! 

And yon have missed the irreverent doom 
Of those that wear the Poet's crown : 
Hereafter neither knave nor clown 

Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. 

For now the Poet cannot die, 
Nor leave his music as of old, 
But round him ere he scarce ho cold 

Begins the scandal and the cry : 

" Proclaim the faults ho would not show ! 

Break lock and seal ! betmy the trust ! 

Keep nothing sacred : 'tis but just 
The many-headed beast should kuow." 

Ah, shameless ! for he did but sing 

A song that pleased us from its worth ; 
No public life was his on earth, 

No blazoned statesman he, nor king. 

He gave the iieoplo of his best ; 

His worst he kept, his best he gave. 

My Sliakspeare's curse on clown and knave 

Who will not let his ashes rest ! 



Who make it seem more sweet to be, 
The little life of bank and brier, 
The bird that pipes his lone desire, 

And dies unheard within his tree. 

Than he th.at warbles long and loud 
And drops at Glory's temple-gates. 
For whom the carrion vulture waits 

To tear his heart before the crowd! 



GARDEN SONG. 
I. 
Come into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown ; 
Come into the garden, Maud, 

I am here at the gate alone ; 
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad. 
And the musk of the roses blown. 



For a breeze of morning moves. 

And the planet of Love is on high. 

Beginning to faint in the light that .slie loves, 
On a bed of daffodil sky. 

To faint in the light of the sun she loves, 
To faint in the light, and to die. 



All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon ; 
All night has the casement jessamine stirred 

To the dancers dancing in tune ; 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird. 

And a hush with the setting moon. 



I said to the lily, "There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be g.ay. 
Wlion will the dancers leave her alone? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone, 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

Tlio last wheel echoes away. 

V. 

I said to the rose, "The brief night goes 

In b.abble and revel and wine, 
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, 

For one that will never bo thine ? 
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, 

"For ever and ever, mine." 



ALFRED TEyX^YSOX. 



683 



I 



And tlie soul of the rose went into my Ijlood, 

As tlio music clashed iu the hall ; 
And long liy the gaiden lake I stood, 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow, aud on to the ■wood, 

Our wood that is dearer than all ; 



From the meadow your ^^■alks have left so sweet 
That, whenever a Marcli-wind sighs, 

He sets the jewel-print of your feet 
In violets blue as your eyes, 

To the woody hollows in which wo meet. 
And the valleys of Paradise. 



The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 
The white lake-blossom fell into th« lake 

As the jiimpernel dozed ou the lea ; 
Bnt the rose was awake all night for your sake. 

Knowing jour promise to me; 
The lilies and roses were all awake, 

They sighed for the dawn aud thee. 



Queen rose of the rose-lmd garden of girls, 
Come hither, the dances are done, 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 
Queen lily and rose in one ; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 



There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear; 

She is coming, nij' life, my fate; 
The red rose cries, " She is near, she is near ;" 

And the white rose weeps, " She is late ;" 
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear," 

And the lily whispers, "I wait." 



She is coming, ray own, my sweet; 

Were it ever so airy a tread 
My heart would hear her and beat. 

Were it earth in an earthy bed; 
My dust would hear her and beat. 

Had I lain for a century dead ; 
AVould .start and tremble under her feet, 

Aud blossom iu purple aud red. 



DE PKOFUNDIS. 

Out of the Deep, my child, out of the Deep: 
Where all that was to be iu all that was 
Whirled for a million a;ous through the vast, 
Waste dawn of multitudinous eddying light — 
Out of the deep, my child, out of the Deep ! 
Through all this changing world of changeless law. 
And every phase of ever heightening life. 
And nine long months of ante-uatal gloom. 
With this last moon, this crescent — her dark orb 
Touched with earth's light — thou comest, Darling 

Boy: 
Our Own ; a babe in lineament and limb 
Perfect, and prophet of the perfect man ; 
Whose face and form are hers aud 'mine in one, 
ludissolubly married, like our love ; 
Live and be happy iu thyself, aud servo 
This mortal race, thy kiu, so well that men 
May bless thee, as we bless thee, O young life. 
Breaking with laughter from the dark ; and may 
The fated channel where thy motion lives 
Be prosperously shaped, and sway thy course 
Along the years of haste aud random youth 
Unshattered — then full current through full man ; 
Aud last, in kindly curves, with gentlest fall. 
By quiet fields, a slowly dying power. 
To that last Deep where wo and thou are still. 
ISSO. 



BUGLE SONG. 



FaoM "The Pbincess." 



The splendor falls on castle walls. 

And snowy summits old in story ; 
The long light shakes across the lakes. 

And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying; 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying! 

Oh hark, oh hear! how thin and clear. 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 

Oh sweet aud far, from cliff and scar. 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 

Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying; 

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying! 

Oh love, they die in yon rich sky; 

They faint on hill, or field, or river : 
Oar echoes roll from soul to soul, 

Aud grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow ! set the wild echoes flying. 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying! 



C3'4 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THE FOOLISH VIRGINS. 

TnoM "Idyls of the King."' 

Late, late, so late ! aud dark the night aud chill ! 
Late, late, so late ! but we cau enter still. 
Too late, too late! ye caunot euter dow. 

No light had -ne : for that we do rcpeut ; 
And learning this, the Bridegroom will relent. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 

No light: so late! aud dark aud chill the night! 
Oh let us iu, that we may liud the light! 
Too late, too late ! ye caunot enter now. 

Have we not heard the Bridegroom is so sweet f 
Oh let us in, though late, to kiss his feet ! 
No, no, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 



CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 

Half a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward, 
All iu the valley of Death 

Rode the sis hundred. 
" Forward the Light Brigade ! 
Charge for the guns !" he said : 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

'•Forward the Light Brigade!" 
Was there a man dismayed? 
Not though the soldier knew 

Some one had hhindered : 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why. 
Theirs but to do and die, — 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
C'aimou to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them, 

Volleyed and thundered ; 
Stormed at with shut aud shell, 
Boldly they rode and well ; 
luto the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 

' This Artliilri:in romance, published in 1S58, consists of four 
]i'ieins (Enid, Vivien, Elaine, and (ininovre), written in pure, 
rtowin? l)Iank verse, and dedicated to the luemory of Prince 
Albert iu gome noble lines. 



Flashed all their sabres bare. 
Flashed as they turued iu air, 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wondered : 
Pluuged iu the battery-smoke. 
Right through the line they broke ; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reeled from the salire-stroke, 

Shattered aud sundered : — 
Theu they rode back — but not, 

Not the sis hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Caunou to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volleyed aud thiiudercd : 
Stormed at with shot and shell. 
While horse aud hero fell. 
They that had fought so well 
Came through the jaws of Death 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them. 

Left of sis hundred. 

When cau their glory fade ? 
Oh, the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wondered ! 
Honor the charge they made! 
Honor the Light Brigade. 

Noble six hundred! 



TURN, FORTUNE, TURN THY WHEEL. 

From *' Idyls op the King." 

Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud ; 
Turn thy wild wheel through sunshine, storm, aud 
cloud; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. 

Tiiiii, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown : 
With that wild wheel we go not up or di^B ; 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great. 

Smile, aud we smile, the lords of many lands; 
Frown, and wo smile, the lords of our own bauds; 
For man is man, and m.aster of his fate. 

Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd; 
Thy wheel aud thou are shadows in the cloud; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. 



ALFRED TENNYSOA'. 



685 



STANZAS' FROM "IN MEMOKIAM." 

I envy not hi any moods 

Tho captive voiil of uoblo rage, 
The linnet born within the cage, 

That never knew the /summer woods ; 



1 Tennyson has made the Stanza of *'In Memoriam" bo pe- 
culiarly his own, thut the verses of other jKiets who employ it 
now seem like imitations. But the Stanza was used by Ben 
JonsoiK It also appears in the followinjj remarkable poem, 
taken from the Lnttrell Collection of Broadsides. There is no 
indication of date or authorship; but the general tone of the 
composition, the allusions to the national desire for n/ree Par- 
liament, the mention of a commonwealth, and the absence of 
any reference to royalty, show that they must have been writ- 
ten by a Republican in the spring of 1C01>, during the temporary 
dictatorship of General Monk : — 

ENGLAND'S VOTE FOR A FUEE ELECTION AND A FREE 
PARLUMENT. 

Great God of Nations, and their Right, 
By whose high Auspice Brittain stands 
So long, though first 'twns built on Sands, 

And oft had sunk but fur Thy might ;— 

In her own 3Iainland-storms and Seas, 

Be present to her now as then. 

And let not proud and factitnis men 
Oppose thy will with what they please. 

Our Free full Senate's to be made : 

O, put it to the publick voice 

To make a legal worthy choice. 
Excluding such as would invade 

The Commonwealth. Let whom we name 
Have Wisd<ime, Foresight, Fortitude, 
Be more with Faith than Face endued ; 

And study Conscience above Fame ; — 

Such, as not seek to get the Start 
In State, by Faction, Power, or Bribes, 
Ambition's Bands. But move the Tribea 

By Virtue, Modesty, Desert ; — 

Such as to Justice will adhere, 
Whatever great one it offend : 
And from the embraced Truth not bend 

From Euvy, Hatred, Gifts, or Fear ;— 

That by their Deeds will make it known 

Whose Dignity they do sustain; 

And Life, State, Glory, all they gain. 
Count it Great Brittaiu's, not their own. 

Such the old Brnti, Decii were 
The Cippi, Cnrtii, who did give 
Themselves for Rome: and would not live. 

As men, good only for a year. 

Such were the great Camilli too. 
The Fabii, Scipi.is ; that still thought 
No work at price enough was bought. 

That for their country they could do: 

And to her honour so did knit. 

As all their Acts were nnderstood 

The Sinews of the Publick Good, 
And they themselves one soul with it. 

These men were truly Magistrates: 
These neither practised Force, nor Forms, 
Nor did they leave the helm in storms. 

And such they are make happy States. 



I envy not the bea.st that takes 
His license in the field of time, 
Unfettered by the sense of crime, 

To whom a conscience never wakes: 

Nor, what may count itself as blest, 
The heart that never plighted troth, 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth, 

Nor any waut-begotteu rest. 

I hold it true, whate'er befall; 

I feel it when I sorrow most; 

'Tis better to have loved and lost 
Thau never to have loved at all. 

5f * J+ Jf *, » 

thou that after toil and storm 

Mayst .seem to have reached a purer air, 
Whose faith has centre everywhere, 
Nor cares to fix itself to form. 

Leave thou thy sister, when she jirays, 
-Her early Heaven, her happy views; 
Nor thou with shadowed hint confuse 
A life that leads melodious days. 

Her faitli through form is pure as thine, 
Her hainls are quicker unto good. 
Oh, sacred- be the flesh and blood 

To which she liuks a truth divine ! 

See thou, that countest reason ripe " 

In holding by tho law within. 

Thou fail not in a world of sin. 
And ev'u for want of such a type. 

Do we iiuleed desire the dead 

Should still be near us at our side? 
Is there no baseness we would hide? 

No inner vileiicss tliat we dread? 

Shall he for whoso applause I strove, 
I had such reverence for his blame, 
See with clear eye some hidden shame, 

And I be lessened in his love ? 

1 wrong tho grave with fears untrue: 
Shall love be blamed for want of faith? 
There must be wisdom with great Death ; 

Tlie dead shall look me through and through. 

Be near us when we climb or full : 
Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours 
With larger, other eyes than ours, 

To make allowance for us iill. 



686 



CrCLOrjEDIA OF BRITISn AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Oh, yet we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill, 
To pangs of nature, sins of will. 

Defects of doubt, aud taints of blood. 

That nothing walks with aimless feet; 
That not one life shall be destroyed, 
Or cast as rubbish to the void. 

When God hath made the pile complete ; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold ! we know not anything ; 
I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last — far oif — at last, to all, 

Aud every winter change to spriug. 

So runs my dream : but what am 1 1 
An infant crying in the night : 
An infant crying for the light: 

Aud with no language but a cry. 

* * * if # i 

The wish that of the living whole 
No life nuiy fail beyond the grave, — 
Derives it not from what we have, 

The likest God within the soul ? 

Are God and Nature then at strife, 
That Nature lends such evil dreams ? 
So careful of the type she seems, 

So careless of the single life. 

That I considering everywhere 
Her secret meaning in her deeds. 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear — 

I falter where I firmly trod ; 

And, falling with my weight of cares 
Upon the great world's altar-stairs. 

That slope through darkness up to God. 

I stretch lame Iiaiuls of faith, and grope, 
And gather dust and chatf, aud call 
To what I feel is Lord of all. 

And fiiintly trust the larger hope. 
# « # » * 

Dip down upon the northern shore, 
O sweet new-year, delaying long: 
Thou doest expectant nature wrong ; 

Delaying long, delay no more. 



What stays thee from the clouded noons ? 

Thy sweetness from its proper place ? 

Can trouble live with April days, 
Or sadness in the summer moons ? 

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire. 
The little speedwell's darling blue, 
Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew. 

Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. 

thou, new-year, delaying long, 
Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 
That longs to burst a frozen bud, 

And ilood a fresher throat with song. 

1 shall not see thee. Daro I say 
No spirit ever brake the band 
That stays him from the native land 

Where first he walked when clasped in clay ? 

No visual shade of some one lost. 
But he, the Spirit himself, may come 
Where all the nerve of sense is numb ; 

Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost. 

Oh, therefore from thy sightless range 
With gods in unconjectured bliss. 
Oil, from the distance of the abyss. 

Of tenfold-complicated change, 

Descend, and touch, and enter ; hear 

The wish too strong for words to name ; 
That in this blindness of the frame. 

My Ghost may feel that thine is near. 

****** 

How pure at heart and sound in head. 
With what divine afi'ections bold. 
Should be the man whose thought would hold 

An hour's communion with the dead! 

In vain shalt thou, or any, call 
The spirits from their golden day, 
Except, like them, thou too canst say. 

My spirit is at peace with all. 

They haunt the sileuce of tlic breast, 

Imaginations calm aud fair, — 

The memory like a cloudless air. 
The conscience as a sea at rest ! 

But when the heart is full of din, 
And doubt beside the portal waits. 
They can but listen at the gates, 

And hear the household jar within. 



ALFRED TENNYSOX. 



687 



You say, but with uo touch of scorn, 

Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-hhie eyes 
Are teuder over drowniug dies, — 

You tell me doubt is Devil-boru. 

I know uot : oue indeed I knew 
In many a subtile question versed, 
Who touched a jarring lyre at first, 

But ever strove to make it true: 

Perplexed iu faith, but pure in deeds. 

At last he beat his music out. 

There lives more faith iu honest doubt, 
Believe me, than in half the creeds. 

He fought his doubts, and gathered strength. 
He would not make his judgraeut blind, 
He faced the spectres of the mind, 

And laid them : thus he came at length 

To tiud a stronger faith his own ; 

And Power was with him in the night. 
Which makes the darkness and the light, 

And dwells not iu the light alone. 

But iu the darkness and the cloud, 
As over Sinai's peaks of old. 
While Israel made their gods of gold, 

Although the trumpet blew so loud. 

King out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying clouds, the frosty light: 
The year is dying iu the night ; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring iu the new, — 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow : 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Ring out the false, ring iu the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind. 
For those that here we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor. 

Ring in redress to all mankiud. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause. 
And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring iu the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manuers, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
The faithless coldness of the times ; 
Ring out, ring out, my mourufid rhymes, 

But ring the fuller miustrel iu. 



Ring out false pride iu place and blood. 
The civic slander and the spite ; 
Ring iu the love of truth and right, 

Ring iu the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease. 
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 
Ring out the thousand wars of old, 

Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring iu the valiant man and free. 
The larger heart, the kindlier haiul ; 
Ring out the darkness of the land ; 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

That which we dare invoke to bless; 

Our dearest faith, our ghastliest doubt ; 

He, Thej', Oue, All ; within, without ; 
The power iu darkness whom we guess ; 

I found Him not in world or sun. 
Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye ; 
Nor through the questions men may try, 

The petty cobwebs we have sinin : 

If e'er, when faith had fallen asleep, 
I heard a voice, " Believe no more," 
And he.ard an ever-breaking shore 

That tumbled iu the Godless deep ; 

A warmth within the breast would melt 
The freezing reason's colder part. 
And like a man iu wrath, the heart 

Stood up and answered, "I have felt." 

No, like a child iu doubt and fear: 
But that blind clamor made me wise; 
Then was I as a child that cries, 

But, crying, knows his father near ; 

And Mhat I am beheld again 

What is, and no man understands ; 

And out of darkness came the hands 
That reach through nature, moulding men. 
# # ^ # * It 

Thy voice is on the rolling air ; 

I hear thee where the waters run ; 

Thou standest in the rising sun. 
And iu the setting thou art fair. 

What art thou theu 1 I cannot gness ; 
But though I seem iu star aud flower 
To feel thee some diffusive power, 

I do not therefore love thee less. 



668 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BEITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



My love involves tbe love before ; 

My love is vaster jiassion now ; 

Tliongh mixed with God and Nature tUon, 
I seem to love tliee more and more. 

Far off tliou art, but ever nigh; 
I liave tbee still, and I rejoice : 
I prosper, circled with thy voice; 

I shall not lose thee, though I die. 



TEARS, IDLE TEARS. 

From '* The Princess." 

Tears, idle tears, I kuow not what they mean ; 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes. 
In looking on the happy autnnni fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a, sail, 
That brings our friends up from the underworld. 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge ; 
So sad, so fresh, the d.ays that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 

The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 

To dying cars, when unto dying eyes 

The casement slowly grows .a glimmering square ; 

So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remembered kisses after death. 
And sweet as those by helpless fancy feigned 
On lips that arc for others ; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret, 
O Death in Life, the davs that are no more! 



FROM "THE GOLDEN YEAR." 

We sleep and wake and sleep, but all things move ; 
The Suu flies forward to his brother Sun ; 
The dark Earth follows wheeled in her ellipse ; 
And human things returning on themselves 
Move onward, leading up the golden year. 

Ah, though the times when some new thought can 

bud 
Arc but as poets' seasons when they flower, 
Yet seas that daily gain upon tlie shore 
Have ebb and flow eonditioiiiug their march, 
And slow and sure comes up the golden year, — 



When we.alth no more shall rest in mounded heaps. 

But smit with freer light shall slowly melt 

In many streams to fatten lower lands. 

And light shall spread, and man be liker mau, 

Through all the seasons of the golden year. 

Shall eagles not be eagles ? wreus be wrens ? 
If all the world were talcons, what of that ? 
The wonder of the eagle were the less, 
Bnt he not less the eagle. Happy days 
Roll onward, leading up the golden year.' 

Fly, h.appy, happy sails, and bear the Press — 
Fly, happy with the mission of the Cross : 
Knit land to laud, and, blowing havenward. 
With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear of toll. 
Enrich the markets of the golden year. 

But we grow old. Ah, when shall all men's go<id 
Be each man's rule, and universal peace 
Lie like a shaft of light across the land. 
And like a laue of beams athwart the sea. 
Through .ill the circle of the golden year ? 



i?aincG fjaniiasjii) Perkins. 

AMERICAN. 

Perkins (1810-1849), a native of Boston, was bred to 
mercantile pursuits, but nut fiiulins- them congenial, went 
to Cincinnati and studied law. This he forsook for lit- 
erature, edited various publications, and contributed to 
reviews and masazines. He flually accepted tbe office 
of niinister-at-l;uge in Cinehinati, and gave a practical 
direction to the charities of the city. He was, the first 
President of tbe Cincinnati Historical Society (184i). 
Of a highlj' sensitive temperament, be was thrown into 
a state of nervous agitation by tlic supposed loss of liis 
children, and, while thus depressed, leaped from a ferry- 
bout into the river, and was drowned. 



ON LAKE MICHIGAN. 

Sink to my heart, bright evening skies! 

Y'e waves that rouud mo roll, 
With all your golden, crimsou dyes ; 

Sink deep into my soul I 
And ye, soft-footed stars, — that conn; 

So silently at even. 
To make this world awhile your home, 

And bring us nearer he.aveii, — 
Speak to my spirit's listening ear. 

With your calm tones of beauty. 
And to my darkened mind make clear 

My errors and my duty. 



JAMES HANDASYD PEEEIJSIS.—THEODOEE PARKER. 



689 



Sink to my heart, sweet evening skies ! 

Ye tlarkeuiug w.aves tliat roll 
Around me, — ye departing dyes, — 

Sink to my inmost sonl ! 
Teacli to my heart of hearts the truth, 

Unknown, thongh knoyn so well, 
Tliat in each feeling, act, and thonght 

God works by miracle. 
And ye, soft-footed stars, that come 

So quietly at even. 
Teach me to nse this world, my home, 

So as to make it heaven ! 



THE UPRIGHT SOUL. 

Late to our town thei'e came a maid, 
A noble woman, true and pure. 

Who in the little while she stayed 
Wrought works that shall endure. 

It was not anything she said — 

It was not anything she did: 
It was tlie movement of her head, — 

The lifting of her lid:— 

Her little motions when she spoke, — 
The presence of an npright soul, — 

Tlie living light that from her broke, — 
It was the perfect whole ! 

We saw it in her tloating hair, 
Wo saw it in her laughing eye ; 

For every look and feature there 
Wronght works that cannot die. 

For she to many spirits gave 

A reverence for the true, the jjure, 

The perfect, — that has power to save. 
And make the doubting sure. 

She passed — she went to other lands, 
Slie knew not of the work she did ; 

Tlie wondrous product of her hands 
From her is ever hid. 

Forever, did I say ? Oh, no! 

The time must come when she will loolc 
Upon her pilgrimage below ; 

And find it in God's book, — 

That, as she trod Iior putli aright. 
Power from her very garments stole ; 
44 



For such is the mysterious might 
God grants tlie npright soul. 

A deed, a word, our careless rest, 

A simple thought, a common feeling. 

If He be present in the breast. 
Has from Him powers of healing. 

Go, maiden, with thy golden tresses, 
Thine azure eye and changing cheek, 

Go, and forget the one who blesses 
Thy presence through the week ; — 

Forget him : he will not forget, 
lint strive to live and testify 

Thy goodness, when Earth's sun has set. 
And Time itself rolled by. 



iTIjcoliore |Jarl\cr. 



Known rattier as a preacher than a poet, Parker (1810- 
ISBO) gave evidence of rich poetic sensibility not only in 
his discourses but in some few poems that he left. He 
was a native of Lexington, Mass., passed a year at Har- 
vard College, and entered the Cambridge Divinity School 
in 1834. He was a great linguist, an ardent reformer, and 
one of the most eloquent of the advocates of a simple 
theism in religion. His large collection of books — over 
13,000 volumes — was given by him to the Boston Public 
Library. 



THREE SONNETS. 

1. THE W.\Y, THE TUUTII, THE LIFE. 

Thou great Friend to all the sous of men. 

Who once appear'dst in humblest guise below. 

Sin to rebuke, to break the captive's chain. 

To call thy bretliren forth from want and woe ! — 

Thee would I sing. Thy truth is still the light 

Which guides the nations groping on their way. 

Stumbling and falling in disastrous night, 

Yet hoping ever for the perfect day. 

Y'es, thou art still the life ; thou art the way 

The holiest know, — light, life, and way of heaven ; 

And they who dearest hope and deepest pray 

Toil by the truth, life, way, that thou hast given ; 

And in thy name aspiring mortals trust 

To uplift their bleeding brothers from the dust. 

II, THE S.WIOUR'S GOSPEL, 

O Brother, who for ns didst meekly wear 

The crown of thorns about thy radiant brow, — 



G90 



CTCLOrJEDtA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



What gospel from the Father tlitlst thou bear, 
Our hearts to cheer, making us happy now ? 
" 'Tis this aloue," the immortal Saviour cries : 
" To fill thy heart with ever-active love, — 
Love for the wicked as in siu he lies, 
Love for thy brotlier here, thy God above, — • 
And thus to find thy earthly, heavenly jirize. 
Fear nothing ill ; 'twill vanish in its day : 
Live for the good, taking the ill thou must ; 
Toil with thy might; with manly labor pray; 
Living and loving, learn thy God to trust. 
And he will shed upon thy soul the blessings of the 
just." 

III. THE HIGHER GOOD. 

Father, I will not ask for wealth or fame. 
Though once they would have joyed my carnal 

sense : 
I shudder not to bear a hated name. 
Wanting all wealth, myself my sole defence. 
But give me. Lord, eyes to behold the truth ; 
A seeing sense that knows the eternal right ; 
A heart with pity filled, and gentlest ruth; 
A manly faith that makes all darkness light : 
Give mo the power to labor for mankind ; 
Make mo the mouth of such as cannot speak ; 
Eyes let me be to groping men, and blind ; 
A conscience to the base ; and to the weak 
Let me be hands and feet; and to the foolish, mind ; 
And lead still farther on such as thy kingdom seek. 



HYMN. 

In darker d.ays and nights of storm. 
Men knew thee but to fear thy form ; 
And in the reddest lightning saw 
Thine arm avenge insulted law. 

In brighter days we read thy lovo 
In flowers beneath, in stars above ; 
And in tlie track of every storm 
Behold thy beauty's rainbow form. 

And in the reddest lightning's path 
We see no vestiges of wrath. 
But always wisdom, — perfect love. 
From flowers beneatli to stars above. 

See, from on higli sweet influence rains 
On palace, cottage, mountains, plains; 
No hour of wrath shall mortal fear, 
For thon, the God of Love, art here. 



lllillis a?aulorii (Ulark. 

AMERICAN. 

Clark (1810-1841) was regarded as quite a poetical ce- 
lebrity in his day. lie was twin brother of Lewis Gaj- 
lord Clai'lc, editor for nearly thirty years of the Knicker- 
bocker Magazine, and who died in 1ST3— a delightful com- 
panion and amiable man, whose specialty was a quick, 
discriminating humor, rising often into wit. They were 
born at Otisco, N. Y. Willis settled in Philadelphia, 
where he edited the Gazette, and wrote poems, a complete 
edition of which was published iu New York in 1S47. 
He also contributed a series of literary miscellanies, un- 
der tlie title of" Ollapodiana," to his brother's magazine. 
These were collected intoa volume, and published in IS44. 



"THEY THAT SEEK ME EARLY SHALL FIND 
ME." 

Come, while the blossoms of thy years are brightest, 

Thou youthful wanderer in a flowery maze ; 
Come, while the restless heart is bounding lightest. 

And joy's pure sunbeam trembles in thy ways ; 
Come, while sweet thoughts, like summer buds un- 
folding. 

Waken rich feelings iu the careless breast ; 
While yet thy hand, the ephemeral wreath is holding. 

Come aud secure interminable rest. 

Soon will the freshness of thy days be over, 

And thy free buoyancy of soul be flown ; 
Pleasure will fold her wing — aud friend aud lover 

Will to the embraces of the worm have gone ! 
Tliose who now love thee will have passed forever — 

Their looks of kindness will bo lost to thee : 
Thou wilt need b.alm to heal thy spirit's fever, 

As thy sick heart broods over years to be ! 

Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing. 

Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die; 
Ere the gay spell, which earth is round thee tlirowing, 

Fades like the crimson from a sunset sky. 
Life is but shadows — save a promise given 

That lights the future with a fadeless ray; 
Come, touch tlie sceptre — win a hope in Heaven — 

And turn thy spirit from this 'world away. 

Then will the shadows of this brief existence 

Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul — 
And, shadowed brightly in the forward distance, 

AVill, of thy patient race, appear tlie goal ; 
Homo of the weary, where in glad reposing. 

The spirit lingers in unclouded bliss. 
While o'er his dust the curtained grave is closing : — 

Wlio would not carhj choose a lot like this? 



JAMES ALDRICH.— MARTIN FARQUHAK TCVPER.— ROBERT MILLER. 



vai 



JJitmcs ^Ibricl). 



Aldi-ich (1S10-1S50) was a native of Suffolk County, 
N. T. He engaged early in mercantile pursuits, but left 
tliem for literature, and was employed as a writer for 
various periodicals. Gentle, amfable, and refined, lie was 
mucli esteemed socially, as well as for his delicate wit 
and keeu sense of humor. 



A DEATH-BED. 

Her sufFeriug ended with the day, 

Yet lived she at its close, 
And breathed the long, long uight away, 

lu statue-like repose. 

But when tho suu in all bis state 

Illumed the eastern skies, 
She iiassed throngh Glory's morning-gate, 

And walked in Paradise. 



TO ONE FAR AWAY. 

Swifter far than swallow's fliglit 
Homeward o'er the twilight lea. 

Swifter than the morning light, 
Flashing o'er the pathless sea, — 

Dearest! in tho lonely night. 
Memory flies away to thee ! 

Stronger far than is desire, 
Firm as truth itself can be, 

Deeper tliau earth's central fire, 
Boundless as tbe circling sea, — 

Yet as mute as broken lyre 
Is my love, dear wife, for thee ! 

Sweeter far than miser's gain. 
Or than note of fame can be 

Unto one who long in vain 
Treads tho path of chivalry, 

Are my dreams, in which again 
My fond arms encircle thee ! 



fllartin Jarquljar (iTupper. 

Tapper was born in London in ISIO, and had a collegi- 
ate education at Oxford. He tried the law, but gave it 
up for literature. He wrote "Proverbial Philosophy," 
which first appeared in 1838; but supplements to it ap- 
peared in 1S43 and 1867. Its success was remarkable. 



In the United States alone the sale of the first two series 
reached five hundred thousand copies. Suddenly tlm 
wind shifted, and Tupper was as unjustly depreciated as 
he had been praised. He became tlie butt of the news- 
papers, English and American. He made two visits to 
the United States. AV. C. Bryant, tlic poet, stood his firm 
friend to the last. We give one of the best of the pas- 
sages we find in " Proverbial Pliilosophj'." 



CARPE DIEJI. 

Oh, bright presence of To-d.ay, let me wrestle with 

thee, gracious angel ! 
I will not let thee go except thou ble.ss me ; bless 

mc, then, To-day! 
Oh, sweet garden of To-day, let mo gather of thee, 

precious Eden ; 
I have stolen bitter knowledge, give me fruits of 

life To-day. 
Oh, true temple of To-day, let me worship in thee. 

glorious Zion ; 
I find none other place nor time than where I am 

To-day. 
Oh, living rescue of To-day, let me run into thee, 

ark of refuge ; 
I see none other hope nor chance, but standeth iu 

To-day. 
Oh, rich banquet of To-dny, let mc feast upon thee, 

saving manna ! 
I have none other food nor store but daily bread 

To-day. 

Hobcrt illillcr. 

A native of Glasgow, Scotland, and educated for the 
legal profession. Miller (1810-1834) contributed verses to 
the periodicals, but did not live to collect them into a 
volume. He did not reach the age of twenty-jive. 



WHERE ARE THEY? 

Tlie loved of early days. 

Where are they ? — where ? 
Not on the shining braes. 

The mountains bare ; — 
Not where the regal streams 

Their foam-bells cast — 
Where childhood's time of dreams 

-•Vnd sunshine passed: — 

Some in the mart, and some 

In stately halls, 
With the ancestral gloom 

Of ancient walls ; 



692 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH JXD AMEEICAX POETRY. 



Some where the tcniiiest sweeps 

The desert waves ; 
Some where the myrtle weeps 

Ou EouKUi graves ! 

And pale young faces gleam 

With solemn eyes : 
Like a remembered dream 

The dead arise ; 
111 the red track of war, 

The restless sweep ; 
In sunlit graves afar, 

The loved ones sleep. 

The braes are dight with llowei-s, 

The mountain streams 
Foam past me in the showers 

Of sunny gleams ; 
But the light hearts that cast 

A glory there, 
111 the rejoicing past. 

Where are they ? — where ? 



lllilliam illillcr. 

Miller (1S10-1ST2) was a native of Glasgow, Scotland. 
At sixteen he was apprenticed to a wood-turner, and be- 
came quite an accomplished artist. In 1863 he publish- 
ed "Scottish Nursery Songs, and other Poems," of which 
Robert Buchanan says:' "I can scarcely conceive a pe- 
riod when Slillcr will be forgotten ; certainly not until 
the Scotch Doric is obliterated, and the lowly nursery 
abolished forever." 



WILLIE WINKIE. 

AVcc Willie Winkle 

Kins through the toun, 
Up-stairs and doun-stairs 

In his nicht-goun ; 
Tilling at the window, 

Crying at the lock, 
"Are the weans in their bed. 

For it's now ten o'clock ?" 

" Hey, Willie Winkie, 

Are ye comiu' hen ? 
Tlie cat's singing gay thrums 

To the sleeping hen ; 
The dog's spoldored on the floor, 

And disua gic a cheep : 
But here's a waukrife laddie 

That winna fa' asleep." 



Ouything but sleep, you rogue ! 

Glowering like the moon, 
Rattling in an airn jug 

AVi' an aim spoon, 
Eumbliu', tumblin', round about, 

Crawing like a cock, 
Skirliu' like a kenua-vvhat, 

Waukniu' sleeping folk. 

Hey, Willie Winkie — 

The wean's in a creel ! 
W^amblin' aff a body's knee 

Like a very eel; 
Enggin' at the cat's lug, 

Rav'llin' a' her thrums — 
Hey, Willie Winkie— 

See, there he comes ! 

Wearied is the mither 

That has a stoorie wean, 
A wee stumpie stousie. 

That canna rin his lane. 
That has a battle aye wi' sleep. 

Before he'll close an e'e — 
But a kiss frae aft" his rosy lips 

Gies strength anew to me. 



fjcuvn ^IfovLi. 

Alford (lSlO-1871) wns a nntive of London. He w.is 
the author of " Poems and Poeticil Fnigmcuts" (1831) ; 
"The School of the Heart, and other Poems" (1835); 
also of many minor pieces in verse. His Life, written 
by his widow, appc;n'ed in 1873. As a divine and a schol- 
ar his reputation was high. 



A MEMORY. 

The sweetest flower tliat ever .saw the light. 
The smoothest stream that ever wandered by. 
The fairest star upon the brow of night. 
Joying and sparkling from his sphere on high. 
The softest glances of the stockdove's eye, 
The lily pure, the mary-bufl gold-bright. 
The gush of song that floodeth all the sky- 
From the dear flutterer mounted out of sight, — 
Are not so pleasure-stirring to the thought, 
Not to the wounded soul so full of balm. 
As one frail glimpse, by painful straining caught 
Along the past's deep mist enfolded calm, 
Of that sweet face, not visibly defined, 
But rising elearlv on the inner mind. 



ISAAC MCLELLAN.— ROBERT HISCKLET MESSINGER. 



693 



ilsaac iHc£cllan. 



AMERICAN. 

Born in Portland, Maine, in ISIO, McLclIan was edu- 
cated at Bowdoin College, where he was graduated in 
1826. He studied law in Boston, but never engaged ac- 
tively in the profession. In ISSrf he published "The Fall 
of the Indian;" in 1833, "The Tear, and other Poems;" 
and in 1844 a third volume of miscellaneous pieces. He 
has been for some j'cars a resident of Long Island. 



THE NOTES OF THE BIKDS. 

Well do I love those various harmonies 
That ring so gayly iu spring's budding woods, 
Aud in the thickets, aud green, quiet haunts, 
And lonely copses of the summer-time, 
And in red autumn's ancient solitudes. 

If thou art pained with the world's noisy stir. 
Or crazed with its mad tumults, aud weighed down 
With any of the ills of human life, — 
If thou art sick and nveak, or mourn'st the loss 
Of brethren gone to that far distant land, 
To which we all do pass, gentle and jioor, 
The gayest and the gravest, all alike, — 
Then turn into the peaceful wood.s, and hear 
The thrilling music of the forest-birds. 

How rich the varied choir! The unquiet tinch 
Calls from the distant hollows, and the wren 
Uttereth her sweet aud mellow plaint at times. 
And the thrush monrueth where the kalmia hangs 
Its crimsou-siiotted cups, or chirps half-hid 
Amid the lowly dog-wood's snowy tlowers. 
And the blue jay flits by, from tree to tree. 
And, spreading its rich pinions, fills the ear 
With its shrill-sounding and unsteady cry. 

With the sweet airs of spring the robin comes. 
And in her simple song there seems to gush 
A strain of sorrow when she visiteth 
Her last year's withered nest. But when the gloom 
Of the deep twilight falls, she takes her perch 
Upon the red-stemmed hazel's slender twig, 
That overhangs the brook, and suits her song 
To the slow rivulet's incoustant chime. 

In the last days of autumn, when the corn 
Lies sweet aud j-ellow iu the harvest-field, 
Aud the gay company of reapers bind 
The bearded wheat in .sheaves, — then peals abroad 
The blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear. 
Bold plunderer, thy mellow burst of song 
Float from thy watch-place on the mossy tree 
Close at the cornfield's edge. — Lone whip-poor-will. 
There is much sweetness iu thy fitful hymn. 
Heard in the drowsy watches of the night. 



Ofttimes, when all the village lights are out, 
Aud the wide air is still, I hear thee chant 
Thy hollow dirge, like some recluse who takes 
His lodging in the wilderuess of woods. 
And lifts his anthem wheu the world is still. 



Uobevt loiiuklci) illcssiiicicr. 

AMERICAN. 

Messingcr (1811-1874), a native of Boston, Mass., was 
educated at the Latin and High Schools. Ho entered 
the counting-house of his brother, a New York mer- 
chant, and was associated with him several years. Hav- 
ing literary and artistic tastes, he became a man of va- 
ried accomplishments, and a favorite iu the choicest so- 
ciety. His often-quoted poem, "Give Mc the Old," ap- 
peared first iu the JVcie York American of April 2Cth,1838, 
then edited by Charles King, afterward President of Co- 
lumbia College. In all American collections, except the 
present, the poem is marred by the omission of the last 
four lines, which we have restored. Messinger never 
aspired to be more than an amateur in poetry. He nev- 
er published a volume, and his verses were all put forth 
anonymously. The friends to whom he refers in the 
poem we quote were Walter and William Weyman, of 
New York; Captain Frederick A. Smith, of the United 
States Corps of Engineers; and Stuart Maitland, of Scot- 
land, the "ato-fjo," who resided at the time in New York. 



A WINTER WI.SH. 

"Old wine to driuk, old wood to burn, tiUl Ijnnks to read, and 
old friends lo converse with." — Aifonzo of Castile. 

Old wine to drink ! 
Ay. give the slippery juice. 
That drippeth from the grape thrown loose. 

Within the tun ; 
Plucked from beneath the clitT 
Of sunny-sided Teneriffc, 

And rii>ened 'neath the blink 
Of India's sun ! 
Peat-whiskey hot, 
Tempered with well-boiled water ! 
These make the long night shorter, — 

Forgetting not 
Good stout old English porter! 

Old wood to burn ! 
Ay, bring the hill-side beech. 
From where the owlets meet and screech. 

And raveus croak ; 
The crackling pine, and cedar sweet I 
Bring, too, a clump of fragrant peat, 
Dug 'neath the fern ! 
Tlic knotted oak ! 



C'Ji 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BIlITISn AND AilEEICAN POETIiT. 



A fagot too, iierliap, 
AVhose bright flame dauciug, ^iukiug, 
Shall light us at our driuking ; 

While the oozing sap 
Shall make swoct music to our thinkiug ! 

01(1 books to read ! 
Ay, bring those nodes of ^vit. 
The brazeu-clasped, the vellum-writ, 

Time-honored tomes! 
The same my sire scanned before. 
The same my graudsire thumbed o'er. 
The same his sire from college bore — 
The -n-ell-earued meed 

Of Oxford's domes; — 
(Old Homer blind. 
Old Horace, rake Auacroon, liy 
Old Tully, Plautus, Tereuco lie,—) 
Mort Arthur's olden minstrelsie ; 
Qnaiut Burton, quainter Spenser, ay, 
And Gervase Markhani's veuerie ! 

Nor leave bcliind 
The Holye Booke by which we live and die! 

Old friends to talk ! 
Ay, bring those chosen few, 
The wise, the courtly, and the true, 

So rarely found ! 
Him for my wine, him for my stud, 
Him for my easel, distich, bud 
In mountain walk ! 

Bring Walter good, 
With soulful Fred, and learndd Will; 
And thee, my altir ffjo (dearer still 

For every mood!) — 

Tlieso add a Donqnet to my wine! 

These add a sparkle to my pine ! 

If these I tine,' 

Can books, or fire, or wine bo good ? 



i^vanccs ^niu Ixcmblc. 

A daughter of Charles Kemble, the actor, and niece 
of the more distinguished Jlrs. Siddons and John Pliilip 
Keinblc, Fanny, as she was called, was born in London 
in 1811. She became an actress, and made qnitc a liit 
as Bianca in Mihnan's "Fazio;" also in the Julia of 
Knowlcs's " Ilnnchliack." In 1833 she visited the United 
States with her father, and brought out these and otlier 
plays at the principal tlieatres with success. She mar- 
ried Pierce Butler, of Philadelphia; but in 1849 was di- 
vorced, aiul resumed her family name. She has written 

' 111 Scotch, to tine is to lose. See its use by Richard Gall, 
liagc 331. 



plays, poems, and books of travel ; and late in life an 
interesting account of her own career and varied expe- 
riences. She has shown superior talents in her varied 
productions. 



LINES WRITTEN IN LONDON. 

Struggle not with thy life ! — the heavy doom 
Resist uot, it will bow thee like a slave : 

Strive uot ! thou shalt uot conquer ; to thy tomb 
Thou shalt go crushed and ground, though ue'er 
so brave. 

Complain uot of thy life! — for what art thou 
More thau thy fellows, that thou should'st uot 
weep ? 

Brave thoughts still lodge beneath a furrowed brow, 
Aud the way-wearied have the sweetest sleep. 

Marvel not at thy life ! — patience shall see 
Tlie perfect work of wisdom to her given ; 

Hold fast thy soul through this high mystery, 
Aud it shall lead thee to the gates of heaveu. 



WRITTEN AFTER LEAVING WEST POINT. 

The hours are past, love. 
Oh, fled they uot too fast, love ! 
Those happy hours, when down the monntain-side 
We saw the ro.sy mists of morning glide. 
And, haud-in-hand, went forth upon our way. 
Full of young life and hope, to meet the day. 

The hours are past, love, 
Oh, fled they not too fast, love ! 
Those sunny hours, when from the mid-day heat 
Wo sought the water-fall with loitering feet. 
And o'er the rocks that lock the gleaming pool 
Crept down into its depths, so dark aud cool. 

The hours are past, love ; 
Oh, fled they not too fast, love ! 
Those solemn lionrs, when through the violet .sky, 

Alike without a cloud, without a ray. 
The round red autumn moon came glowingly, 
While o'er the leaden waves our boat made way. 

The hours are past, love ; 
Oh, fled they not too fast, love ! 
Those blessed hours wheu the bright day was past, 

Aud in the world we seemed to wake alone. 

When heart to heart beat throbhingly and fa.st, 

And love was melting our two souls in one. 



Ai:riirn henby u.illa.v.^ti-illijm makepeace tbaceeray. 



695 



^rtljur C)enrj) fjallam. 

HuUam, wlio was born in London in 1811, and died in 
Vienna in 1833, was a son of tlie eminent historian, Hen- 
ry Hallam. He distinsuisbed bimself at Eton, and at 
Trinity College, Cambridge ; and was the author of sev- 
eral essays and poems full of ^-^rmise, whieb were col- 
lected and piiblislied by bis father in 1834. Betrothed to 
Emily Tennyson, a sister of the three poets, be was tlie 
subject of Alfred's " In Memoriam." He bad been one 
of Coleridge's favorites, and at Abbotsford became known 
to Sir Walter Scott. Loekliart says of him : "Mr. Hal- 
lam had with him bis son Arthur, a young gentleman of 
extraordinary ability, and as modest as able." Politics, 
literature, philosophy, he discussed with a metaphysical 
subtlety marvellous in one so young. His father, who 
was devotedly attached to him, aud in whose arms he 
died, said, " He seemed to tread the eartli as a spirit 
from some better world." Arthur had a brother, Henry 
Fitzmauriee nalhun, wIjo also died young. 



SONNETS. 

blessing antl delight of my young heart, 
Maiden, who wast so lovely and so pure, 

1 know not in what region now thou art, 
Or whom thy gentle eyes in joy assure. 

Not the old hills on which we gazed together. 
Not the old faces which we both did love, 
Not the old books whence knowledge we did gather, 
Not these, but others now thy fancies move. 
I would I knew thy present hopes and fears, 
All thy companions with their jileasant talk, 
And the clear aspect which thy dwelling wears ; 
So, though iu body absent, I might walk 
With thee iu thought and feeling, till thy mood 
Did sanctify my own to peerless good. 



Still here — thou hast not faded from my sight, 
Nor all the music round thee from mine ear: 
Still grace flows from thee to the brightening year, 
And all the birds laugh out in -wealthier light. 
Still am I free to close my happy eyes. 
And paint upon the gloom thy mimic form. 
That soft white neck; that cheek in beauty warm. 
And brow half hidden where yon ringlet lies: 
With, oh ! the blissful knowledge all the while 
That I can lift at will each curved lid, 
And my fair dream most highly realize. 
Tlie time will come, 'tis ushered by my sighs. 
When I may shape the dark, but vainlj' bid 
True light restore that form, those looks, that smile. 



The garden trees are bnsy with the shower 
That fell ere sunset : now methiuks they talk. 



Lowly aud sweetly as befits the hour, 
One to another down the grassy walk. 
Hark! the laburnum from his opening flower. 
This cherry creeper greets iu whisper light. 
While the grim fir, rejoicing iu the night. 
Hoarse mutters to the murmuring sycamore. 
What shall I deem their converse ? Would they hail 
The wild gray light that fronts yon massive cloud. 
Or the half bow, rising like the pillared fire t 
Or are they sighing faintly for desire 
That with May dawu their leaves may be b'erflowed. 
And dews about their feet may uever fail ? 



TO ALFRED TENNYSON. 

Alfred, I would that you beheld me now. 

Sitting beneath a mossy, ivied wall 

On a quaint bench, which to that structure old 

Winds an accordant curve. Above my head 

Dilates immeasurable a wild of leaves. 

Seeming received into the blue expanse 

That vaults this summer noon. Before me lies 

A lawn of English verdure, smooth and bright. 

Mottled with fainter hues of early hay. 

Whose fragrance, blended with the rose-perfume 

From that white flowering bush, invites my sense 

To a delicious madness, — aud faint thoughts 

Of childish years are borne into my braiu 

By unforgotten ardors waking now. 

Beyond, a gentle slope leads into shade 

Of mighty trees, to bend whose eminent crown 

Is the prime labor of the pettish winds, 

That now iu lighter mood are twirling leaves 

Over ray feet, or hurrying butterflies. 

And the g.ay humming things that summer loves, 

Through the warm air, or altering the bound 

Where yon elm-shadows in majestic line 

Divide dominion with the abundant light. 



lHUliam ilTakcpcarc ^Eljaclxcvan. 

Thackeray (1811-1863), eminent as a novelist and a 
humorist, was a native of Calcutta. With his widowed 
mother he came to England iu 1817, was educated at 
Trinity College, Cambridge, and subsequently studied at 
Weimar. He inlierited a small fortune, but lost most 
of it in bad investments. He was also lavish in dona- 
tions to the needy. At one time be gave the impecuni- 
ous Dr. Maginn five hundred pounds. Thackeray first 
became known through bis contributions to Fraser'a 
Magazine, under the pseudonyme of Michael Angelo Tit- 
marsb. He bad first aspired to be an artist, but his draw- 
ings lack the right touch. Iu 1847 appeared bis novel of 



696 



CTCLOP^DIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



" Vcinity Fair," and this was followed by others equally 
popular. In 1851 he appeared as a lecturer, and in 1855- 
'56 repeated his lectures successfully in the United States 
and Canada. For two years (1860-'62) he conducted The 
Corti/iitt Magazine: but his many literary schemes were 
frustrated by his sudden death in 1863. Thackeray is en- 
titled to distinct fame as a poet. In some of his poems 
he shows genuine power, tenderness, and pathos. He 
was a man of nobie impulses, benevolent, charitable, and 
aS'cetionate— a generous foe and a devoted friend. lie 
died in bed, alone and unseen, strugglina;, as it appeared, 
with a violent spasmodic attack which had caused an 
cffusiou on the brain. 



LITTLE BILLEE. 

There were three s;iilor.s of Bristol city 

Who took a boat anil went to sea, 
But tirst with beef and captain's biscuits 

And pickled pork they loaded she. 

There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy, 
And the youngest, ho was little Billee. 

Now, when they got as far as the equator, 
They'd nothing left but one split pea. 

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 

" I am extremely hnngaree." 
To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, 

"We've nothing left, us must cat we." 

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 
"With one another we shouldn't agree! 

There's little Bill, he's yonng and tender, 
W^e'rc old and tough, so let's eat he." 

" Oil, Billy, we're going to kill and eat you, 
So undo the button of your chemie." 

When Billy received this information, 
He UKi'd his pocket-handkerchie. 

" First let me say my catechi.sm, 

AVhich my jioor mammy tanght to me." 

"Make haste, make haste," says guzzling Jimmy, 
While Jack pulled out bis snickersee. 

So Billy went up to the maiu-top-gallant mast. 
And down bo fell ou bis bended knee. 

He scarce had come to the twelfth conmiandment. 
When up he jumps: "There's land I see: 

" Jerusalem and Madagascar, 

And North and .Snnlli Anicrikee: 
There's the British Hag a-riding at anchor. 

With Admiral Napier, K.C.B." 



But when they got aboard of the admiral's, 
He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jinimee ; 

But as for little Bill, he made him 
The captain of a seventy-three. 



AT THE CHURCH GATE. 

Although I enter not, 
Yet, round about the spot 

Ofttimes I hover. 
And near the sacred gate, 
With longing eyes I wait, 

Expectant of her. 

The minster bell tolls out 
Above the city's ront, 

And uoi.se and humming; 
They've hushed the minster bell, 
The organ 'gins to swell — 

She's coming — coming! 

My lady comes at last, 

Timid and stepping fast, 
And hastening hither, 

With modest eyes downcast ; 

Slie comes — she's here — she's past- 
May heaven go with her! 

Kneel undisturbed, fair saint. 
Pour out your praise or plaint 

Meekly and duly; 
I will not enter there. 
To sully your pure prayer. 

With thoughts um-nly. 

But suffer me to paco 
Eonud the forbidden place. 

Lingering a minute, 
Like ontfeast spirits who wait, 
And see, through heaven's gate, 

Angels within it. 



THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. 

A street there is in Paris famous, 

For which no rhyme our language yield.s, 
Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is — 

The New Street of the Little Fields. 
And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, 

But still in comfortable ease; 
Tlie which in youth I oft attended, 

To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 



G97 



This Bouillabaisse a uoble dish is — 

A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, 
Or hotcbjiotch of all Sorts of fishes, 

That Greenwich never could outdo : 
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saft'ron. 

Soles, onions, garlic, roapli, and dace ; 
All these you eat at Tkrre's tavern. 

In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed, a ricli and savory stew 'tis; 

And true philosophers, methiuks, 
Who love all sorts of natural beauties. 

Should love good victruils and good drinks. 
And Cordelier or Benedictine 

Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, 
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting 

Which served him np a Bouillabaisse. 

I wonder if the house still there is? 

Yes, here the lamp is, as before; 
The smiling red-cheeked dcaillere is 

Still opening oysters at the door. 
Is Tkhue still alive and able? 

I recollect his droll grimace: 
He'd come and smile before your table, 

And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse. 

We enter — nothing's changed or older. 

" How's Monsieur Teree, waiter, pray ?" 
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder — 

'• Jlonsieiir is dead this many a day." 
"It is the lot of saint and sinner — 

So honest Terre's run his race!" 
"What will Monsieur require for dinner?" 

" Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ?" 

" O, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; 

"Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ?" 
"Tell me a good one." — "That I can, sir: 

The Chainbertiu with yellow seal." — 
" So Terre'.s gone," I say, and sink in 

My old accustomed corner-place; 
" He's done with feasting and with drinking. 

With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." 

My old accustomed corner here is, 

The table still is in the nook ; 
Ah! vanished many a busy year is. 

This well-known chair since last I took. 
When first I saw ye, can Itioghi, 

I'd scarce a beard upon my face, 
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, 

I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. 



Where are you, old companions trnstj'. 

Of early days hero met to dine? 
Ccme, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty — 

I'll pledge them in the good old wine. 
The kind old voices and old faces 

My memory can quick retrace ; 
Around the board they take their places, 

Aud share the wine aud Bouillabaisse. 

There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage; 

There's laughing Tom is laughing yet; 
There's brave Augustus drives his carriage. 

There's poor old Fred in the Gazette; 
On James's head the grass is growing: 

Good Lord! the world has wagged apace 
Since here we set the claret flowing, 

And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. 

Ah me ! how quick the days are Hitting ! 

I mind me of a time that's gone, 
When hero I'd sit, as nou I'm sitting. 

In this same place — but not alone. 
A fair young form was nestled near me, 

A dear, dear face looked fondly up, 
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me, 

— There's no one now to share my cup. 

I drink it as the Fates ordain it. 

Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes: 
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it 

In memory of dear old times. 
Welc(uno the wine, whate'er the seal is; 

And sit you down and say your grace 
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. 

— Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse ! 



THE MAHOGANY-TREE. 

Christmas is here: winds whistle shrill, 

Icy aud chill, little care we : 
Little we fear weather without. 

Sheltered about the Mahogany-tree. 

Once on the boughs, birds of rare plume 
Sang iu its bloom; night-birds are we: 

Hei'e we carouse, singing like them, 

Perched round the stem of the jolly old tree. 

Here let us sport, boys, as wo sit ; 

Laughter and wit flashing so free. 
Life is but short — when we are gone, 

Let them sing on, round the old tree. 



698 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICJX POETRY. 



Evenings ■we knew, happy as tbis; 

Faces we miss, pleasant to see. 
Kind hearts ami tine, gentle anil just, 

Peace to your dust! we sing round the tree. 

Care, like a dun, lurks at the gate; 

Let the dog wait ; happy we'll be ! 
Driuk, every one ; jiile up the coals, 

Fill the red bowls, round the old tree ! 

Drain we the cup. — Friend, art afraid f 

Si)irits are laid iu the Red Sea. 
Mantle it up ; empty it yet ; 

Let us forget, round the old tree. 

Sorrows, begone! Life and its ills. 
Duns and their bills, bid we to Hee. 

Come with the dawn, blue-devil sprite. 
Leave us to-night, round the old tree. 



^laaiibcr illodagan. 

Maclap;an was born at Pertli, Scotland, April Sd, 1811. 
He attended school iu Edinburgh, and at twelve years of 
age was apprenticed to a plumber. In 1839 he contrib- 
uted pieces to tlie Lilerary JuurnaJ, and bis poetical tal- 
ents were recognized by John Wilson, James Hogg, and 
Lord Jeffrey. Volumes of poems from bis pen appeared 
in 18il, 1854, and 18C.3; and in 1871 he was enabled to 
publish, in an illustrated quarto, "Balmoral; Songs of 
the Highlands, and other Poems." 



" DINNA YE HEAR IT ?" 

'Mid the tliunder of battle, the groans of the dying, 

The wail of weak women, the shouts of brave men, 

A poor Highland maiden sat soljbing and sighing. 

As she longed for the peace of her dear native glen. 

But there came a glad voice to the ear of her heart. 

The foes of auld Scotland forever will fear it : 
" We are saved ! we are saved !" cried the brave 
Highland maid, [it?" 

••'Tis the Highlanders' slogan! Oh dinna ye hear 
Dinna ye hear it ? dinna ye hear it ? 
High o'er the battle's din, dinna ye hear It? 
High o'er the battle's din, hail it and cheer it! 
'Tis the Highlanders' slogan ! Oh, dinna ye hear 
it? 

A nioHient the tempest of battle was hushed, 
But no tidings of help did that moment reve.al ; 

Again to their shot-shattered ramparts they rushed ; 
Again roared the cannon, ajraiu Hashed the steel ! 



Still the Highland maid cried, " Let us welcome the 
brave ! 
The death-mists are thick, but their claymores will 
clear it ! [iug!' 

The war-pipes are pealing 'Tlie Campbells arc com- 
They are charging and cheering! Oh dinna ye 
hear it ?" 
Diuna ye hear it? dinna ye hear it ? etc. 

Ye heroes of Luckuow. fame crowns you witli glory ; 
Love welcomes you home with glad songs in your 
praise ; 
And brave Jessie Brown, with her soul-stirring story. 

Forever will live in the Highlanders' lays. 
Long life to our Queen, and the hearts who defend 
her ! 
Success to our flag! and wlieii danger is near it. 
May our pipes be heard playing " The Campbells are 
coming!" 
Aiul an angel voice crying," Oh dinna yc hear it ?" 
Dinna ve hear it ? dinna ye hear it ? etc. 



Bavtljoloinciu SimmoiiG. 

Simmons (circa 1811-1850) was born in Kilworth, Coun- 
ty Cork, Ireland. He obtained a situation in the Excise 
Oflicc in London, wliich be held till bis death. He con- 
tributed, between 1838 and 1818, some spirited poems to 
Blackwood's Magazine, the editor of which says, "Sim- 
mons on the theme of Napoleon excels all our great 
poets. Byron's lines on that subject are bad; Scott's, 
poor ; Wordsworth's, weak. Lockhart and Simmons may 
be briicketed as equal ; theirs are good, rich, strong." 



SONG OF A RETURNED EXILE. 
I. 

Sweet Corrin !' how softly the evening light goes. 
Fading far o'er thy summit from ruby to rose, 
As if loth to deprive the deep woodlands below 
Of the love and the glory they driuk iu its glow: 
O home-looking Hill! how beloved dost thou rise 
Once more to my sight through tlie sliadowy skies! 
Shielding still, in thy sheltering grandeur unfurled, 
The landscape to mo that so long was the world. 
Fair evening — blessed eveniug! one moment delay 
Till the tears of tlic pilgrim are dried in tliy ray — 
Till ho feels that through years of long .absence not 

one 
Of his friends — the lone rock and gray ruin, is gone. 

* The picturesque nmiintnin of Corriu is the teimin.Ttinn of a 
long rau^e of hills which encloses the valley of the Blatkwater 
aiul the Fuuchcou in the County of Oork, Ireland. 



BARTHOLOMEW SIMMONS. 



G99 



Not one : — as I wiud the sbeer fastnesses tbroiigb, 
The valley of boyhood is bright in my view ! 
Ouce again my glad spirit its fetterless flight 
May -niug through a sphere^of unclouded delight, 
O'er one maze of bright orchard, green meadow, and 

slope — 
From whose tints I ouce pictured the pinions of 

hope ; 
Still the hamlet gleams white — still the church yews 

are -weeping, [iug j 

Where the sleep of the peaceful my fotbers are sleep- 
Tbe vane tells, as usual, its fib from the mill, 
But the wheel tumbles loudly and merrily still, 
Aud the tower of the Roches stands lonely as ever, 
With its grim shadow rusting the gold of the river. 



My own pleasant River, bloom-skirted, behold, 
Now sleeping in shade, now refulgently rolled. 
Where long through the landscape it tranquilly 

flows, 
Scarcely breaking, Glcn-coorah, thy glorious repose ! 
By the Park's lovely pathways it lingers and shines. 
Where the cushat's low call, and the murnjur of 

pines, 
And the lips of the lily seem wooing its stay 
'Mid their odorous dells ; — but 'tis otf aud away, 
Rushing out through the clustering oaks, in whose 

shade, 
Like a bird in the branches, an arbor I made. 
Where the blue eye of Eve often closed o'er the 

book. 
While I read of stout Siubad, or voyaged with Cook. 



Wild haunt of the Harper! I stand by thy spring. 
Whose waters of silver still sparkle and fling 
Their wealth at my feet, — and I catch the deep 

glow. 
As in long-vani.shed hours, of the lilacs that blow 
By the low cottage-porch — and the same crescent 

moon 
That then ploughed, like a pinnace, the purple of 

Juue, 
Is white on Glen-duif, and all blooms as tinchanged 
As if years had not passed since thy greenwood I 

ranged — 
As if oira; were not fled, who imparted a soul 
Of divlncst enchantment and grace to the whole. 
Whose being was bright as that fair moon above, 
And all deep and all pure as thy waters her love. 



Thou long-vanished Angel! whose faithfnlness threw 
O'er my gloomy existence one glorified hue ! 
Dost thon still, as of yore, when the evening grows 

dim. 
And the blackbird by Douglass is bushing its hymn. 
Remember the bower by the Fnncheon's blue side. 
Where the whispers were soft as the kiss of the tide ? 
Dost thou still think, with pity aud peace on thy 

brow. 
Of him who, toil-harassed aud time-shaken now. 
While the last light of day, like his hopes, has de- 
parted, 
On the turf thou hast hallowed sinks down weary- 
hearted, 
Aud calls on thy name, and the night-breeze that 
sighs [that replies? 

Through the boughs that once blessed thee is all 



But thy summit, far Corrin, is fading in gray. 
And the moonlight grows mellow on lonely Clough- 

lea ; 
And the laugh of the young, as they loiter aliont, 
Through the elm-shaded alleys rings joyously out: 
Happy souls! they have yet the dark chalice to taste, 
And like others to wander life's desolate waste — 
To hold wassail with sin, or keep vigil with woe; 
But the same fount of yearning wherever they go, 
Welling up in their heart-depths to turn at the last 
(As the stag when the barb in his bosom is fast) 
To their lair in the hills on their childhood that rose. 
And find the sole blessing I seek for— repose. 

ISiO. 



FROM "STANZAS ON THOMAS HOOD." 

T.ake back into thy bosom. Earth, 

This joyous. May-eyed morrow. 
The gentlest child that ever Mirth 

Gave to be reared by Sorrow ! 
'Tis hard — while rays half green, half gold. 

Through vernal bowers are burning. 
And streams their diamond mirrors hold 

To Summer's face returning, — 
To say we're thankful that his sleep 

Sh.all never more bo lighter. 
In whose sweet-tongued companionship 

Stream, bower, and beam grew brighter! 

Dear wor-shipper of Dian's face 
In solitary places! 



700 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAX POETKT. 



Sbalt thou no more steal as of yore 

To meet her ■white embraces ? 
Is there uo purple in the rose 

Heiieeforwanl to thy senses ? 
For thee have (lawn and daylight's close 

Lost their sweet iiitluences ? 
No ! — by the mental sight untamed 

Thou took'st to Death's dark portal, — 
The joy of the wide universe 

Is now to thee immortal! 



FROM "THE MOTHER OF THE KINGS." 

lu the London Kce2)sakc. for 1S3T, Lady Emeltne Stuai't Wort- 
ley describes a visit to Madame Letitia, mother of Napoleon, 
then iu her eighty-fourth year. She was ou her bed, and her 
room was hnnj; arotmd with hu';;e, full-length portraits of the 
members of her illustrious family. 

Strange looked that lady old, reclined 

Upon her lonely bed 
In tbat vast chamber, echoing not 

To iiagc or maiden's tread ; 
Aud stranger still the gorgeous forms, 

111 portrait, that glanced round 
From the high walls, with cold bright looks 

More cloqneut than sound. 

They were her children : — never yet. 

Since, with the primal beam. 
Fair painting brought on rainbow wings 

Its own immortal dream, 
Did one fond mother give such race 

Heneath its smile to glow 
As they who now, back on her brow, 

Their pictured glories throw. 

Her daughters there — the beantifnl! 

Looked down in dazzling sheen : 
One lovelier than the Queen of Love — 

One crowned an earthly queen I 
Her sons — the proud — the Paladins! 

With diadem and plume, 
Each leaning on his sceptred arm. 

Made empire of that room ! 

But right before her conch's foot. 

Olio mightiest picture blazed — 
One form august, to which her eyes 

Incessantly were raised; — 
A monarch's too ! — and nionarcb-like, 

Tlio artist's hand had bound him 
With jewelled belt, imperial sword, 

And crniincd purple round him. 



One well might deem, from the white flags 

That o'er him flashed and rolled, 
Where the puissaut lily laughed 

And waved its bannered gold, 
And from the Lombard's iron crown 

Beneath his hand which lay, 
That Charlemagne had burst death's reign 

Aud leaped again to-day ! 

How gleamed that awful countonauce, 

Magniliccntly stern! 
In its dark smile and smiting look. 

What destiny we learn ! — 
The laurel simply wreathes that brow. 

While nations watch its nod, 
As though he scofi'ed all pomp below 

The thunder-bolt of God. 

Such was the scene — the noontide hour — 

Which, after many a year. 
Had swept above the memory 

Of his meteor-like career — 
Saw the mother of the mightiest — 

Napoleon's mother — lie 
With the living dead around her, 

Willi the past before her eye! 



iUrs. iJane (Cross Simpson. 

Mrs. Simpson was born in Glasgow in ISll ; a daughter 
of James Bell, advocate, and a sister of Henry Glasslbrd 
Bell, the lawyer-poet. She published in 1S3S a voUiine 
of poems, entitled "April Hours;"' and is the author of 
the well-known hymn, "Go when the morning sbinetb," 
claimed for various authors, but contributed by her to 
the Edinhuryh Literary Journal of February 26tli, 1831, 
where it is signed "Gertrude." 



GO WHEN THE MORNING SHINETH. 

Go when the morning shineth, 

Go when the uoon is bright, 
Go wlieu the eve deelineth, 

Go in the hush of night; 
Go with pure mind and feeling, 

Fling earthly thought away. 
And in thy chamber kneeling, 

Do thou in secret pray. 

Remember all who love thee, 
All who are loved by thee ; 

Pray too for those who hate thee, 
If any such there be. 



MES. JAXE CSOSS SIMPSON.— ALFBED BILLINGS STREET. 



701 



Then for thyself, in meekness, 

A blessing humbly claim ; 
And link with each petitiou 

The great Eeileenicr's uaiue. 

Or if 'tis e'er denied thee 
r 
In solitude to pray, 

Slionhl holy thoughts come o'er thee 
When friends are round thy way,— 

Even then the sileut breathing 
Of thy spirit raised above, 

May reach His throne of glory, 
Who is mercy, truth, and love. 

Oh ! not a joy or blessing 

With tliis can we compare, 
The power that He hath given ns 

To i>our our hearts in prayer! 
Whene'er thou pin'st in sadness, 

Before His footstool fall. 
And remember, in thy gladness. 

His grace ^vho gave thee all. 



^Ifrcb Sillings Gtvcct. 

AMERICAN. 

Street was born in Poughkeepsie, N. T., in 1811. He 
studied law, hut in 1839 removed to Albany, aud accepted 
tlie place of State Librarian. His first volume of poems 
appeared in 1843. He is a close and accurate observer 
of natural scenery. A landscape-painter might, with 
little aid from tlie im.igination, find in his descriptions 
material for many a picture. His strength lies in de- 
tails, however, rather than in bold generalizations that 
flash a scene upon the mind's eye bj' a few well-choscu 
phrases. His jrioems will be read with pleasure by stu- 
dents of natur.al scenery and sylvan effects. His longest 
work, "Frontenae" (1819), is a narrative poem, being a 
tale of the Iroquois. His other works are : "The Burn- 
ing of Schenectady, and other Poems;" "Drawings and 
Tintings" (1844); "Fugitive Poems" (184G) ; "Woods 
aud Waters" (1SC9); "Forest Pictures in the Adiron- 
dacs" (1804); "Poems" (ISliO). 



THE NOOK IX THE FOREST. 

A nook within the forest : overhead 

The branches arch, and shape a pleasant bower. 

Breaking white cloud, blue sky, and sunshine bright 

Into pure ivory aud sapphire spots, 

And flecks of gold ; a soft, cool ciuerald tint 

Colors the air, as though the delicate leaves 

Emitted self-born light. What splendid walls, 

Aud what a gorgeous roof, carved by the baud 



Of glorious Nature ! Here the spruce thrusts in 
Its bristling plume, ti^jped with its jiale-green iioiuts ; 
The hemlock shows its borders freshly fringed ; 
The smoothly scalloped beech-leaf, and the birch, 
Cut into ragged edges, interlace : 
While here and there, through clefts, the laurel hangs 
Its gorgeous ch.alices half-brimmed witli dew. 
As though to hoard it for the hannting elves 
The moonlight calls to this their festal hall. 
A thick, rich grassy carpet clothes the earth 
Sprinkled with autumn leaves. The fern displays 
Its fluted wreath beaded beneath with drops 
Of richest brown; the wild-rose spreads its breast 
Of delicate jiink, aud the o'erhauging fir 
Has dropped its dark, long cone. 

Such nooks as this are common in the woods: 
Aud all these sights and sounds the commonest 
In Nature when she wears her summer prime. 
Yet by them pass not lightly : to the wise 
They tell the beauty and the harmony 
Of e'en the lowliest things that God hath made; 
That this familiar earth and sky are full 
Of his ineftable power and majesty ; — 
That in the humble objects, seen too oft 
To he regarded, is such wondrous grace, 
The art of man is vaiu to imitate ; — 
That the low flower our careless foot treads down 
Is a rich shrine of incense delicate, 
And radiant beauty ; and that God hath formed 
All, from the mountain wreathing round its brow 
The black cars of the thunder, to the grain 
Of silver sand the bubbling spring casts up, — 
With deepest forethought aud severest care. 
And thus these noteless, lowly things are types 
Of his perfection and divinity. 



A FOREST WALK. 

A lovely sky, a cloudless sun. 

A wind that breathes of leaves aud flowers. 
O'er hill, through dale, my steps have won 

To the cool forest's shadowy bowers ; 
One of the jiaths all round that wind. 

Traced by the browsing herds, I choose, 
Aud sights and sounds of human kind 

In nature's lone recesses lose : 
The beech displays its marbled bark, 

The spruce its green tent stretches wide, 
While scowls the hemlock, grim and dark, 

Tlie maple's scalloped dome beside : 
All weave on high a verdant roof, 
That keeps the very suu aloof. 



702 



CTCLOl'JEDIA OF BEITISB AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Makiiij; .a twilight soft and green 
Within the culumueil, vaulted scene. 

Sweet forest-odors have their birth 

From the clothed boughs and teeming earth ; 

Where pine-coues dropped, leaves piled and dead, 
Long tufts of grass, and stars of fern, 
With many a wild flower's fairy nrn, 

A thick, elastic carpet spread : 
Here, with its mossy pall, the trunk. 
Resolving into soil, is sunk ; 
There, wrenched but lately from its throne 

By some fierce whirlwind circling past. 
Its huge roots massed with earth and stone, 

Oue of the woodland kings is cast. 

Above, the forest-tops are bright 
With the broad blazo of sunny light ; 
But now a fitful air-gust parts 

The screening branches, and a glow 
Of dazzling, startling radiance darts 

Down the dark stems, and breaks below : 
The mingled sb.adows off are rolled. 
The sylvan floor is bathed in gold; 
Low sprouts and herbs, before unseen, 
Display their shades of brown and green : 
Tints brighten o'er the velvet moss. 
Gleams twinkle on the laurel's gloss; 
The robin, brooding in her nest. 
Chirps as tlie quick ray strikes her breast ; 
And, as my shadow prints the ground, 
I see the rabbit upward bound. 
With pointed ears an instant look. 
Then scamper to the darkest nook, 
Where, with crouched limb and staring eye, 
He watches while 1 saunter by. 

A narrow vista, carpeted 

With rich green grass, invites my tre.ad : 

Hero showers the light in golden dots. 

There sleeps the shade in ebon spots, 

So blended that the very air 

Seems net-work as I enter there. 

The partridge, whoso deep-rolling drum 

Afar li.is sounded on my ear. 
Ceasing his beatings as I come. 

Whirs to the sheltering branches near ; 
The little milk-snake glides away. 
The brindled marmot dives from day ; 
And now, between the boughs, a space 
Of the blue, laughing sky I trace : 
On each side shrinks the bowery shade ; 
Before mc spreads an emerald glade ; 



The sunshine steejis its grass and moss, 
That couch my footsteps as I cross ; 
Merrily hums the tawny bee. 
The glittering humming-bird I see ; 
Floats the bright butterfly along, 
The insect choir is loud in song ; 
A spot of light and life, it seems, — 
A fairy haunt for fancy's dre.ams ! 

Here stretched, the pleasant turf I press, 
In luxury of idleness : 
Sun-streaks, and glancing wings, and sky. 
Spotted with cloud-shapes, charm my eye ; 
While murmuring grass, and waving trees- 
Tlieir leaf-harps sounding to the breeze — 
And water-tones that tinkle near, 
Blend their sweet music to my e.ar ; 
And by the changing shades alone 
The passage of the hours is known. 



THE BLUEBIRD'S SOXG. 

Hark, that sweet carol ! With delight 

We leave the stifling room ; 
The little bluebird meets our sight,— 

Spring, glorious Spring, has come ! 
The south-wind's balm is in the air, 
The melting snow-wreaths everywhere 

Are leajiing off in showers ; 
And Nature, in her brightening looks, 
Tells that her flowers, and leaves, and brooks. 

And birds, will soon be ours. 



MUSIC. 

Music, how strange her power! her varied strains 
Thrill with a magic spell the human he.art. 
She wakens memory — brightens hope — the pains, 
The joys of being at her bidding start. 
Now to her trumpet-call the spirit leajis ; 
Now to her brooding, tender tones it weeps. 
Sweet music ! is she portion of that breath 
With which the worlds were born — on which tli' ,\ 

wheel ? 
One of lost Eden's tones, eluding death. 
To m.ake mau what is best within him feel 1 
Keep open his else sealed-up depths of heart. 
And wake to active life the better part 
Of his mixed nature, being thus the tie 
That links us to our God, and draws us toward the 

sky ! 



JOHN OSBORXE SARGENT. — WILLIAM: JAMES LIXTOX. 



703 



3o\]n (Dsbovuc Savgcnt. 

AMERICAN. 

Born in Gloucester, Mass., in 1811, Sai-gent, wliile yet 
a oUikl, removed to Boston with bis family. At eight 
years of age he entered the Public Latin School, and was 
graduated at Harvard College, in 1830. He studied law, 
was admitted to the Bar, and practised his profession in 
New York and Washington. In the time of the Whig 
party, he was well known as a political writer and speak- 
er. After 1854 he passed several years in Europe. Ke- 
turning home, he fixed his winter residence in New York, 
passing his summers on his farm in Lenox, Mass. While 
in London, in 1870, he published "The Last Knight, A 
Romance-Garland, from the German of Anastasius Griin " 
(the poetical pscudonyme of Count Anton Alexander von 
Auersperg, born 1800). An American edition appeared 
in Boston in 1871. 



DEATH OF HENRY WOHLLEB. 

From "The Last Knight." 

On tlic field in front of Frasteuz, drawn np in bat- 
tle array, 

Stretched spear on spear iu a crescent, the German 
army lay ; 

Behind a wall of bucklers stood bosoms steeled 
with pride, 

And a stiff wood of l.auces that all assaults defied. 

Oh why, ye meu of Switzerland, from your Alpine 
summits sally, 

And armed with clubs and axes descend into the 
valley ! 

"The wood just grown at Frasteuz with our axes 
we VNonld fell, 

To build homesteads from its branches where Lib- 
erty may dwell." 

The Swiss on the German lances rush with impet- 
uous shock ; 

It is spear oiv spear in all quarters — they arc dashed 
like waves from a rock. 

His teeth then gnashed the Switzer, and the mock- 
ing German cried, 

" See how the snout of the greyhound is pierced 
by the hedgehog's hide !" 

Like a song of resurrection, then sounded from the 
ranks: 

"lilustrious shade, Von Winkelried ! to thee I ren- 
der thanks: [low me!" 

Thou beckonest, I obey thee! Up, Swiss, .and fol- 

Thus the voice of Henry Wolilleb from the ranks 
rang loud and free. 



From its shaft ho tore the bauuer, and twined it 

round his breast, 
And hot with the lust of death on the serried 

lances pressed; 
His red eyes from their sockets like flaming torches 

glare, 
And in front, in place of the banner, wave the locks 

of his snow-white hair. 

The .spears of six knights together — in his hand 
he seizes all — 

And thereon thrusts his bosom — there's a breach 
iu the lances' wall. 

With vengeance fired, the Switzers storm the bat- 
tle's perilous ridge, 

And the corpse of Henry Wohlleb to their ven- 
geance is the bridge. 



lUilliam 3amcs £intou. 

Poet and artist, Linton was born in England in 1812. 
A vigorous writer both of prose and verse, he had also 
won high reputation as a draughtsman and an engraver 
on wood. Early in life he gave his best efforts to the 
cause of Liberalism in England. In 18G.5 he published 
" Claribel, and other Poems" (London: Sinipkin, Mar- 
shall & Co.), a volume of 266 pages, tastefully embel- 
lished with his own original designs and engravings. 
He is also the author of a "History of Wood-engrav- 
ing," a "Life of Thom.as Paine," and various writings 
on art. In 1878 he edited and published iu London a 
volume of the "Poetry of America." His wife, Eliza 
Lynn Linton (born 1822), is a successful novelist and 
miscellaneous writer. His poetry reveals the true artist, 
as well as the earnest, sincere thinker. He has resided 
many years iu the United States, and his address (1880* 
was New Haven. Conn. 



FEOM " DEFINITIONS." 

DEFE.\T. 

One of the stairs to heaven. Halt not to count 
What you have trampled on. Look up, and mount! 

VICE. 

Blasphemy 'gaiu.st thyself: a making foul 
The Holy of Holies even in thiue own soul. 

PLE.\SURE. 

A flower on the highway-side. Enjoy its grace ; 
But turu not from thy road, nor slacken pace ! 



Pure worship of the Beautiful— the True- 
Under whatever form it comes to you. 



704 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEIUCAX POETRY. 



PATr.iOTISM. 

Not the mere holding a great flag uiifurleil, — 
But malciiig it the goodliest iu tbe world. 

CONSISTENCY. 

Last night I wore a cloak ; this morning not. 
Last night was cold ; this morning it was hot. 

DISINTERESTEDNESS. 
Selling for glory? lending to the Lord? 
1 will not ask even Conscience for reward. 

PRIDE. 
Dne reverence toward thy.self. Doth God come 

there ? 
Make tliou the house well worthy His repair. 

HUMILITY. 

Self, seen in a puddle: lift thee toward the sky, 
And proudly thank God for eternity. 



REAL AND TRUE. 

Only tlic Boautifiil is real! 

All things of wliicli our life is full. 

All my.steries tliat life inwreatlie, 

Birth, life, and death, 
All that we dread or darkly feel, — 
All are but shadows, and the Beautiful 

Alone is real. 

Nothing but Love is true ! 

Eartli's mauy lies, whirled upon Time's swift wheel. 

Shift. and repeat their state, — 

Birth, life, and death, 

And all that they bequeath 

Of liiipe or memory, thus do alternate 
Contiiuuilly ; 
Love doth anneal, 
Dotli beauteously imbue, 
Tlie wine-cups of the archetypal Fate. 

Love, Truth, .and Beauty, — all are one ! 

If life may expiate 
The wilderings of its dimness, death be known 

But as the mighty ever-liviug gate 
Into the B.autifnl— 

All things flow on 
Into one Heart, into one Melody, 
Eternally. 



LABOR IN VAIN. 

Oh not in vain ! Even poor rotting weeds 

Nourish the roots of fruitfnllest fair trees : 

So from thy fortuue-loatli^d hope proceeds 

The experience tliat shall base high victories. 

The tree of the good and evil knowledge needs 

A rooting-place iu thonglitful agonies. 

Failures of lofty essays are the seeds 

Out of whose dryness,, when cold night dissolves 

Into the dawning Spring, fertilities 

Of healthiest promise leaji rejoicingly. 

Therefore hold on thy way, all undismayed 

At the bent brows of Fate, untiringly ! 

Knowing this — past all the woe our earth involves 

Sooner or later Truth must be obeyed. 



POETS. 

True Poet! — Back, thou Dreamer! Lay thy dreams 
In ladies' laps ; — and silly girls delight 
With thy inane apostrophes to Night, 
Moonshine, and Wave, and Cloud ! Thy fancy teems ; 
Not genius. Else some high heroic themes 
Should from thy brain proceed, as wisdom's might 
From head of Zeus. For now great Wrong and Right 
Allront each other, and War's trumpet screams, 
Giddying the eartli with dissonance. Oh, where 
Is He voiced godlike, unto those who dare 
To give more daring with the earnest shout 
Of a true battle-hymn ? We fight without 
The music which should cheer us in our fight, — 
While "jioets" learn to pipe like whiffling streams. 



A PRAYER FOE TRUTH. 



■ood 



God! the Giver of all which men call 
Or ill, the Origin and Soul of Power ! 

1 pray to thee as all uuist iu their hour 
Of need, for solace, medicine, or food, 
Whether aloud or secretly — understood 

No less by Thee. I pray : but not for fame. 
Nor love's best happiness, nor place, nor wealth. 
I a.sk Thee only for that spiritual health 
Which is perception of the True — the same 
As in Thy Nature : so to know, and aim 
Tow'iil Thee my thought, my word, my whole of life. 
Then matters little whether care, or strife, 
Hot sun, or cloud, o'erpass this earthly day: 
Night cometh, and my star climbeth Tliy heaven- 
way. 



WILLI J 21 HENRY BURLEIGH. 



lUilliam fjcnrn Burlcigl). 

AMERICAN. 

Burlcij!;h (1813-lSTl) was a native of Woodstock, Conn. 
He went to the district scliool, and manifested, even in 
early yoiitli, liis taste for poetry and love of nature. He 
espoused with great zeal the antislavcry cause and the 
temperance reform. He w5s- connected with several 
newspapers as editor, and, while residina; at Alliany, 
X. Y., received an appointment as Harhor-nuisler of New 
York. He fixed his residence at Brooklyn, where he died. 
He was an eloquent writer and speaker, and produced, 
durinj; his bnsy career, various poems, rich in elevated 
thought and devout feeling. His wife, Mrs. Cclia Bur- 
leigh, published a collection of his poems with a memoir. 
Of his life and character it might be said, as Antony 
says of Brutus : 

"His life W.1S gentle, and the elements 
So mixed in him that Nature might st.ind uji 
Aud say to :ill the world, 'This was a man.' " 



THE HARVEST-CALL. 

Abide not in the land of dreams, 
O in.an, however fair it seems, 
■Where drowsy airs tby powers repress 
lu languors of sweet idleness. 

Nin- linger in the misty past, 
Eiitfaiiced in visions vague and va.st ; 
Hut with clear eye the present scan. 
And hear the call of God and man. 

That call, though many-voiced, is one. 
With mighty meanings in each tone; 
Throngli sob and laughter, .shriek and prayer. 
Its summotis meet thee everywhere. 

Think not in sleep to fold thy liatids. 
Forgetful of thy Lord's commands ; 
From duty's claims no life is free, — 
Behold, to-day hath need of thee. 

Look np ! the wide extended plain 
Is billowy with its ripened grain. 
And on the summer winds are rolled 
Its waves of emerald aud gold. 

Thrust in thy sichle, nor delay 
The work that calls for thee to-day ; 
To-morrow, if it come, will bear 
Its own demands of toil and care. 

The present hour allots thy task : 
For present strength and patience ask. 
.<5 



And trust His love whose sure suiiplies 
Meet all thy needs as they arise. 

Lo ! the broad fields, with harvests white, 
Thy hands to strenuous toil invite ; 
Atid he who labors and believes. 
Shall reap reward of anijilo sheaves. 

I'p ! for the time is short ; and soon 
The morning sun will climb to noon. 
Up ! ere the herds, with trampling feet 
Outrunning thine, shall spoil the wheat. 

While the day lingers, do thy best! 
Full soon the night will bring its rest; 
And, duty done, that rest shall be 
Full of beatitudes to thee. 



SONNET: RAIN. 

Dashing in big drops on the narrow iiauo, 

And making mournful music for the mind. 

While plays his interlude the wizard Wind, 

I hear the ringing of the frequent rain : 

How doth its dreamy tone the spirit lull, 

Uringiug a. sweet forgetfulness of pain, 

While bnsy thought calls up the past again. 

Ami lingers 'mid the pure and beautiful 

Visions of early childhood ! Sunny faces 

Meet us with looks of love, and in the moans 

Of the fiiint wind we hear familiar tones. 

And tread again in old familiar places! 

Such is thy power, oh Rain! the heart to ble.ss. 

Wiling the soul away from its own wretchedness. 



SOLITUDE. 

The ceaseless hum of men, the dusty streets, 
Crowded with multitudinous life ; the din 
Of toil and traffic, and the woe and sin. 
The dweller in the populous city meets: 
These have I left to seek the cool retreats 
Of the untrodden forest, where, iu bowers 
Builded by Nature's hand, inlaid with flowers, 
And roofed with ivy, on the mossy seats 
Reclining, I can while away the hours 
In sweetest converse with old books, or give 
My thoughts to God ; or faucies fugitive 
Indulge, while over me their radiant .showers 
Of rarest blossoms the old trees shake down. 
And thanks to Hitn my meditations crown ! 



TOG 



CrCLOPMDIA OF BRITISH JXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



fjavrict Beecljcr Stoiuc. 

AMERICAN, 

Harriet Elizabeth Beeclier, wlio in 1836 was married to 
Professor Calviu E. Stowe, was tlie daughter of Lyman 
Beecher, an eminent clei{:.vman, and was born in Liteh- 
flcUl, Conn., in 1813. In 1853 slic published her cel- 
ebrated antislavery novel of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 
which had an unparalleled sale both in America and 
England, and was translated into tlie principal languages 
of Europe. It was succeeded by several novels snperior 
to it from her pen, but by no one that equalled it in 
fame. Her poen)s, few in number, show the same literaiy 
ability manifest in her prose. 



THE OTHER WORLD. 

It lies around lis like a cloud, 

The world wo do uot see ; 
Yet the sweet closing of au eyo 

May bring us there to be. 

Its gentle breezes fan onr cheek 

Amid our worldly cares ; 
Its gentle voices whisper love, 

And mingle with our prayers. 

Sweet hearts around us throb and beat, 
Sweet helping hands are stirred, 

Ami palpitates the veil between, 
With breathings almost heard. 

The silence, awful, sweet, and calm, 
They have no power to break ; 

For mortal words are uot for them 
To utter or partake. 

So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide, 
8<) near to press they seem, 

Tliey lull us geutly to our rest, 
They melt into our dream. 

And, in the hush of rest they bring, 

'Tis easy now to see, 
How lovely and how sweet a pass 

The hour of death may be ; — 

To close the eye and close the car, 
Wrapped in a trance of bliss, 

And, gently drawn in loving arms. 
To swoon from that to this : — 

Scarce knowing if wo wake or .sleeji. 
Scarce asking where we are, 



To feel all evil sink away. 
All sorrow and all care ! 

Sweet souls arouud us, watch us still. 

Press nearer to our side ; 
Into our thoughts, into our prayers. 

With gentle helping glide. 

Let death between us bo as naught, 
A dried and vanished stream ; 

Your joy be the reality, 

Our snifcring life the dream. 



(£l)arlc5 Didfcns. 

Dickens (1813-1870), the foremost English novelist of 
his time, and a man of rare and varied powers, did uot 
often venture upon verse ; but one of his little poems, 
with the aid of Henry Russell's music, has won its way 
to the popular heart. He was a delightful companion, 
genial, witty, and generous ; a ready, attractive speaker, 
an amusing actor, and a superior reader. A native of 
Portsmouth, he began his literary career as a reporter, 
and was on the staff of the Slornliig Chronicle, till he put 
forth his witty " Sketclics of Life and Cliaracter, by 
Boz," leading to the "Pickwick Papers" and his inimi- 
table series of novels, of which it is not here our pl.ic" to 
spealc. He made two visits to tlie United States; one in 
1841, the otlier in 18C7. He died suddenly in the midst 
of his literary labors, leaving his last novel uncompleted. 



THE IVY GREEN. 

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy Greon, 

That creepeth o'er ruius old ! 
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, 

lu his cell so lone and cold. 
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, 

To pleasure his dainty whim ; 
And the mouldei\ing dnst that year.s have made, 

Is a merry meal for him. 

Creei)ing where no life is seen, 
A rare old idant is the Ivy Green. 

Fast he stealeth on, though ho wears no wings, 

And a stauuch old heart has he ; 
How closely he twineth, how tight ho clings 

To his friend the huge Oak-tree ! 
And slyly he traileth along the ground, 

And his leaves he gently waves. 
As he joyously hugs and crawleth arouud 

The rich mould of dead men's graves. 

Creeping where grim death has been, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy Greeu, 



CUAULKS DWKEXS.— SAMUEL DOUSE ROBBISS.— FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 



Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, 

And uatious have scattered beeu ; 
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade 

From its halo and hearty green. 
The bravo old plant, iu its lonely days, 

.Shall lattcn upon the past; 
Fur the stateliest bnikliug man can raise, 

Is the Ivy's food at last. 

Creeping on, where time has been, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. 



Samuel Dottisc nobbins. 

AMERICAN. 

Dr. Robbins was bora in Lynn, Mass., iti 1813. He 
ffrnduiitecl at tlie Divinity Seliool, Cambridge, in 1833, 
and commenced liis ministry at Lynn tlie same year. In 
1867 lie was settled in Wayland ; but gave up his parish 
in 1873, and retired to Concord. He has publislied but 
little. Mis " Euthanasia" is exquisite iu melody, and lull 
of a devout enthusiasm. 



EUTHANASIA. 

*'Let me go; for the day brealielh.'' 

The waves of light are drifting 

From off the heavenly shore. 
The shadows all are lifting 

Away for evermore ; 
Truth, like another morning, 

Is beaming on my way : 
I bless the Power that poureth iu 

The coming of the day. 
I feel a light within me 

Tliat years can never bring : 
My heart is full of blossoming. 

It yearns to meet the spriug. 
Love tills my soul in all its deeps, 

Aud harmony divine 
Is sweetly sounding from above 

A symphony suljlime ; 
The earth is robed in richer green, 

The sky iu brighter blue; 
And, with no cloud to intervene, 

God's smile is shining through. 
I hear the immortal harps that ring 

Before the rainbow throne, 
And a spirit from the heart of God 

Is bearing np my own. 
In silence on the Olivet 

Of iJrayer my being bends, 
Till in the orison of heaven 

Jly voice seraphic blonds. 



LEAD ME. 

My Father, take my hand, for I am prone 
To danger, and I fear to go alone. 
I trust thy guidance. Father, take my hand ; 
Lead thy child safely through the desert laud. 
The way is dark before me ; take my hand, 
For light can only come at thy command. 
Clinging to thy dear love, no doubt I know, 
That love will cheer my way where'er I go. 
Father, the storm is breaking o'er me wild ; 
I feel its bitterness : jirotect thy child. 
The tempest-clouds are flying through the air; 
Oh, take my hand, aud save me from despair. 
Father, as I ascend the craggy steep 
That leads me to thj' temple, let me keep 
My hand iu thine, so I can conquer time, 
Aud by thine aiding to thy bosom climb. 
Father, I feel the damp upon my brow, 
The chill of death is falling on me now. 
Soon from earth's flitting sh.adows I must part ; 
My Father, take my hand, thou hast my heart. 



-frauccs Sarqciit (Dsqooii. 



Mrs. Osgood (1813-1.8.50) was a native of Boston, the 
daughter of Joseph Locke, a merchant. In 1S34 she 
married S. S. Osgood, a portrait-painter. An edition of 
her poems, entitled "A Wreath of Wild Flowers from 
New England," was published in Loudon in 1839, during 
licr residence in that city. Another collection appeared 
iu New York iu 1846. She was a friend of Poe, and he 
addressed to her some graceful lines. She was largely 
endowed witli tlie poetical temperament, and some of 
her poems have lost none of their popularity since Iior 
death. 



"BOIS TON SANG, BEAUMANOIR."" 

Fierce raged the combat — the foenien pressed nigh, 
When from young Beaumanoir rose the wild cry, — 
Beaumanoir, 'mid them all, bravest and first — 
"Give me to drink, for I perish of thirst!" 
Hark! at his side, in the deep tones of ire, 
"Bois tou SANG, Beaumanoir !" shouted his sire. 

Deep had it pierced him, the foemau's swift sword : 
Deeper his sonl felt the wound of that word ! 
Back to the battle, with forehead all flushed, 
Stung to wild fury, the noble youth rushed! 



1 " Drink thy blood, Bennmauoir.' 
iu '■ Froissart's Chronicles." 



The iacideut is related 



708 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BBITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Scoru iu Lis dark eyes — his spirit ou tire — 
Deeds were Lis answer tLat day to Lis sire! 

Still, wLere triiimpLaiit tUa young hero came, 

Glory's bright garland encircled his name : 

But iu her bower, to beauty a slave, 

Dearer the guerdon Lis lady-love gave. 

AVIiile ou his shield that no sLanie Lad defaced, 

" Bois toil sang, Beauniauoir !"' proudly she traced. 



LITTLE THINGS. 

Little drops of water, little graius of sand. 
Make the mighty ocean aud the }deasaut laud. 
Thus the little minutes, Lumble tliough they be, 
Make tLe mighty ages of eternity. 

TLus our little errors lead the soul away 
From the iiatL of virtue, oft iu sin to stray. 
Little deeds of kindness, little words of love, 
Make our eartli au Eden like the heaveu above. 



LABORAEE EST ORAKE. 

Pause not to dream of the future Lefoic us ; 
Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us ; 
Hark ! how Creatiou's deep, musical chorus, 

Uniutermittiug, goes up iuto Heaveu ! 
Never the ocean-wave falters iu flowing: 
Never the little seed stops iu its growing; 
More aud more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing, 

Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. 

"Labor is worship!" — the robin is singing; 
" Labor is worship !" — the wild bee is ringing : 
Listen! tLat eloquent whisper upspringing 

Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great heart. 
From the dark cloud flows tlie life-giving sLower; 
From tLe rough sod blows the soft-breatliing flower ; 
From the small insect, the ricL coral bower; 

Only man, iu the plan, shrinks from his part. 

Labor is life! 'Tis the still water failcth : 

Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; 

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assailctli ; 

Flowers droop and die iu the stillness of noon. 
Labor is glory! — the flying cloud lightens; 
Only Ihc waving wing changes and brigLtens: 
Idle hearts only tho dark future frightens : 

Play the sweet keys, Avouldst thou keep them iu 
tuue ! 



Labor is rest from the sorrows tLat greet us. 
Rest from all petty vexatious that meet us, 
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us, 

Rest fioni world-sirens that lure us to ill. 
Work — and pure slumbers shall wait ou tliy i)illow ; 
Work — tLou sLalt ride over Care's coming billow : 
Lie not down wearied 'neatb Woe's weeping-willow ; 

Work with a stout heart and resolute will! 

Labor is LealtL ! Lo ! the Lusbauduiau reaping. 
How through Lis veins goes the life current leaping ! 
How his strong arm in its stalwart xnide sweeping, 

True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides ! 
Labor is wealth — in the sea the pearl growetb : 
Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth ; 
From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth ; 

Temple and statue the marble block hides. 

Droop not.thongL shame, sin, aud anguish are round 
tlico! [thee! 

Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound 
Look to you pure Heaven smiling bej-ond thee ; 

Rest not content in thy darkness — a clod ! 
Work — for some good, be it ever so slowly ; 
Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly; 
Labor! — all labor is uoble and holy! 

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to tliy God' 



AN ATLANTIC TRIP. 

But two events dispel ennui 

Iu our Atlantic trip : 
Sometimes, alas! we ship a sea, 

Aud sometimes see a ship. 



THE AUTHOR'S LAST VERSES. 

You've woven roses round my way, 
Aud gladdened all my being ; 

How much I thank you, none cau say, 
Save oidy the All-seeing. 

Slay He who gave this lovely gift, 

This love of lovely doings, 
Be with yon, wheresoe'er you go, 

In every hope's pursnings. 

I'm going through the eternal gates. 
Ere June's sweet roses blow ! 

Death's lovely angel leads me tLere, 
Aud it is sweet to go. 



ROBERT BROWNING. 



ro9 



Hobert Browning. 



Browning' was born at Cumberland, Siu'i'cy, England, 
in 1S13, and educated at tlic London University. Ho was 
married in 1S4G to tlie poetess, Elizabetli Barrett, and tliey 
were for several years resident in Italy. His "Paracel- 
sus," remarliable for an author of twenty-four, was pub- 
lished in 1S3G; was followed'by "Pippa Passes" and the 
tragedy of" Straflord," whicli even Jlacready could not 
make a success on the stage. Among Browning's oth- 
er productions are "Sordello" (mystical and obscure); 
" The Blot in the Scutcheon," a pla}', produced with no 
success at Drury Lane in 1S43; "A Soul's Tragedy;" 
"Dramatic Romances and Lyrics;" " Tlie Ring aud the 
Book;" '-The Inn Album;" " Sludge, the Medium" (a 
coarse and pointless attack on D. D. Home) ; and some 
half dozen other volumes. His longer poems are marred 
by obscurities and eccentricities of style, agreeable only 
to initiated admirers. He has never been a popular poet, 
though some of his shorter lyrics have won and kept the 
iniblic ear. A writer of eminent genius, he seems to lack 
tliat care and patience of the artist which knows how 
to condense and blot. He has been called " the head of 
the psychological school," but it would be difficult to for- 
mulate his psychology. Referring to the obscurity of his 
style, he writes (ISSO) to a friend: " I can have little doubt 
tliat mj' writing has been in the main too hard for many 
I should have been pleased to communicate with; but I 
never designedly tried to puzzle people, as some of my 
' critics have supposed. On the other hand, I never pre- 
tended to offer such literature as should be a substitute 
for a cigar or game of dominoes to an idle man. So, per- 
haps, on the whole, I get my deserts and something over 
— not a crowd, but a few I value more " 



\ 



HOW THEY BKOUGHT THE GOOD NEWS 
FROM GHENT.' 

I sprang to the stirrup, and Jovis, and lie ; 
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ; 
'• Good-speed !" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts un- 
drew ; 
■• .Speed I'' echoed the wall to ns galloping through ; 
liehind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 
Aud into the uiidiiight we galloped abreast. 

Not a word to each other ; we kept the great jiace 
Xeck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our 

place ; 
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight. 
Then shortened each stirrnp, and set the pique right, 
, Kebnckled the cheek-strap, chaiued slacker the bit. 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 



' Accnrjiiig ti> Browning's own admission, there is no histor- 
ical fninulatiiin wliatever Toi- this spirited little narrative poem. 
It is nil purely fanciful. The distance from Aix to Gheut is too 
ijrcat for any horse to traverse it in the time specifled. 



'Twas moonset at starting ; hut while we drew near 
Lockeren, the cocks crew, aud twilight dawned clear; 
At Boom a great yellow star came out to see ; 
At Diiffeld 'twas moruiug as idain as could be ; 
Aud from Mechelu church-steeple we heard the half 

cliime, 
So Jori.s broke silence with " Yet there is time T' 

At Aerschot, up leaped of a snddcii the sun, 
Aud agaiust him the cattle .stood black every one, 
To stare through the mist at us galloping iiast, 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, 
With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
The haze, as some bluft' river headland its spray. 

And his low head aud crest,just one sharp ear bent 

back 
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track ; 
Aud one eye's black ititelligeuce — ever that glance 
O'er its white edge at me, his owu master, askauce ! 
And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye aud 

anon 
His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on. 

By Hasselt, Dirck groaued ; aud cried Joris, '• Stay 

spur! 
Your Riiss galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, 
We'll remember at Ais" — for one heard the quick 

wheeze 
Of her chest, saw her stretched neck and staggering 

knees. 
And Sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, 
A.s down ou her hauuches she shuddered and sauk. 

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, 
Past Looz aud past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ; 
Tlie hroad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like 

chaff; 
Till over by Dalhcm a dome-spire sprang white. 
And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight I'' 

" How they'll greet us !" and all in a moment his 

roan 
Rolled neck aud croup over, lay dead as a stone ; 
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her 

fate. 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, 
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 

Then I cast loose my butf-coat, each holster let fall. 
Shook off both my jack-hoots, let go belt and all, 



Till 



CTCLOPJ^DIA OF BlUTISR AND AMEIUCJX POETHT. 



Stood up ill the stirrup, leaued, patted his ear, 
C^alled my Roland liis pet-iianie, my horse ■n-ithout 

peer ; 
Clapped luy hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad 

or good, 
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 

And all I renieniber is, friends flocking round 
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground, 
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, 
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine. 
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 
Was no more than his due who brought good uews 
from Ghent. 



THE FRENCH AT RATISBON. 

You know we French stormed Ratisbon : 

A mile or so away, 
On a little uionnd, Napoleon 

Stood on our storming-day : 
With neck out-thrust, yon fancy how. 

Legs wide, arms locked behind. 
As if to balance the prone brow, 

Oppressive with its mind. 

Just as pcrhap.s he mused, " Mj' plans 

That soar, to earth may fall, 
Let once my army-leader, Lanues, 

Waver at yonder wall," — 
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full galloping; nor hridle drew 

Until ho reached the mound. 

Then off tliere flung in smiling joy. 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy : 

You hardly could suspect, 
(So tight he kept his lips compressed. 

Scarce any blood came through,) 
Yon looked twice ere you saw his breast 

Was all but shot in two. 

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace 

W'e've got you Ratisbon ! 
The m.arshars in the market-place. 

And you'll bo there anon 
To see your flag-bird flap his vans 

Where I, to heart's desire. 
Perched him !" The chiefs eyes flashed ; his jilans 

Soared up again like fire. 



The chiefs eye flashed ; but presently 

Softened itself, as sheathes 
A iilm the mother-eagle's eye 

When her bruised eaglet bre.athes : 
" You're wounded !" " Nay," his soldier's pride 

Touched to the quick, he said : 
"I'm killed, sire!" And, his chief beside, 

Smiling, the boy fell dead. 



MEETING AT NIGHT. 

The gray sea and the long black land ; 
And the yellow half-moon large and low : 
And the startled little waves that leap 
In fiery ringlets from their sleep, 
As I gain the cove with pu.shing prow. 
And qnencli its speed in the slushy sand. 

Then a mile of warm ,sea-scented beach ; 

Tliree fields to cross till a farm appears ; 

A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch 

And bine spnrt of a lighted match, 

And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, 

Thau the two hearts beating each to eacli. 



EVELlTs" HOPE. 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead — 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 

She plucked that piece of geranium flower, 
Begiuning to die, too, in the glass. 

Little has yet been changed, I think — 
The shutters are shut, no light may pass, 

Save two long rays through the hinge's chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name — 
It was not her time to love ; beside, 

Her life had many a hope and aim, 
Duties enough and little cares, 

And now was quiet, now astir — 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares. 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? 

Wliat, your soul was pure and true, 
The good stars met in your horoscope, 

Made yon of spirit, fire and dew — 
And just l)ecau.se I was thrice as old, 

And our paths in the world diverged so wide. 



ROBERT BROjryiNG.^CHAULES TIMOTHY BROOKS. 



n\ 



Each ^vas naught to each, must I be tokl ? 
We were fellow-mortals, naught beside ? 

No, iiulecd, for God above 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make. 
And creates the love to reward the love, — 

I claim you still, for fny own love's sake ! 
Iielayed it may be for more lives yet, 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few — 
Much is to learn and much to forget 

Ere the time be come for taking you. 

lint the time will come — at last it will, 

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say. 
In the lower earth, iu the years long still, 

That body and sonl so pure aud gay : — 
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, 

Aud your mouth of your owu geranium's red — 
And what you would do with me, in fine. 

In the new life come in the old one's stead. 

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then. 

Given up my.self so many times. 
Gained me the gains of various men, 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;^ 
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, 

Either I missed or itself missed me — 
Aud I want to find you, Evelyn Hope! 

What is the issue ? let us see ! 

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ; 

My heart seemed full as it could hold — • 
Tliere was place and to spare for the frank young 
smile. 

And the red young mouth, and the hair's young 
gold. 
So, hu.sli, — I w ill give you tliis leaf to keep, — 

See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand. 
Tliere, that is our secret! go to sleep; 

You will wake, and remember, and understand. 



Cljarles ^liniotljj) Uroolis. 

AMERICAN, 

Brooks, born in Salem, Mass., 1813, graduated at Har- 
vard College in 1832, aud studied divinity. In 1837 lie 
was ordained pastor of a church at Newport, R. I. In 
1S71 he resigned his pastorate, since wliich lime his life 
has been one of literary leisure. He has made some 
excellent translations from the German, and has written 
some original poems, serious and humorous. His fine 
version of Leopold Schefer's " Layman's Breviary " 
(ISOTj is a voluminous spceimcu of his accuracy and skill 



as a translator. It was followed in 1873 by an equally 
felicitous version of "The World-Priest," by Schefer, a 
volume of 373 pages, the favorite work of this "most Ger- 
man of the Germans." Brooks's translation of Goethe's 
"Faust" (1856) is among the best. 



SUCH IS LIFE. 

WRITTEN IN THE HOSPITAL, 1872. 

Life is a sea ; like ships we meet, — 
We speak each other and are gone. 

Across that deep, oh what a fleet 
Of human souls is hurrying on ! 

We meet, wo part, and hope some day 

To meet again ou sea or shore. 
Before we reach that peaceful bay. 

Where all shall meet to part no more. 

O great Commander of the fleet ! 

O Ruler of the tossing seas! 
Thy signal to our eyes how sweet ! 

How sweet thy breath, — tlie heavenly breeze ! 



THE TWO GRENADIERS. 

From the Gebuan of Heine. 

To France trudged homeward two grenadiers. 
From Russia as prisoners thej' started, 

And when they came over tlie German frontiers 
They hung their heads, downhearted. 

They heard the sad news that France was lost. 

Her flag was by fortune forsaken. 
Defeated and routed her mighty host, — 

Aud the emperor — the eniiieror — was taken ! 

Then wept together the grenadiers, 

The sorrowful tidings learning ; 
And one said, "My grief is too bitter for tears. 

It sets my old woniid to burning." 

Said the olhcr, "The game is np, I see; 

I'd die with thee gladly to-morrow, 
But wife and children would pine for me. 

And sink iu starvation and sorrow." 

"No wife nor children my heart shall plague, 

I've a nobler longing unsliaken ; 
If they're hungry and starving, then let them go 
beg— 

My emperor, my emperor is taken ! 



rv2 



CTCLOPJLDIA OF BIIITISH AXD AilEIiWAN POETRY. 



•• But now, if I (lie, fiillil for iiio 

Tljis Inst request, O brother ! 
T:ike home my body to Frauce witli thee, 

To be laid in the lap of my mother. 

•'Tlie cross of honor, with ribbon red, 

Slialt thou place on my heart where they lay me ; 

The shouldered musket beside my head, 
And with girded sword array me. 

" And so in the grave, like a sentinel, 
Wakiug and watching, I'll lie there. 

Till I hear at last the cauuon's yell. 

And the neighing steeds tramp by there. 

" And then shall nij- emperor ride o'er my grave, 
Anil myriads of swords flash and rattle ; 

Then armed and equipped will I rise from my grave, 
For my emperor — my emperor to battle." 



ALABAMA. 

There is .1 tradition that a tribe of Indians, defeated and hard 
pressed by a powerful foe, reached in their flight a river where 
their chief sot up a stafl', and exclaimed, "Alabama !" a word 
meaning, **IIerc we rest I" which from that time became the 
river's name. 

Brniscd and bleeding, pale and weary. 

Onward to the South and West, 
Tlirougli dark woods and deserts dreary. 

By relentless foenien pressed, — 
Came a tribe where evening, darkling. 

Flushed a mighty river's breast ; 
And they cried, their faint eyes sparkling, 

■' Alabama ! Hero we rest !" 

By the stern steam-demon hurried. 

Far from home and scenes so blessed ; 
By the gloomy care-dogs worried. 

Sleepless, houseless, and distressed, — 
Days aiul nights Ijeheld me hieing 

Like a bird without a nest. 
Till I hailed thy waters, crying, 

'• Alabama ! Hero I rest !" 

Oh ! wlieu life's last sun is blinking 

In the pale and darksome West, 
And my weary frame is sinking, 

With it« cares and woes oppressed, — 
May I, as I drop the burden 

From my sick and fainting breast. 
Cry, Ijcside the swelling Jordan, 

" Alabama ! Here I rest !" 



■ iJones lUnj. 

AMERICAN. 
A native of Salem, Mass.,. Jones Very (1S13-1SS0) grad- 
uated at Harvard College in 1836. lu 1823 lie accompa- 
nied liis father, wlio was a sea-captain, to Europe ; on liis 
return, served as Greek tutor at Harvard two years, en- 
tered tliC ministry, and contiiraed in it, tliougli witliout a 
pastoral charge. In 1839 lie published a volume of" Es- 
says and Poems." His residence was in Salem, Mass., 
with two sisters, both of wliora had the poetical gift. 
His brotlier, Washington Very (1815-1853), was also a poet 
in tlie best sense of tlie word. Vcry's meditative poems 
show refined taste and a strong devotional tendency. 



THE BUD WILL SOON BECOME A FLOWER. 

The bud will soon become a flower. 

The flower become a .seed ; 
Then seize, oil youth, the present hour. — 

Of that thou hast most need. 

Do thy best always — do it now ; 

For in the present time. 
As in the furrows of a plough. 

Fail seeds of good or crime. 

The sun and rain will ripen fast 
Each seed tliat thou hast sown ; 

And every act and word at last 
By its own fruit be known. 

And soon the harvest of thy toil 

Kejoiciug thou shalt reap, 
Or o'er thy wild, neglected soil 

Go forth in sliame to weep. 



HOME AND HEAVEN. 

With the same letter, heaven and home begin, 
And the words dwell together in the miud; 
For they who would a iiomc in heaven win 
Must first a heaven iu homo begiu to fiud. 
Bo happy here, yet with a humble soul 
That looks for perfect happiness iu heaven ; 
For what tliou hast is earnest of the whole 
Wliich to the faithful sliall at last be given. 
As once the patriarch, iu .a vision blessed. 
Saw the swift angels hastening to and fro, 
And the lone spot whereon he lay to rest 
Became to him the gate of heaven below ; 
So may to thee, when life it.self is done. 
Thy homo ou earth and heaven above be one. 



JONES VERY. — WILLIAM EDMOXDSTOUXE AYTOUX. 



7Vi 



THE SPIRIT-LAND. 

Fatliev! tliy wouders do not singly stand, 

Nov far removed where feet have seldom strayed ; 

Around us ever lies the enchanted land, 

In mnrvels rich to thine own sous displayed; 

In (inding Thee arc all things round us found; 

In losing Tlioe are all things lost Ijeside ; 

Ears have we, but in vain; — strauge voices sound. 

And to our eyes the vision is denied: 

We wander in the country fiir remote, 

'Mid tombs and ruined piles in death to dwell ; 

Or on the records of past greatness dote, 

And for a buried sonl the living sell ; 

Wliile ou our jiath bewildered falls the night 

That ne'er returns ns to tho fields of light. 



NATURE. 

The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, 
Hecause my feet find measure with its call; 
The birds know when the friend they love is nigh, 
F(n' I am known to them, both great and small ; 
The flower that ou the lovely hill-side grows 
Expects me there when Spring its bloom has 

•given ; 
And many a tree or bush my wanderings knows. 
And even the clouds and silent stars of heaven : — 
For he who with his Maker walks aright 
Shall be their lord, as Adam was before ; 
His ear shall catch each sound with new delight, 
Each object wear the dress that then it wore ; 
And he, as when erect in soul he stood. 
Hoar from his Father's lips that all is good. 



OUR SOLDIERS' GRAVES. 

Strew^ all their graves with flowers, 

They for their country died ; 
And freely gave their lives for ours. 

Their country's hope and pride. 

Bring flowers to deck each sod. 
Where rests their sacred dust ; 

Tliough gone from earth, they live to C4od, 
Their everlasting trust ! 

Fearless in Freedom's cause 
They suffered, toiled, and bled; 

And died obedient to her laws. 
By truth and conscience led. 



Oft as the year returns. 

She o'er their graves shall weep ; 
And wreathe with flowers their funeral urns, 

Their memory dear to keep. 

Bring flowers of early .spring 

To deck each soldier's grave, 
And summer's fragrant roses bring, — ■ 

They died our land to save. 



lllUliom Crbmou^Gtounc ^ntouu. 

Descended from an ancient Scottish liimily, Aytouu 
(1813-180.5) W.1S born in Edinburgh, and educated at the 
Academy and University of that city. He also studied 
in Germany, and made translations of some of the best 
of Uhland's poems. In 1.S41, in conjunction with Theo- 
dore Martin, he produced the "Bon Gaultier Ballads." 
But liis chief success (lS4o) was his spirited " Lays of the 
Scottish Cavaliers." Seventeen editions of it had been 
issued up to 180.5. He married a daugliter of Professor 
John Wilson, tlie poet, and editor of BlnckwoocVs Muga- 
zine. With this periodical Aytoun was connected till 
the close of his life. Among his later works are "Fir- 
milian ; or, The Student of Badajoz," a poem in ridi- 
cule of the "spasmodic school" ofvcr.se; "Botlnvell," 
a poem; and "Norman Sinclair," a romance. 



THE OLD SCOTTISH CAVALIER. 

Come, listen to another song, 

Should make your heart beat high. 
Bring crimson to your forehead, 

And tho lustre to your eye : 
It is a song of olden time, 

Of days long since gone by. 
And of a baron stout and bold 

As e'er wore sword on thigh ! 

Like a brave old Scottish cavalier, 
All of the olden time ! 

He kept his castle in the North, 

Hard by the thundering Spey : 
And a thousand vassals dwelt around, 

All of his kiudred they. 
And uot a umn of all that clan 

Had ever ceased to pray 
For the royal race they loved so well, 

Though exiled far away 

From the steadfast Scottish cavaliers, 
All of the olden time ! 

His father drew the righteous sword 
For Scotlaud and her claims. 



-14 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AM ERIC AN rOETRT. 



Among the loyal gentlemen 

And fliiefs of ancient names, 
Who swore to fight or fall beneath 

The standard of King James, 
And died at Killiecraukie Pass, 

With the glory of the Graemes, 

Like a trne old Scottish cavalier. 
All of the olden time! 

He never owned the foreign rule. 

No master ho obeyed ; 
Bnt kept his clan iu peace at home 

From foray and from raid ; 
And when they asked him for his oath. 

Ho touched his glittering blade, 
And pointed to his bounet blue, 

That bore the white cockade : 

Like a leal old Scottish cavalier, 
All of the olden time! 

At length the news ran through the land, 

The PuiNCE had come again! 
That night the fiery cross was sped 

O'er mountain and through glen ; 
And onr old Baron rose in might, 

Like a lion from his den, 
And rode away across the hills 

To Charlie and bis men, 

With the valiant Scottish cavaliers, 
All of the olden time ! 

He was the first that bout the knee 
When the Standard waved abroad ; 

He was the first that charged the foo 
On Preston's bloody sod ; 

And ever iu the van of fight, 
The foremost still he trod. 

Until on bleak Cnlloden's heath 
He gave his soul to God, 
Like a good old Scottish cavalier, 
All of the oldon time ! 

Oh ! never shall we know again 

A heart so stout and true — 
The oldeu times have passed away, 

And weary are tlie new : 
The fair White Rose has faded 

From the garden where it grew. 
And no fond tears, save those of heaven, 

The glorious bed bedew 

Of the last old Scottish cavalier. 
All of the oldeu time ! 



Cljvistopljcr |Jcav0c tUvanclj. 

AMERICAN. 

CrancU was born in Alcxiintlria, Va., in I8I0, and was 
graduated at Columbia College, Washington, in 1833. 
He began the study of divinity ; but forsook it for land- 
scape-painting. A small volume of poetry from his pen 
appeared in 1844; and in 1S7.5, "The Bird and the Bell, 
with other Poems." In 1847 he visited Europe, and 
lived abroad, mostly in Paris, for over ten years. He is 
the author of two works for the young, and of a superior 
metrical translation of Vii's^il. 



SONNET. 

L'pon God's throne there is a seat for me : 

My coming forth from him hath left a space 

Which none but I can fill. One sacred place 

Is vacant till I come. Father ! from thee. 

When I descended here to run my race, 

A void was left iu tliy paternal heart, 

Not to be filled while we are kept apart. 

Yea, though a thonsand worlds demand tliy care. 

Though heaven's vast host thy constant blessings 

own. 
Thy quick love flics to meet my feeble prayer. 
As if amid thy worlds 1 lived alone 
In endless space ; but thou and I were there, 
And thou cmbr.aced me with a love as wild 
,A.s the young mother bears toward her first-born 

child. 



GNOSIS.' 

Thought is deeper than all speech. 
Feeling deeper th.an all thought ; 

Souls to souls can never teach 

What unto themselves was taught. 

Wo are sjMrits clad in veils; 

Man by man was never seeu ; 
All our deep eommuuiug fails 

To remove the shadowy screen. 

Heart to heart w.as never known. 
Mind with mind did never meet; 

We are columns left alone 
Of a temple once complete. 

Like the stars that gem the sky. 
Far apart, though seeming near, 

' Greek, Ttaxr,!— knowing. 



CHUISrOPHEB PEAESE CRAXCH.— HENRY THEODORE TDCEERMAN. 



715 



III our light we scattered lie; 
All is tbiis but starligbt hero. 

What is social company 

But a babbling summer stream ? 
What our wise philosoiihy 

But the glancing \>i a dream? 

Only when the suu of love 

Melts the scattered stais of thought ; 
Only when we live above 

What the dim-eyed world hath taught ; 

Only when our souls are fed 

By the Fount which gave them birth, 
And by iuspiratiou led 

Which they never drew from earth, 

We like parted drops of rain. 
Swelling till they meet and run. 

Shall be all absorbed again, 
Melting, flowing into one. 



FROM AN "ODE." 

ON THE BinTHDAY OF MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI.i 

Where now, where, 
O spirit pure, where walk those shiniug feet ? 
Whither, in groves beyond the treacherous seas, 
Beyond our sense of time, divinely, dimly fair, 
Brighter than gardens of Hesjierides, — 
Whither dost thou move on, complete 
Aud beauteous, ringed around 
In mystery pi'ofound. 
By gracious companies who share 
That strange supernal air ? 
Or art thou sleeping dreamless, knowing naught 

Of good or ill, of life or death ? 
Or art thou but a breeze of Heaven's breath, 

A portion of all life, inwrouglit 
In the eternal essence? — All in vain. 
Tangled iu misty webs of time, 
Out on the undiscovered clime 
Our clouded eyes we strain ; 
Wo cannot iiierce the veil. 
As the proud eagles fail 
Upon their upward track. 
And flutter gaspiug back 
From the thin empyrean, so, with wing 
Baffled and humbled, we but guess 

' For au .icconnt of this lady, see pnge 670. 



All we shall gain, by all the soul's distress, — 
All we shall be, by our poor worthiuess. 

And so we write aud sing [Heaven. 

Our dreams of time and space, and call them — 
We only know that all is for the best; 
To God we leave the rest. 

So, reverent beneath the mystery 

Of Life and Death, we yield 
Back to the great Unknown the spirit given 
A few brief years to blossom iu our field. 
Nor shall time's all-devouring sea 
Despoil this brightest century 
Of all thou hast been, and shalt ever be. 
The age shall guard thy fame, 
And reverence thy name. 
There is no cloud on them. Tliere is no death for 
thee ! 



tjcunj iEljcobovc ii[utl\cnnan. 

AMERICAN. 

Tuckerman (1813-1871) was a native of Boston, the son 
of a well-known merchant. He was fitted for college, 
but, on account of feeble health, did not enter. He was 
a prolific, but never, in the commercial sense, a success- 
ful writer. He spent some eleven years of his life in 
Italy; wrote "The Italian Sketch-book," "Thoughts on 
the Poets," "Artist Life," "The Optimist," etc., besides 
contributing to the leading magazines. In poetry, be 
preferred the school of Pope, Cowper, aud Burns to the 
modern style, so largely influenced by Tennyson. Brown- 
ing, and their imitators. His principal poem, publisiied 
in Boston in 1851, and entitled "The Spirit of Poetry," 
is an elaborate essay in heroic verse of some seven hun- 
dred lines. He was a close student of art, as his writings 
show. 



SONNET: FREEDOM. 

Freedom ! beneath thy banner I was born : 

Oh, let me share thy full and jierfect life ! 

Teach me opinion's slavery to .scorn. 

And to bo free from passion's bitter strife ; 

Free of the world, a self-dependent soul. 

Nourished by lofty aims and genial truth, 

And made more free by Love's serene control. 

The spell of beauty aud the hopes of youth : — 

The liberty of Nature let me know. 

Caught from her mountaius, groves, and crystal 

streams ; 
Her starry host, and sunset's purple glow. 
That woo the spirit with celestial dreams 
On Fancy's wing exnltiugly to soar 
Till Life's harsh fetters clog the heart no more ! 



716 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



(Ppcs Sargent. 

AMERICAN. 

A native of Gloucester, Mass. (boru 1813), Sargent at- 
tended the Public Latin School iu Boston some live years, 
lu 1837 lie went in one of his father's ships to Denmaik 
and Russia, and, a few jcars later, to Cuba. He entered 
Harvard College, but did not graduate. He was connect- 
ed in an editorial capacity with the Advertiser, Atlas, and 
Transcript of Boston ; and for several years with the 3Jir- 
ror. New Wurld, and other New York journals. He pub- 
lished in 1819 "Songs of the Sea, and other Poems," now 
out of print. Before that, he had passed several seasons 
at Washiimton as the correspondent of Boston and New 
York journals. He wrote a Life of Henry Clay, after- 
ward re-edited by Horace Greeley. In 1868 he revisited 
Europe, and passed some time in England and tlie South 
of France. His home has been in the Roxbury district 
of Boston. 



EVENING IN GLOUCESTER HARBOR. 

The very pnlse of ocean now was still: 
From the fai-off profound, uo throb, no swell ! 
Motiouless ou the coastwise ships the sails 
Hnng limp and wliite — their very shadows white ! 
The light-honse windows di'ank tlie kindling red. 
And flashed and gleamed as if the lamps were lit. 
And now 'tis sundown. All the lighthouses — 
Like the wise virgins, ready with their lamps — 
Flash greeting to the night! There Eastern Point 
Flames out! Lo, little Ten Pound Island follows! 
See Baker's Island kindling! Marblehead 
Ablaze ! Egg Kock, too, oft' Nahant, on tire ! 
And Boston Light winking at Minot's Ledge! — 

lint when the moon .shone crescent iu the west, 
And tlie faint outline of the part obscured 
Thread-like curved visible from horu to horn, — 
.\nd .lupiter, supreme among the orbs, 
Aud Mars, with rutilating beam, came forth. 
And the gi'cat concave opened like a flower. 
Unfolding firmaments and galaxies, 
.Sparkling with separate stars, or snowy white 
With nndistinguisliable suns beyond, — 
No elond lo dim tlu' innneasnrable arch — 
They ii.iused and rested on their oars again, 
Anil looked around, — in adoration looked: 
For, gazing ou the inconceivable. 
They felt God is, though inconceivable. 



SUNRISE AT SEA. 

When the mild weather came. 
And set the sea on flame, 



How often would I rise before the sun, 

Aud from the mast behold 

The gradual splendors of the sky uutVdd 
Ere the first line of disk had yet begun, 
Above the liorizon's arc. 

To show its flaming gold, 
Across the purple dark ! 

One perfect dawn how well I recollect, 

When the whole east was flecked 

With flashing streaks aud shafts of amethyst. 

While a light crimson mist 

Went up before the mounting luminary, 

And all the strips of cloud began to vary 

Their hues, and all the zenith seemed lo ope 

As if to show a cope beyond tlie cope ! 
How reverently calm the ocean lay 
At the bright birth of that celestial day ! 

How every little vapor, robed in state. 

Would melt and dissipate 
Before the augmenting ray. 

Till the victorious Orb rose unattended, 

Aud every billow was his mirror splendid! 

3I:iy, 1S27. 



A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE. 

A life, ou the ocean wave, 

A liome ou the rolling deep. 
Where the scatt(;red waters rave, 

And the winds their revels keep : 
Like an eagle caged, I pine 

On this dull, nucbanging .shore : 
Oh ! give me the flashing brine. 

The spray aud the tempest's roar! 

Once more on the deck I stand 

Of my own swift-gliding craft: 
Set sail ! fare\ycll to the laud ! 

The gale follows fair abaft. 
We shoot throngh the sparkling foam 

Like an ocean-bird set free ; — 
Like the ocean-bird, our Imnie 

We'll iind far out on the sea. 

The land is no longer in view. 

The clouds have begun to frown ; 
But witli a stout vessel aud crew, 

We'll say, Let the storm come down! 
Aud the song of our hearts shall be, 

While the winds aud the waters rave, 
A home ou the rolling sea! 

A life ou the ocean wave! 



ErES SJEGEXT.—JOHX SULLIVAN DWIGHT. 



717 



LINDA'S SONG. 

A little bird flew 

To tbe top of a tree : 
The slcy it was blue, 

And the bird saug to me : 
So tender and true was the stiaiii, 
The singer, I hoped, ^^"ould remain : 
Oh, little bird, stay and prolong 
The rapture, the grief of that song! 

A little thought came, 

Came out of my heart ; 
It whispered a name 

That eaused me to start : 
And the rose-colored breath of my sigh 
Flnslied the earth and the sea and the sky: 
Delay, little thought ! Oh, delay, 
And gladden my life with thy ray! 



SOUL OF MY SOUL. 

Soul of my sonl, impart 

Tliy energy divine! 
Inform and till this languid heart. 

And make thy purpose mine. 
Thy voice is still and small. 

The world's is loud and rude : 
Oh, let me hear thee over all, 

And be, through love, I'euewed! 

Give me the mind to seek 

Tliy perfect will to kuow ; 
And lead me, tractable and meek, 

The way I ought to go. 
Make quick my spirit's ear 

Thy faintest word to heed : 
Soul of my soul ! be ever near 

To guide me in my need. 



SONNET: TO DAVID FEIEDEICH STRAUSS, 

Al-TEn READING HIS LAST WORK, "THE OLD FAITH AND 
THE KEW." 

Tliou say'st, my friend, 'twould strike thee with 

dismay 
To be assured that life would not end here; 
Since utter death is less a thing to fear 
In thy esteem than life in clearer day : 
For life, continuous life, thou wouldst not pray ; 
And even reunion with the loved and near 
Is not to thee a prospect that could cheer, 



Or shed a glory on thy earthward way : — 

O power of thougbt perverse and morbid mood. 

Conspiring thus to numb and blind the heart ! 

The universe gives back what we impart, — 

As we elect, gives jioison or pure food : 

Mock — silence — the soul's whisper, — and Despair 

Becomes to man than Hope itself more fair! 



WEBSTER. 

Night of the Tomb ! He has entered thy portal ; 

Silence of Death ! He is wrapi)ed in thy shade; 
All of the gifted and great that was mortal. 

In the earth where the oceau-mist weepeth, is laid. 

Lips, whence the voice that held Senates proceeded. 

Form, lending argument, aspect august. 
Brow, like the arch that a nation's weight needed. 

Eyes, wells unfatbomed of thought,— all are dust. 

Nigbt of the Tomb! Through thy darkness is .shining 
A light since the Star in the East never dim ; 

No joy's exultation, no sorrow's repining 

Could hide it in life or life's ending from him. 

Silence of death ! There were voices from heaven. 

That pierced to the cjuick ear of Faith through 

the gloom : 

The rod and the staif that he asked for were given, 

And he followed the Saviour's own track to the 

tomb. 

Beyond it, above, in an atraosphei'e finer, 

Lo, infinite ranges of being to fill ! 
In that land of the spirit, that region diviner. 

He liveth, he loveth, he laboreth still. 
M.-irshfleld, Mass., Oct. 24th, 1S52. 



iJol)n Sullinau Diuigl)!. 

AMERICAN. 
Dwidit, born in Boston, May i:3tli, 1813, was graduated 
at the Public Latin School ot that city, and subsciiuently 
at Harvard. He has for many years been editor of the 
Journal of Musk; and has won merited eminence as a 
musical ci'itic second to no one in America. He edited 
in 1839 a collection of poetical translations from the Ger- 
man, in which were many fiom his own pen. 



TRUE REST. 

Sweet is the pleasure it.self cannot spoil! 
Is not true leisure one with true toil ? 



ri6 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BUniSH ASD AMEIUCAX POETRY. 



Thou tbat wonldst taste it, still do tby best ; 
Use it, uot -ivaste it, — else 'tis uo rest. 

Woulilst bt'boUl beauty near tbee? all ronudf 
Oulj' batU duty such a sight fouud. 

Rest is not quitting the busy career ; 
Rest is the fitting of self to its sphere. 

'Tis the brook's motion, clear \\itbout strife. 
Fleeing to ocean after its life. 

Deeper devotiou nowhere hath kuelt ; 
Fuller emotion heart never felt. 

'Tis loving and serving the highest and best; 
'Tis onward! unswerving, — and that is true rest. 



VANITAS! VANITATUM VANITAS ! 

From the German of Goethe. 

I've set my heart upou nothing, you see; 

Hurrah ! 
Aud .so the world goes well with me. 

Hurrah ! 
Aud who has a miud to be fellow of mine, 
Why, let him take hold and help me drain 
These mouldy lees of wine. 

I set my heart at first upon wealth : 

Hurrah ! 
And bartered away my i^eaco and health ; 

But, ah ! 
The slippery change went about like air, 
Aud wheu I had clutched me a handful here,- 
Away it went there ! 

1 set my heart upou woniau nest; 

Ihunih! 
For her sweet sake w.as oft perplexed; 

But, ah ! 
The False one looked for a daintier lot. 
The Constant one wearied me out and out, 
Tlu! Best was uot easily got. 

I set my heart upon travels grand ; 

Hurrah ! 
Aud spurned our plain ohl father-land ; 

But, ah ! 
Naught seemed to bo just the thing it should, - 
Most comfortless beds and indift'erent food ! 
My tastes misunderstood ! 



I set my heart upon sounding fame ; 

Hurrah ! 
Aud, lo! I'm eclipsed by some upstart's name; 

And, ah ! 
Wheu in public life I loomed quite high, 
The folks that passed me would look awry : 
Their very worst friend was I. 

And then I set my heart ui)OU war; 

Hurrah ! 
We gained some battles with eclat. 

Hurrah! 
We troubled the foe with sword and flame 
(And some of our friends fared quite the same). 
I lost a leg for fame. 

Xow I've set my heart upou nothing, you see ; 

Hurrah ! 
And the whole wide world belongs to me. 

Hurrah ! 
Tlic feast begins to run low, no doubt ; 
But at the old cask we'll have one good bout : 
Come, drink the lees all out! 



Cjcnri) B. tjivst. 



Hirst was born in Philade-lpliia in 1813. He begau the 
study of tlie law in 1830. His earliest poems appeared 
in Graham's Ifagasinc when lie was about tliirty. Ill the 
preface to his " Eudymion " (written before he had ever 
seen the " Enelymion " of Keats), he says : " Until the as;i' 
of twenty-three, I entertained a holy horror of poetry— 
an almost ludicrous result of an exceedingly pi-osaic ex- 
istence. * * * It would be safe to say that I have writ- 
ten, uot published, more English rhyme than I have read." 
Ill 1S45 he put forth, in Boston, "The Coming of the 
Miinimoth," "The Funeral of Time, and other Poems;" 
ami in 184S appeared his "Eudymion," a poem of one 
hundred and twenty pages, iu which there is an occa- 
sional |).assagc not unworthy of Keats. In 1.S49 he pub- 
lished " The Penance of Roland : a Romance of the Peine 
Forte et Dure, and other Poems." It is rather a tragic 
story of a husband who, in a fit of unjust jealousy, slay> 
his wife. 



PARTING OF DIAN AND ENDYMION. 

From " Endymios." 

The goddess gasped for breath, with bosom swelling : 

Her lips unclosed, while her large, lumiuous eyes 

Blazing like Stygiau skies. 

With passion on the audacious youth were dwelling : 

She raised her angry hand, that seemed to clasii 

Jove's thunder iu its grasp. 



HENRY B. HIIiST.— THOMAS OSBORNE DA VIS.— ROBERT NICOLL. 



Tin 



And tbeu she stood iu silence, fixed and breathless ; 
But presently the threatening arm slid down ; 
The fierce, destroying frown 
Departed from her eyes, which took a deathless 
Expression of despair, liko Niobe's — 
Her dead ones at her kuees. 

Slowly her agony passed,. Sud an Elysian, 
Majestic fervor, lit her lofty eyes, 
Now dwelling on the skies: 
Meanwhile, Eiulymion stood, cheek, brow, and vision. 
Radiant with resignation, stern and cold, 
In conscious virtue bold. 

Their glances met ; his, while they trembled, showing 
An earnestness of purpose ; hers, a soul 
Whence passion's wild control 
Had passed forever ; while her whole form, glowing. 
Resumed its stateliness: once more she stood 
Erect, in all — the god ! 
* # ^* # * * 

"Farewell, Eudyiiiion," said the goddess, stooping, 
Pressing with pallid lips upon his brow 

A kiss of frozen snow, ['ug 

And, mournfully turning, passed, her fair headdroop- 
Upon her snowy breast : " Farewell forever — 
Forever and forever !" 

Endymion, stretching forth his arms, endeavored 
To clasp her garment's hem, but slowly, slowly. 
She waued and vanished wholly. 
And like a dream : the sudden silence severed 
His heart from him : " Farewell," it breathed, 
" forever ! 
Forever and forever !" 



iSljomas (Psbovue Dauis. 

Davis (1814-1845) was a native of Mallow, County Cork, 
Ireland. lie was a close student fi-om early youth, en- 
tered Trinity College, and was admitted to the Irish Bar. 
In company with John Dillon and Charles Gavan Duffy, 
in 1843 he founded T/w A'alion, a powerful organ for the 
most radical of the Irish patriots. He showed as much 
lyrical as political fervor in his contributions. Of an 
exuberant, joyous spirit, and a strict lover of truth and 
riffht, he did not live to redeem the high promise of his 
youth. 



THE WELCOME. 

Come in the evening, or come in the morning, 
Come when you're looked for, or come without 
warning. 



Kisses and welcome you'll find here before yon. 

And the ofteuer you come here the more I'll adore 

yon. 

Light is uiy heart since the day we were plighted, 

Red is my cheek that they told mo was blighted ; 

The green of the trees looks far greeuer thau ever. 



I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose 

them ; 

Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom. 

I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to iuspire you ; 

I'll fetch from ray fancy a tale that won't tire you ; 

Oh ! yonr step's like the rain to the summer-vexed 

farmer. 
Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor ; 
I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above 

me. 
Then, wandering, I'll wish yon iu silence to love 
me. 

We'll look throngh the trees at the cliff and the eyrie. 
We'll tread round the rath ou the track of the foiry, 
We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river. 
Till you ask of j'our darling what gift yon cau give 
her. 
Oh ! she'll whisper you, " Love as unchangeably 

beaming. 
And trust, when iu secret, most tunefully stream- 
ing. 
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver. 
As our souls tlow iu one down eteruity's river." 

So come in the evening, or come iu the morning. 
Come when you're looked for, or come without 

waruiug, . 
Kisses and welcome j-ou'll fiud here before you ! 
And the ofteuer you come here the more I'll adoro 
you ! 
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted; 
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; 
The green of the trees looks far greener thau ever. 
And the linnets are singing, "True lovers! don't 
sever !" 



Uobcrt NicoU. 

NicoU (1814-1837), a youth of high promise, cultivated 
literature amidst many discouragemeuts, and died iu his 
tweuty-fouith year, of consumption. He was a native 
of Auchtergaven, in Perthshire, Scotland. When about 
thirteen he began to note down his thoughts and to 



720 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRIXISB AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



scribble verses. When twenty, be remarked, in a letter 
to a frieiul, " I am a Radical in every sense of the term ;" 
and in 1S30 he became editor of the Leeds Times, repre- 
senting the extreme of the liberal class of opinions. He 
added largely to its circulation. His poems are short 
occasional pieces and songs — the latter much inferior to 
his serious poems. Ilis "People's Anthem" rises into 
somewhat of true grandeur by virtue of simplicity ; and 
his lines on "Death," believed to be the last of his com- 
positions, are entitled to similar praise. Ebenezcr Elliott 
styles him "Scotland's second Burns." 



PEOPLE'S ANTHEM. 

Lord, from Thy blessed throne, 
Sorrow look dowu upon ! 

God save the Poor ! 
Teach tlicin true liberty — 
Make them from tyrants free — 
Let their homes happy be ! 

God .save the Poor! 

The arms of wicked men 

Do Tliou with mij^ht restrain — 

God save the Poor! 
Raise Thou their lowliness — 
Snccor Then their distress — 
Tlion whom the meanest bless! 

God save the Poor ! 

Give them staunch honesty — 
Let their pride manly be — 

God save the Poor ! 
Help them to hold the right ; 
Give them both truth and might. 
Lord of all Lite and Light! 

God save the Poor! 



LIFE IN DEATH. 

Tlie dew is on the summer's greenest grass. 

Through which the modest daisy blushing peeps ; 

The gentle wind that like a ghost doth pass, 
A waving shadow on the cornfield keeps ; 

But I who love them all sliall never be 

Again among the woods, or on tlie moorland lea! 

The sun shines sweetly — sweeter may it shine; 

IJles.sed is the brightness of a summer day ; 
It ohecrs lone lu'arts ; and why should I repine, 

Altliongli among green fields I cannot stray! 
Woods ! 1 have grown, since last I heard yon wave. 
Familiar uow with death, aud neighbor to the grave ! 



These woods have shaken mighty huniau souls: 
Like a sepulchral echo drear they sound ; 

E'en as the owl's wild whoop at midnight rolls 
The ivied remnants of old ruins round. 

Yet wherefore tremble ? Can the soul decay ? 
Or that which thinks and feels, in aught e'er fade 
away ? 

Are there not aspirations in each heart 
After a better, brighter world thau tliis ? 

Longings for beings nobler iu each jiart — 

Things more exalted — steeped in deeper bliss ? 

Who gave us these ? What are they ? Soul, iu thee 

The bud is budding now for immortality ! 

Death comes to take mo where I long to be ; 

One pang, and bright blooms the immortal tlower; 
Death comes to lead me from mortality. 

To lauds which know not one unhappy hour ; 
I have a liope, a faith — from sorrow here 
I'm led by death away — why should I start and fear ? 

If I have loved the forest aud the field. 
Can I not love them deeper, better there ? 

If all that power hath made, to me doth yield 
Something of good and beauty — something fair — 

Freed from the grossness of mortality. 

May I not love them all, aud better all enjoy ? 

A change from woe to joy — from earth to heaven, — 
Death gives me this — it leads mo calmly where 

The souls that long ago from mine were riveu 
May meet again! death answers many a jirayer: 

Bright day, shine on! be glad: days brighter far 

Are stretched before my eyes than those of mortals 
are ! 

;^lcianiicv Beaufort lUcck. 

AMERICAN. 

A native of Columbia, S. C, Meek was born in 1814, 
and died in 180.5. He made the law his profession. He 
edited for a time T/ic ,Sout/iron, a literary monthly pub- 
lished at Tuscaloosa, Ala. In 1S3C lie served as lieuten- 
ant of volunteers against tlie Seminoles. He was United 
States Attorney for tlie Southern District of Alabama 
from 1S40 to 1850, and associate editor of the Mobile 
Daily Register from 1848 to 1853. In 1859 be was elected 
Speaker of the Alabama Legislature. In 18.55 lie publish- 
ed " Tlic Red Eagle : a Poem of the South ;" and in 1857 
a volume of orations, songs, and poems of the South. 
His spirited poem describing the charge at Balaklava 
was for a long time attributed to Alexander Smith, the 
young Scottish poet. Many critics of tlie day professed to 
prefer it to Tennyson's " Charge of the Light Brigade." 



ALEXAXDEU BEAUFORT MEEK. 



721 



BALAKLAVA. 

Oh the cliarge at Balalclava ! 

Oh that rash aud fatal charg'e ! 
Never was a fiercer, braver, 
Than that charge at Balaklava, 

Oa the hattlejs bloody marge ! 
All the day the Russian colnmns. 

Fortress hnge, and blazing banlis, 
Ponred their dread destructive volumes 

Ou the French and English ranks ! 

On the gallant allied ranks ; 
Earth and sky seemed rent asunder 
By the loud, incessant thunder ! 
■NVlien a strange but stern command — 
Needless, heedless, rash commaud^- 
C'ame to Lucan's little baud, — 
Scarce six hundred men and horses 
Of those vast contending forces: — 
'• Eiighuul's lost unless you save her ! 
Charge tlie jiass at Balaklava!'' 

Oh that rash and fatal charge, 

Ou the battle's bloody marge I 

Far away the Eussian Eagles 

Soar o'er smoking hill aud dell, 

Aud their hordes, like howling beagles, 

Dense aud countless, round them yell ! 

Thundering cannon, deadly mortar. 

Sweep the field in every quarter! 

Never, since the days of Jesus, 

Trembled so the Chersoncsus ! 

Here behold the Gallic Lilies — 
Stout St. Louis' golden Lilies — 
Float as erst at old Eamillies! 
Aud beside them, lo ! the Lion ! 
With her trophied Cross, is flying! 

Glorious standards — shall they waver 

Ou the field of Balaklava ? 

No, by heavens! at that command — 

Sudden, rash, but stern command — 

Cliarges Lncau's little band! 

Brave Sis Hundred! lo! they charge, 
Ou the battle's bloody marge! 

Down yon deep and skirted valley, 

Where the crowded cannon play, — 

Where the Czar's fierce cohorts rally, 

Cossack, Calniuck, savage Kalli, — 

Down that gorge they swept away ! 

Down that new Thermopyhe, 

Flashing swords aud helmets sec! 
46 



Underneath the iron shower. 

To the brazen cannon's jaws. 

Heedless of their deadly power, 

Press they without fear or pause, — 
To the very cannon's jaws ! 

Gallant Nolan, brave as Roland 

At the field of Roncesvalles, 
Dashes down the fatal valley. 

Dashes on the bolt of death. 

Shouting, with bis latest breath, 

" Charge, then, gallants! do not waver. 

Charge the pass at Balaklava !" 

Oh that rash and fatal charge. 
On the battle's bloody marge! 

Now the bolts of volleyed thunder 
Rend that little band asuiuler. 
Steed and rider wildly screaming. 

Screaming wildly, sink away; 
Late so proudly, proudly gleaming. 

Now but lifeless clods of clay, — 
Now but bleeding clods of clay ! 
Never, since the days of Jesus, 
Saw sncU sight the Chersonesus ! 

Yet your remnant, brave Six Hundred, 
Presses onward, onward, onward. 

Till they storm the bloody pass, — 
Till, like brave Leonidas, 
Lo, they storm the deadlj' pass! 
Sabring Cossack, Calmuck, Kalli, 
111 that Avild, shot-rendcd valley, — 
Drenched with fire and blood, like lava, — 
Awful jiass at Balaklava! 

Oh that rash and fatal charge, 
Ou that battle's bloody marge ! 

For now Russia's rallied forces, 

Swarming hordes of Cossack horses. 

Trampling o'er the reeking corses. 

Drive the thinned assailants back. 
Drive the feeble remnant back. 
O'er their late heroic track ! 

■V^aiu, alas ! now rent and sundered. 

Vain yonr struggles, brave Two Hundred! 

Thrice yonr number lie asleep. 

In that valley dark and deep. 

Weak aud wounded you retire 

From that hurricane of fire ; — 

But no soldiers, firmer, braver. 

Ever trod the field of fame, 

Thau the Knights of Balaklava, — 
Honor to each hero's name ! 



722 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Yet tlieir country long shall luouru 
For ber ranks so rashly shorn 

In that fierce and fatal charge, 
Ou the hattle's blootly marge. 



(Dforcjc lHaGljiiuTitou (Huttcr. 

AMERICAN. 
Cutter (1814-1865) was a native of Kentucky. He was 
a lawyer by profession, resident at Covington, Ky., and at 
one time a member of tlie Indiana Legislature. In tlie 
Mexican war ho joined the army as a captain of volun- 
teers, and served bravely. He wrote a poem of two hun- 
dred and fifty-six lines, entitled " Bueua Vista," said to 
have been penned on the fluid after the battle, and inter- 
esting as giving the experiences of one who took part 
iu tbe light. He published in Philadelphia, in 18.57, a 
volume of two hundred and seventy-nine pages, entitled 
" Poems, Nation.il and Patriotic." His " Song of Steam," 
though rude and unpolished, is the best of his produc- 
tions. In an Indian poem, entitled " Tecumseh," he 
represents the old chief as somewhat better versed in 
classical mythology than savages usually are ; for he 
refers to the time, 

*'\Vhen sofily rose the Queen of Love, 
All glowing from the sea." 



SONG OF STEAM. 

Harness me down with your iron bauds, 

Be sure of your curb and rein : 
For I scorn the power of your puny hands, 

As the tempest scorns a chain. 
How I langhed as I lay concealed from sight 

For many a countless hour. 
At the childish boast of human might, 

And the pride of human power. 

When I saw an array upon the land, 

A navy upon the seas, 
Creeping along, a suail-like band, 

Or waiting the waywai'd breeze ; — 
When I marked the peasant faintly reel 

With the toil which he daily bore, 
As lie feebly turned the tardy wheel, 

Or tugged at the weary oar; — 

When I measured the panting conr.scr's speed. 

The flight of the carrier-dove, 
As they bore the law a King decreed, 

Or the lines of impatient Love, — 
I could not but think how the world would feel, 

As these were outstripped afar, 
When I should be bound to the ru.shing keel, 

Or chained to the flying car. 



Ha! ha! ha! they found me at last; 

They invited me forth at length ; 
And I rushed to my throne with a thunder-blast, 

And laughed iu my iron strength. 
Oh, then ye saw a wondrous change 

Ou the earth and the ocean wide. 
Where now my fiery armies range, 

Nor wait for wind or tide. 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! the waters o'er 

The mountain's steep decline ; 
Time — sjiace — have yielded to my iiower — 

The world — the world is mine ! 
Tbe rivers the sun hath earliest blessed, 

Or those where his last beams shine ; 
The giant streams of tbe queenly West, 

Or the Orient floods divine! 

The ocean pales where'er I sweep. 

To hear my strength rejoice ; 
And the monsters of the briny deep 

Cower, trembling at my voice. 
I carry the wealth and the lord of earth. 

The thoughts of his godlike mind : 
The wind lags after my going forth. 

The lightning is left behind. 

Iu the darksome depths of the fathomless mine 

My tireless arm doth play ; 
Where the rocks never saw the sun decline, 

Or the dawn of the glorious day, 
I bring earth's glittering jewels up 

From the hidden caves below, 
And I make the fountain's granite cup 

With a crystal gush o'erflow. 

I blow the bellows, I forge the steel, 

III all the shops of trade ; 
I Iiaramer the ore, and turn the wheel, 

AVhere my arms of strength are made ; 
I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint ; 

I carry, I spin, I weave ; 
And all my doings I put into print. 

On everj' Saturday eve. 

I've no muscle to weary, no breast to decay. 

No bones to be laid on the shelf; 
And soon I intend you may go and play, 

While I manage this world by my.self. 
But harness me down with your iron bauds. 

Be sure of your curb and rein ; 
For I scorn the power of your puny hands. 

As the tempest scorns a chain. 



il 



JOEN LOTHROP MOTLEY. 



iJoljii fiotljrop illotlcij. 

AMERICAN. 

Motley (1814-1877), though far better known as an his- 
torian than a poet, was yet the author of verses of no or- 
dinary promise. He was a native of Dorchester, now a 
jiart of Boston, Mass., and entered Harvard College at the 
early age of thirteen. He began to write, and to write 
well, both in prose and verse, before his fifteenth year. 
In 1S33 he went to Germany, met Bismarck (afterward 
Prince Bismarck) at Gottingen, and in 183.3 was his fel- 
low-lodger, fellow-student, and boon companion at Berlin. 

"We lived," writes Bismarck (1878), "in the closest 
intimacy, sharing meals and out-door exercise. * * * The 
most striking feature of his handsome and delicate ap- 
pearance was uncommonly large and beautiful eyes. He 
never entered a drawing-room without exciting the cu- 
riosity and sympathy of tlie ladies." Having returned 
to America and married (1837), Jlotley put forth a novel, 
" Morton's Hope," which was not a success. It was fol- 
lowed by " Merry-Mount," also a foilure. 

"It was a matter of course," he writes, " that I sliould 
be attacked by the poetic mani.a. I took the infection at 
the usual time, went through its various stages, and re- 
covered as soon as could be expected." In 1841 Motley 
was Secretary of Legation to the Russian Mission. In 
18.50 he commenced those historical studies, the fruits of 
wliieh gave him a wide and stiU flourishing reputation. 
His" History of the Rise of the Dutch Republic" at once 
established his literary fame both in Europe and Ameri- 
ca. It was translated into all the principal languages of 
Europe, and was followed by a "History of the United 
Netherlands." In 1861 he was appointed by President 
Lincoln Minister to Austria, and, soon after the election 
of Grant, became Minister to England, a post he resigned 
in 1870. In 1876 his health began to fail, and there were 
symptoms of paralysis, though his intellectual powers 
kept bright. He died the following year. From a trib- 
ute to his memory by William W. Story (Oct., 1877), we 
quote the following lines : 

" Farewell, dear friend ! For ns the gi-ief and pain, 
^Vho shall not see thy living face again; 
For us the sad yet noble memories 
Of lofty tbonght.s, of upward-looking eyes, 
Of warm affections, of a spirit bright 
With glancing fancies and a radiant light, 
That, flashing, threw around all commou things 
Heroic halos and im.oginiugs: 
Nothing of this can fade while life shall last. 
But brighten, with death's shadow o'er it cast. 

Ah, noble spirit, whither hast thou fled? 
What doest thou amid the unnumbered dead? 
Oh, say not 'mid the dead, for what hast tliou 
Among the dead to do? No! rather now, 
If Faith and Hope are not a wild deceit, 
The tridy living thou hast gone to meet. 
The noble spirits purged by death, whose eye 
O'erpeers the brief bounds of mortality; 
And they behold thee rising there afar. 
Serenely clear above Time's cloudy bar. 
And greet thee as we greet a rising star." 

.Motley's departure from tliis life took place near Dor- 
chester, Eugland ; and, by his own wish, only the dates 



of his birth and death appear upon his gravestone, with 
the text chosen by himself, "In God is liglit, and in Him 
is no darkness at all." An appreciative and interesting 
memoir of Motley by his early friend, Dr. O. W. Holmes, 
appeared in Boston in 1879. 



LINES WRITTEN AT SYRACUSE. 

Is tbis the sttitely Syracuse, 

Proud Corinth's favorite child, 
Hymned by immortal Pindar's muse, — 

Tims grovelling, thus defiled f 
Tamer of Agrigentum's might, 

And Carthage's compeer, — 
Humbler of Athens in the tight ! 

And art thou mouldering here ? 

StiU Syracuse's cloudless sun 

Shines brightly day by day, 
And, as 'twas Tnlly's boast, ou noue 

Seems to withhold his ray ; 
Still blooms her myrtle in the vale. 

Her olive ou the hill, 
And Flora's gifts perfume the gale 

With countless odors still — 
The myrtle decks no hero's sword, 

But ah ! the olive Tvaves, 
Type of inglorious peace, adored 

By hosts of supple slaves ! 

Ronud broken shaft and mouldering tombs. 

And desecrated shrine, 
The -wild goat bounds, the wild rose blooms 

And clings the clustering vine ; 
And mark that loitering shepherd-boy, 

Recliued on yontler rock, 
His listless summer hours employ 

In piping to his flock ! 
Ah ! Daphuis here, in earlier day. 

By laughing nymphs was taught, 
Wliile Pan reheansed the artless lay, 

With tenderest music fraught ; 
Ay, anil the pastoral muse inspired 

Upon these flowery plains 
Theocritus, the silver-lyred. 

With sweeter, loftier strains. 

I stood ou Acradina's height. 

Whose marble heart supplied 
The bulwarks, hewu with matchless might. 

Of Syracuse's pride, 
Where Diouysius bnilt his cave, 

And, crouching, crept to hear 



7-^4 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



The uucoiiscious curses of bis slave 

Poured in the "Tyrant's Ear;'' 
Tbe i>rison where the Atbeuians wept, 

And liapless Kicias fell — 
With citrons now and flowex's eutwiucd 

The friar's quiet cell! 
Tlie fragraut garden there is warm, 

The lizard basking lies. 
And, mocking desolation, swarm 

The iiainted butterflies. 

I stood on Acradina's height, — 

And, spread for miles around, 
Vast sculptured fragments met my sight. 

■\Vith weeds and ivy crowned ; 
Brightly those shattered marbles gleamed, 

lu wild profusion strown ; 
The city's whitening bones, they seemed, 

To bleach and moulder thrown. 
I gazed along the purple sea. 

O'er LiEstrygonia's jilain. 
Whence sprang of old, spontaueously, 

Tho tall and bearded grain, 
And nourished giants: — proudly sweep 

Those jilaius, those cornfields wave ! 
Do Titans still the harvest reap ? 

Go ask yon toiling slave! 

Brightly in yonder azure sky 

Old Etna lifts liis liead, 
Around whose glittering shoulders fly 

Dark vapors, wildly sprea<l. 
Say, rises still that ceaseless smoke, 

Old Vulcan's fires above, 
AVhere Cyclops forged, with sturdy stroke. 

Tho tlmiuler-boUs of Jove ? 

Mark, where tho gloomy King of Hell 

Desceuded with his bride; 
By Cyiiii6 her girdle fell. 

Yon reedy fountain's side ; 
Where Proserpine descended, still 

The crystal water flows. 
Though sullied now, that sister rill 

Where Arethusa rose : — 
Ay, while I gaze, eternal Greece! 

Thy sunny fables throng 
Around me, like the swarming bees 

Green Hybla's mount along — 
By Enna's plain, by Hybla's mount. 

By yon .Soliau isles. 
By storied clitf, by fabled fount. 

Still, still thy genius smiles! 



Alas ! how idle to recall 

Bright myths forever fled. 
When real urns lie shattered all. 

Where slept the mighty dead — 
Spurn Fancy's wing for History's pen, 

Call up yon glorious host. 
Not demigods, but godlike men ; 

Invoke Timoleou's ghost! 
Or turn where starry Science weeps, 

,Aud tears the briers th.at hide 
Tho tomb where Archimedes sleeps, 

Her victim and her pride ! 

In vain, sweet Sicily! the fate 

Of Proserpine is thine, 
Chained to a desjiot's sceptred state, 

A crownless queen to iiine — 
Thy beauty lured tho Bourbou'.s lust, 

Aud Ceres flings her horn, 
Which scattered plenty, in the dust, 

Again, her chiid to mouru. 
All desolated lies thy shore. 

Fallow thy fertile plains — 
And sliall thy sous aspire no more 

To burst their iron chains? 
No; when you buried Titan rears 

His vast aud peerless form, 
By Etna crushed, ten thousand years, 

Through earthquake, fire, aud storm, — 
Shall man, arising iu his strength. 

Erect aud proudly stand, 
Spuruiug the tyrant's weight at length. 

The Titan of the laud ! 



Cljavlcs iUackaji. 

The son of an army-ofBccr, Mackay was born in Pertli, 
Scotland, iu 1814. His first volume of poems appeared 
in 1834 ; since which tic h.is put forth some twelve more. 
For several years he was editor of the Illustrated Lomluii 
A'ews. Ill 18.53 he travelled iu America. His Autobiog- 
raphy appeared iu 1877. 

THE WATCHER ON THE TOWEK. 

" What dost thou see, lone watcher on the tower ? 
Is the day breaking ? Comes the wished-for hour ? 
Tell us the signs, aud stretch abroad thy hand, 
If the liright morning dawns upon the land." 

'■The stars arc clear above me; scarcely one 
Has dimmed its rays, in reverence to the sun ; 
But yet I see, on the horizon's verge. 
Some fair, faint streaks, as if the light would surge." 



CHARLES MACEAY. 



"Look forth again, O watcber on the tower! 
The people wake and languish for the hour ; 
Loug have they dwelt iu darkness, and they pine 
For the full daylight that they know must sliiue." 

"I see not well — the morn is cloudy still; 
There is a radiance on flie distant hill ; 
Even as I watch, the glory seems to grow, 
But the stars blink, and the night breezes blow." 

" And is that all, O watcher on the tower ? 
Look forth again; it must be near the hour; 
Dost thou not see the snowy mountain copes. 
And the green woods beneath them, on the 
slopes ?" 

•■A mist envelops them; I cannot trace 
Their outline, but the day comes on apace; 
The clouds roll up iu gold and amber flakes, 
And all the stars grow dim. The morning breaks." 

"We thank thee, lonely watcher on the tower; 
But look again, and tell ns hour bj' hour 
All thou beholdest ; many of us die 
Kre the day comes; oh, give them a reply." 

•• I sec the hill-tops now ; and chanticleer 
Crows his prophetic carol on mine ear; 
I see the distant woods and fields of corn. 
And ocean gleaming in tlie light of morn." 

"Again — again, O watcher on the tower! — 
We thirst for daylight, and we bide the hour. 
Patient, but longing. Tell ns, shall it be 
A bright, calm, glorious daylight for the free?" 

• I hope, but cannot tell. I hear a song 
Vivid as day itself; and clear and strong 
As of a lark — young prophet of the noon — 
Pouring iu sunlight his seraphic tune." 

" What doth he say, O watcher of the tower ? 
/•s he a prophet ? Doth the dawning hour 
Inspire his music ? Is his chant sublime 
With the full glories of the coming time ?" 

" He prophesies — his heart is fall — his lay 
Tells of the brightness of a jieaceful day! 
A day not clondless, nor devoid of storm. 
But sunny for the most, and clear and warm." 

" We thank thee, watcher on the lonely tower, 
Fur all thou tellest. Sings he of an hour 



When Error shall decay, and Truth grow strong. 
When Right shall rule supreme and vanquish 
Wrong ?" 

" He sings of brotherhood, and joy, and peace ; 
Of days when jealousies and hate shall cease ; 
When war shall die, and man's progressive mind 
Soar as unfettered as its God designed." 

" W^ell done, thou watcher on the lonely tower ! 
Is the day breaking? dawns the happy hour? 
We pine to see it. Tell us yet again 
If the broad daylight breaks upon the plain." 

" It breaks — it comes — the misty shadows fly — 
A rosy ladiance gleams upon the sky ; 
The mountain-tops reflect it calm and clear; 
The plain is yet in shade, hut ilaij is near." 



THE GOOD TIxME COMING. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
We may not live to see the day, 
But earth shall glisten in the ray 

Of the good time coming. 
Cannon-balls may aid the truth, 

But thought's a weapon stronger; 
We'll win our battle by its aid; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming; 
The pen shall supersede the sword. 
And Right, not Might, shall bo the lord 

In the good time coming. 
Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind. 

And be acknowledged stronger ; 
The proper impulse has been given ; — 

Wait a little lojiger. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
War in all men's eyes shall be 
A monster of iniquity 

In the good time coming. 
Nations .shall not quarrel then. 

To prove which is the stronger; 
Nor slaughter men for glory's sake; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 
A good time coming : 



■■>6 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BEITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Hateful rivalries of creed 

Sball not make tbeir martyrs bleeil 

In the good time coming. 
Eeligion sball be sboru of iiride, 

And floni-isU all tbe stronger; 
And Cbarity sball tiini ber lamp; — 

Wait a little lunger. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
And a poor man's family 
Sball not be bis misery 

In tbe good time coming. 
Every child sball be a help 

To malie his right arm stronger; 
The happier he, the more be has ; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
Little children shall not toil 
Under, or above, the soil 

In tbe good time coming; 
But sball play in healthful tields. 

Till limbs and mind grow stronger ; 
And every one shall read and Avrite ;- 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming: 
Tbe people sball be temperate, 
And shall love instead of hate, 

In the good time coming. 
They shall use, and not abuse, 

And make all virtue stronger; 
Tbe reformation has begun; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
Let us aid it all tve can, 
Every woman, every man, 

Tbe good time coming : 
Smallest helps, if rightly given, 

Make the impulse stronger ; 
'Twill bo strong enough one day ; — 

Wait a little longer. 



NATURE AND HER LOVER. 

I remember the time, thou roaring sea. 
When thy voice was tbe voice of luliuity- 
A joy, and a dread, and a mystery. 



I remember tbe time, ye young May-flowers, 
When your odors and hues in the tields and bowers 
Fell on my soul, as in grass tbe showers. 

I remember the time, thou blustering wind, 
Wlien tliy voice in tbe woods, to my dreaming 

mind, 
Seemed the sigh of the Earth for human kind. 

I remember tbe time, ye sun and stars, 

When ye raised my soul from mortal bars. 

And bore it through heaven iu your golden cars. 

And has it then vanished, that dreadful time? 
Are the winds and the seas, and the stars sublime, 
Deaf to thy soul in its manly prime? 

Ah no! ah no! amid sorrow and pain, 

When the world and its facts oppress my brain, 

In tbe world of spirit I rove — I reign. 

I feel a deep and a pure delight 

Iu tbe luxuries of sound and sight — 

In tbe opening day, iu tbe closing night. 

The voices of youth go with me still, 

Through the field and the wood, o'er tbe plain and 

the bill — 
In tbe roar of the sea, in the laugh of the rill ; 

Every flower is a love of miue, 

Every star is a friend divine : 

For me they blossom, for me they shiue. 

To give me joy tbo oceans roll. 

Tliey breathe their secrets to my soul. 

With me they sing, with me condole. 

Man cannot harm me if he would ; 

I have such friends for my every mood, 

Iu tbo overflowing solitude. 

Fate cannot touch me, nothing can stir 
To put disunion or hate of her 
'Twixt Nature and her worshipper. 

Sing to me, flowers ; preach to me, skies ; 
Ye landscapes, glitter iu miue eyes; 
Whisper, ye deeps, your mysteries. 

Sigh to me, winds; ye forests, nod; 
Speak to me ever thou flowery sod ; 
Ye are mine — all mine — iu the iicaco of God. 



FBAXCIS ALEXANDER DVlilVAGE. 



I 



Jraiuis ;:2llc£anlicv Duviuage. 

AMERICAN. 

Durivase was born in Boston in 1814. His family name 
was Caillaiul — dii Hmge being a territorial title. His fa- 
tlier, an estimable teaclier of the French language, mar- 
ried a sister of Edward E\'crett. Francis acquired early 
a good knowledge of French and Spanish. Before he was 
seventeen, he edited the Amafcur, a Boston weekly peri- 
odical. He contributed to nearly all the leading maga- 
zines, and became noted as a humorist. A collection of 
his papers, under the signature of "The Old 'Un," illus- 
trated by Darley, was published by Carey and Hart in 
1849. He visited Europe six times, chiefly to study the 
great art collections. He is favorably known as an ama- 
teur artist, as well as for his poetry. William C. Bryant 
and Bayard Taylor were among the literary friends who 
praised and valued his poetical productions, the dra- 
matic element in which is a distinguishing quality, to 
which they owe much of their effect. 



ALL. 



There hangs a sabre, and there a reiu 
With a rusty buckle and green curb-cliaiu ; 
A pair of spurs on the old gr.ny wall 
And a mouldy saddle — well, that is all. 

Come out to the stable, it is not far; 
The moss-grown door is banging ajar. 
Look within. Here's an empty stall 
Where once stood a charger, and that is all. 

The good black steed came riderless home, 
Flecked with blood-drops as well as foam. 
Do you see that mound where the dead leaves fall ? 
The good black bonse pined to deatli — that's all. 

All ? O God ! it is all I can speak. 

Question me not. I am old and weak. 

His saddle and sahre bang on the wall, 

And his horse pined to death. •! have told yon all ! 



CHEZ BRfiBANT. 

The vicomte is wearing a brow of gloom 

As he mounts the stair to his fixvorite room. 

'• Breakfast for two !" the garfons say, 

"Then the jiretty young la<ly is coming to-day!" 

But the patron mutters, a Dieii ne pluise! 

I want no clients from Pfere la Chaise. 

Silver and crystal! a splendid show! 

And a damask cloth white as driven snow. 



The vicomte sits down with a ghastly air — 

His tis-a-vis is an empty chair. 

Bnt he calls to the c/HCfOH, "Antoiue! T'ite! 

Place a stool for the lady's feet." 

"The lady, monsieur ?" (in a quavering tone). 

" Yes — when Lave you known me to breakfast alone ? 

Fill up her glass ! Versez ! Tersez ! 

You see how white are her cheeks to-day. 

Sip it, my darling, 'twas ordered for thee." 

He raises his glass, "a toi, Mimi!" 

The gaiyon shudders, for nothing is there 

In the lady's place but an empty chair. 

But still, with an air of fierce unrest. 

The vicomte addresses an unseen guest. 

" Leave us, Autoine ; we have mnch to say. 

And time is precious to me to-day." 

Wbeu the gargon was gone he sprang up with a 

start : 
" Mimi is dead of a broken heart. 
Could I think, when she gave it with generous joy, 
A woman's heart such a fragile toy ? 
Her trim little figure uo longer I see ! 
Would I were lying with thee, Mimi ! 
For what is life bnt a bell to me? 
What siJlendor and wealth but misery ?" 
A jet of tlame and a whirl of smoke ! 
A detonation the silence broke. 
The landlord enters, and, lying there. 
Is the dead vicomte, with a stony glare 
Rigidly fixed on an empty cbair. 
" II faiit arerlir le, commissaire .' 
Ma foi! Chez liixhaiit ccs choses soni rares !" 



JERRY. 



His joyous neigh, like the clarion's strain, 
When we set before bira bis hay and grain, 

And the rhythmic beat 

Of his flying feet. 
We never, never shall bear again ; 

For the good horse sleeps 

Where the tall grass weeps. 
On the velvet edge of the emerald plain. 
By the restless waves of the billowy grain, 
And never will answer to voice or reiu. 

By whip-cord and steel he was never stirred. 
For he only needed a whispered word, 
And a slackened rein, to fly like a bird. 

By loving bands was bis neck caressed — 
Hands, like his own fleet limbs, at rest. 



7-28 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISU AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Throngli bliuilini; snow, in the murkiest night, 

With uever a lamp iu heaveu alight — 

With the augry river a sheet of foam, 

Swiftly and safely he bore me home ; 

And I uever resigned myself to sleep 

Till I'd rubbed him down aud bcddeil him deep. 

If I ever can sit in the saddle again. 

With foot iu stirrup aud baud on rein, 

I shall look for the like of Jerry in vaiu. 

Steed of the desert or jennet of Spain 

Would ne'er for a moment make me forget 

My favorite horse, my childreu's pet. 

With his soft brown eye aud his coat of jet. 

He would have answered the trumpet's peal, 

Aud charged on cannon and splintering steel; 

But humbler tasks did Lis worth reveal. 

To mill and to market, early and late ; 

On the brown field, tracing the furrow straight; 

Drawing the carriage with steady gait — 

Whatever the duty we had to ask. 

Willingly he performed his task. 

And w luMi his life-work was all complete, 

He was found iu his stable, dead on his feet. 

Aud, iu spite of each aud every fool 

Whose brain aud heart are hardened by rule, 

I have reached the couclusiou that on the whole. 

The horse that we loved possessed a soul! 



2,nhxn2 iLljomas De Ocrc. 

Son of Sir Aubrey Dc Vere, the poet, Dc Vere, born 
in Ireiimd in 1814, has pulilishod several productions in 
verse : " The Walileuses, with other Poems " (1843) ; " The 
Infant Bridal, and oilier Poems" (1864). He is also the 
author of "Sketches of Greece and Turkey " (18.50). His 
poems are marked by refinement aud delicacy of expres- 
sion, miitcd with rare sweetness in the versification. 
"This gentle poet and scholar, the most spiritual of the 
Irish poets," says Mr. E. C. Stedman, " though hampered 
by a too rigid adoption of Wordsworth's theory, often 
has an attractive manner of his own." 



THE TRUE BLESSEDNESS. 

IJIesst'd is he who hath not trod the ways 
Of secular delights, nor learned the lore 
Which loftier minds are studious to abhor: 
Blessed is ho who hath uot sought the praise 
That piri.shcs, the rapture that betrays; 
Who hath not spent iu Time's vainglorious war 
His youth ; aud fouud — a school-boy at founscore !- 
How fatal are those victories which raise 



Their iron trophies to a temple's height 

On tramitled Justice ; who desires uot bliss. 

But peaci^ ; aud yet, when summoued to the fight, 

Comb.ats as one who combats iu the sight 

Of God aud of His angels, seeking this 

Alone, how best to glorify the right. 



ADOLESCENTUL.E AMAVERUNT TE NIMIS. 

"Behold! the wintry rains are past; 
The airs of midnight hurt iio more: 
The young maids love thee. Come at last : 
Thou lingerest at the gardeu-door. 

"Blow over all the garden; blow, 

Thou wind that breatliest of the south. 
Through all the alleys winding low, 
With dewy wing aud honeyed mouth. 

"But wheresoe'er thou wanderest, sliape 
Thy music ever to oue Name : 
Tliou too, clear stream, to cave and cape 
Be sure thou whisper of the same. 

" By every isle and bower of musk 
Thy crystal clasps, as on it curls. 
We charge thee, breathe it to the dusk ; 
W'e charge thee, grave it in thy pearls.'' 

The streatu obeyed. That Name he bore 
Far out above the mooulit tide. 

The breeze obeyed. He breathed it o'er 
The unforgetting pines, and died. 



SONNET: HOW ALL THINGS ARE SWEET. 

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, 
Crumbling away beneath our very feet ; 
Sad is our life, for- onward it is flowing 
In current uupereeived, because so fleet : 
Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet iu sowing: 
But tares, self-sown, have overtopiied the wheat; 
Sad are our joys, for they were sweet iu blowing: 
And still, oh still, their dying breath is sweet; 
Aud sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us 
Of that which made our childhood sweeter still ; 
And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us 
A nearer good to euro ,aii older ill ; 
Aud sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them 
Not for their sake, but His who grants them or 
denies them. 



JAMES HEDDERVriCE.— THOMAS WESTWOOD. 



'■'d 



3ames tlcbDtvwitk. 

Hfdilcrwiek, editor of The Glasgow Citizen, a daily news- 
paper, was born iu tliat city in 1814. He studied for a 
lime at tlie London University, then became connected 
with tlie Press. In 1854 he published a small volume of 
poems, and in 1859 his "Lajs of Middle Age, and other 
Poems." 



FIRST GRIEF. 

Tlicy tell me first anil early love 

Outlives ;ill after-dreams; 
But the memory of a fir.st great grief 

To me more histiiig seems. 

The grief that marlis our tluwning youth 

To memory ever clings, 
And o'er the path of future years 

A lengtheueil shadow lliugs. 

Oh ! oft my mind recalls the hour 

When to my father's home 
Death came, an uninvited guest, 

From his dwellijig iu the tomb. 

I had not seen his face before — 

I shuddered at the sight ; 
And I shudder yet to think upon 

The anguish of that night ! 

A youthful brow and rnddy cheek 

Became all cold and wan ; 
An eye grew dim in which the light 

Of radiant fancy shone. 

Cold was the cheek, and cold the bro\^■, 

The eye was fixed and dim ; 
And one there mourned a brother dead. 

Who would have died for him ! 

I know not if 'twas summer then, 

I know not if 'twas spring; 
But if the birds sang in the trees, 

I did not hear them sing. 

If flower.T came forth to deck the earth, 

Tlieir bloom I did not see ; 
I looked upon one withered flower. 

And none else bloomed for me ! 

A sail and silent time it was 
Within that house of woe; 



All eyes were dim aud overcast, 
And every Toice was low. 

And from each cheek at intervals 

The blood appeared to start, 
As if recalled iu sudden haste 

To aid the sinking heart. 

Softly we trod, as if afraid 

To mar the sleeper's sleep. 
And stole last looks of his sad face 

For memory to keep. 

Willi him the agony was o'er, 

And now the pain was ours, 
As thoughts of his sweet childhood ro.se, 

Like odor from dead flowers. 

And wheu at last he was borne afar 
From this world's weary strife. 

How oft in thought did we again 
Live o'er his little life ! 

His every look, his every word, 

His very voice's tone, 
Came back to us like things whose worth 

Is ouly prized when gone. 

That grief has passed with years away, 

And joy has been my lot ; 
But the one is long remembered, 

And the other soon forgot. 

The gaye-st hours trip lightly by. 

And leave the faintest trace ; 
But the deep, deep track that sorrow wears 

No time can e'er eftacc ! 



<II)oinas lUcstiuooLi. 

Westwood, a native of England, born in 1814, has pro- 
duced " Beads from a Kosary " (1843) ; " The Burden of 
the Bell" (18.50); "Berries and Blossoms" (1855); and 
" The Quest of the Sancgreal " (1868). All these are in 
verse. His most popular poem, "Little Bell," original- 
ly appeared in tlie London Athencenm. He says : " Though 
tlie writer is a cliildless man, he has a love and reverence 
for childhood which can scarcely be surpassed." 



THE PET LAMB. 

Storm upon the mountain, night upon its throne! 
And the little snow-white lamb, left alone — alone ! 



730 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BUITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Stoim upon the niouutaiu, rainy torrents beating, 
And the little suon-white lamb, bleating, ever bleat- 
ing! 

Down the gleu the shepherd drives his flocks afar; 
Through the murky mist and cloud shines no beacon 

star. 
Fast he hurries onward, never hears the moan 
Of the pretty snow-white lamb, left alone — alone ! 

At the shepherd's door-way stands his little son ; 
Sees the sheep come trooping home, counts them one 

by one ; 
Counts them full and fairly : trace he findeth none 
Of the little snow-white lauib, left alone — alone ! 

Up the glen he races, breasts the bitter wiud. 
Scours across the plain, aud leaves wood and wold 

behind ! 
Storm upon the mountain, night upon its throne : 
There he finds the little lamb, left alone — alone ! 

Sli'ugglingjpauting, sobbing, kneeling on the ground. 
Round the pretty creature's neck both his arms are 

wound ; 
Soon within his bosom, all its bleatings done. 
Home he bears the little lamb, left alone — alone ! 

Oh, the happy faces by the shepherd's fire! 

High without the tempest roars, but the laugh rings 

higher. 
Young aud old together make that joy their own, 
lu their midst the little lamb, left alone — alone! 



LITTLE BELL. 

"He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both mau and bird and beast,"' 

Coi.ekiiiqk'h **Aiicient Mariner" 

Piped the Blackbird on the beechwood 8i)ray, 
"Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, 

What's your name ?" quoth he. 
" What's your name ? Oh, stop and straight unfold, 
Pretty maid with showery curls of gold." 

"Little Bell," said she. 

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks, 
Tossed aside her gleaming, golden locks, 

" Bonnie bird !" quoth she, 
" Slug me your best song before I go." 
" Here's the very finest song I know. 

Little Bell," said he. 



And the Blackbird piped : you never heard 
Half so gay a song from any bird ; 

Full of quips and wiles. 
Now so round aud rich, now soft aud slow, 
All for love of that sweet face below. 

Dimpled o'er with smiles. 

And the while that bonnie bird did pour 
His full heart out freely o'er and o'er, 

'Neath the morning skies, 
In the little childish heart below 
All the sweetness seemed to grow aud grow, 
And shine forth in happy overflow 

From the brown, bright eyes. 

Down the dell she tripped, and through the 

glade : 
Peeped the Squirrel from the hazel shade. 

And from out the tree, 
Swung and leaped and frolicked, void of fear, 
Wliile bold Blackbird piped, that all might hear, 
"Little Bell!" piped he. 

Little Bell sat down amid the fern: 

" Squirrel, Squirrel ! to your task return ; 

Bring me nuts," quoth she. 
Up, away ! the frisky Squirrel hies. 
Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes. 

And adown the tree. 
Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun. 
In the little lap drop, one by one — 
Hark ! how Blackbird pipes to see the fun ! 

" Happy Bell !" pipes he. 

Little Bell looked up and down the glade : 
" Squirrel, Squirrel, from the nut-tree shade, 
Bonnie Blackbird, if you're not afraid. 

Come aud share with me !" 
Down came Squirrel, eager for his fare, 
Down came bonnie Blackbird, I declare; 
Little Bell gave each his honest share; 

Ah 1 the merry three ! 

And the while those frolic playmates twain. 
Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, 

'Neath the morning skies, — 
In the little childish heart below. 
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, 
And shiue out in happy overflow 

From her brown, bright eyes. 

By her snow-white cot, at close of day. 
Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms, to pray : 



il 



THOMAS WESTWOOV. — WILLIAM HENBT CUTLER HOSMEH. 



r:n 



Very calm and clear 
Hose tbe prayiug voice, to ^^'here, uuseen, 
III blue heaveu an angel shape sereue 

Paused awhile to hear. 

■• What good child is this," the angel said, 
"That with happy heart,' Ijcside her bed. 

Prays so lovingly ?" 
Low and soft, oh ! very low and soft, 
Ciooned the Blackbird in tlie orchard croft, 

" Bell, dear Bell !"' crooned he. 

'• Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair 
Murmured, "God doth bless with angels' care; 

Child, thy bed shall be 
Folded safe from harm ; love, deep and kind, 
Shall watch round, and leave good gifts behind. 

Little Bell, for thee !" 



lUilliam Cjcnrn Cujilcr f)osnicr. 

AMERICAN. 

Hosmer, bom in Avon, N. T., in 1S14, graduated at Ho- 
bavt College, Geneva. He engaged in the practice of llie 
law, but afterward licld a position in the Custom-house. 
In early life he spent niueli of Lis time among tlie Indians, 
and some of his poems have reference to their tradi- 
tions. His mother conversed fluently in tlie dialect of 
the Seneca tribe, and thus he became well acquainted 
with the legends of which he made use in his romance 
of " Tonnondis." In 1854 two volumes of his numerous 
poems were published by Redfleld, New York. 



BLAKE'S VISITANTS. 

*' Blake, the painter-poet, conceived that he had formed friend- 
ships with distinguished individuals of antiquity. He asserted 
that they appeared to him, and were luminuus and majestic 
shadows. The most propitious time for their visits was from 
nine at night till live iu the raoriiiny." 

The stars shed a dreamy light — 

The Tcind, like an infant, siglis ; 
My lattice gleams, for the queen of night 

Looks through with her soft, bright eyes. 

I carry the mystic kej' 

That unlocks tlie mighty Past, 
And, ere long, the dead to visit nie 

Will wake in his chambers vast. 

The gloom of the grave fors.ako. 
Ye princes who ruled of yore ! 
For the painter fain to life would wake 
Your majestic forms once more. 



Ye brave, with your tossing plumes. 
Ye bards of the pale, high brow ! 
Leave the starless night of forgotten tombs, — 
For my hand feels skilful now. 

They come, a shadowy throng, 

With the types of their old renown — 
The Mantuau bard, with his wreath of song. 

The monarch with robe and crown. 

They come ! — on the fatal Ides 

Of March yon conqueror fell ; 
For tlie rich, green leaf of the laurel hides 

His balduess of forehead well. 

I know, though his tongue is still. 

By his iiale, pale lips apart. 
The Roman whose spell of voice could thrill 

The depths of the coldest lieart — 

And behind that group of queens 

Bedight in superb attire. 
How mournfully Lesbian Sappho leans 

Her head on a broken lyre ! 

That terrible shade I know 

By the scowl bis visage wears, 
And the Scottish knight, his noble foe, 

By the broad claymore he bears. 

That warrior king who dyed 

In Saracen gore the sands, 
With his knightly harness on, beside 

The fiery Soldan stands. 

Ye laurelled of old, all hail ! 

I love, in the gloom of night. 
To rob the Past of his cloudy veil, 

And gaze on your features bright. 

Ha ! the first bright beam of dawn 

On my window redly plays. 
And back to their spirit homes have gone 

The mighty of other days ! 



TO A LONG StLENT SISTER OF SONG. 

W^here art thou, wood-dove of Hesperian climes. 

The sweetest minstrel of our unshorn bowers? 

In dreams, methiuks, I faintly hear at times 

An echo of thy silver-sounding rhymes : 

Alas ! that blight should fall on fairest flowers. 

Eternal silence on angelic lips; — 

That tender, starry eyes should know eclipse. 

And mourning love breathe farewell to the hours! 

Speak! has the grave closed on thee evermore, 



732 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Daughter of luiisic f — hath thy goUk'U lute, 
With dust upon its broken striugs, grown ninte; 
Thy fancy, raiubow-hueil, forgot to soar ? 
To hush thy -warbling is a grievous wrong — 
Come back! come back to sunlight and to song! 



iUavion yaul \X\xh. 

Miss Aiixl is a native of Glasgow, where she was born 
in 1S15. In ISIO appeared her first work, " The Home of 
tlie Heart, and otlier Poems;"' and in lSo3 a volume of 
piose and verse, entitled " Heart Histories." Her hymn, 
" Far, far Away," is sung in almost every Sunday-school 
in Scotland. . Her mother was a niece of Hamilton Paul 
(1773-1854), a Scottish poet of some note. 



FAR, FAR AWAY. 

Had I the wings of a ilove, I would fly 

Far, far away ; far, far away ; 
Wliere not a cloud ever darkens the sky, 

Far, far away; far, far away; 
Fadeless the flowers in yon Edeu that blow. 
Green, green the bowers where the still waters flow. 
Hearts, like their gaiments, as pure as the snow, 

Far, far away ; far away. 

There never trembles a sigh of regret. 

Far, far away ; far, far away ; 
Stars of the morning in glory ne'er set, 

Far, far away ; far, far away ; 
There I from sorrow ever would rest. 
Leaning in joy on Immannel's breast; 
Tears never fall in the homes of the blessed, 

Far, far away ; far away. 

Friends, tl)ere united in glory, ne'er part, 

Far, far away ; far, far away ; 
One is their temple, tlieir home, and their heart, 

Far, far away ; far, far away ; 
Tlie river of crystal, the city of gold. 
The portals of pearl, such glory unfold, 
Tlionght cannot image, ami tongue hath not tidd. 

Far, far away ; far away. 

List! what yon h.arpers on golden harps play; 

Come, come away ; come, come away ; 
Falling and frail is your cottage of clay ; 

Come, como away ; come, come away ; 
Ciimo to these mansions, there's room yet for yon, 
Dwell with the Friend ever faithful and true; 
Sing ye the soug, ever old, ever new; 

Come, come away ; come away. 



Jrcbcriiiv IVsilliam Jabcr. 

Faber (1815-1S63) was originally a clergyman of the 
Chuich of England, but became a convert to the Cath- 
olic religion, and a priest in that Church. He was the 
author of some five volumes of poems, some of them of 
singular grace, tenderness, and beauty. He wrote "The 
Cherwell Water-Lily, and other Poems" (1840); "The 
Styrian Lake, and other Poems" (1843); "Sir Lancelot: 
a Poem "(1844); "The Rosary, and other Poems" (184.5); 
and several papers in the "Lives of the English Saints," 
edited by Dr. Newman. Faber became distinguished as 
an earnest and eloquent jireaeher. His theological writ- 
ings, after his conversion, were numerous and able. 



THE LIFE OF TRUST. 

Oh, it is hard to work for God, 

To vise and take His part 
Upon the battle-field of earth. 

And not sometimes lose heart! 

He hides himself so wondrously. 
As though there were no God : 

He is least seen when all the powers 
Of ill are most abroad. 

Or he deserts us at the hour 

The fight is all but lost ; 
And seems to leave ns to ourselves 

Just when we need Him most. 

Oh, there is less to try our faith 

In onr mysterious creed 
Than in the godless look of earth, 

In these our hours of need. 

Ill masters good ; good seems to eliange 

To ill with greatest ea.se ; 
.\nd, worst' of all, the good with good 

Is at cross-purposes. 

The Church, the Sacraments, the Faith, 

Tlieir uphill journey take, 
Lose here what there they gain, and, if 

We lean upon them, Ineak. 

It is not so, but so it looks, 

And we lo.se courage then, 
And doubts will come if God hath kiiil 

His xiromises to mcu. 

Ah! God is other than we think; 
His ways are far above, — 



FEEDEBICK WILLIAM FABER. 



-33 



Far beyoiid reason's Leigljt, auil reacbod 
Only by cliildlike love. 

The look, tlio fusliion of God's ways, 

Love's lifelong study are ; 
Slie can beliold, and gness, and act", 

When Reason wonld not dare. 

Slic Latli a prndence of her own ; 

Her step is firm and free ; 
Yet there is cantinns science too 

In her simiilicity. 

Worlanan of God ! oli, lose not heart, 

But learn what God is like, 
And in tlio darkest battle-field 

Thou shalt know where to strike. 

Oh, blessed is he to whom is given 

The instinct that can tell 
Tliat God is on the field when he 

Is most invisible! 

And blessed is he who can divine 

Wlierc real right doth lie. 
And dares to take the side that seems 

Wrong to man's blindfold eye ! 

Oil, learn to scorn the praise of men ; 

Oh, learn to lose with God! 
For JesMS won the world through shame. 

And beckons thee his road. 

God's glory is a wondrous thing, 
Jlost strange in all its ways, 

And, of all things on earth, least like 
Wliat men agree to praise. 

As He can endless glory weave 
From time's misjudging shame, 

In His own world He is content 
To plaj' a losing game. 

Muse on his justice, downcast Soul ! 

Muse, and take better heart ; 
Back witli thine angel to tlie field. 

Good luck shall crown thy part ! 

God's justice is a bed where wo 

Our anxious hearts may lay, 
And, weary with ourselves, may sleep 

()nr discontent away. 



For right is right, since God is God, 
And right the day must win ; 

To doubt would be disloyalty, 
To falter would be siu ! 



HARSH JUDGMENTS. 

O God! whose thoughts are brightest light. 

Whose love runs always clear, 
To whose kind wisdom sinning sonls. 

Amid their sins, are dear, — ■ 

Sweeten inj' bitter-thonghted heart 

With charity like thine. 
Till self shall be the only spot 

On earth that does not shine. 

Hard-heartedness dwells not with souls 
Round whom thine arms are drawn ; 

And dark thoughts fade away iu grace, 
Like cloud-spots in the dawn. 

Time was when I believed that wrong 

In others to detect 
Was part of genius, and a gift 

To cherish, not reject. 

Now, better taught by thee, O Lord ! 

This truth dawns on my mind, 
Tlie best effect of lieavenly light 

Is earth's false ej-es to blind. 

He whom no praise can reach is aye 
Men's least attempts approving : 

Wlioni justice makes all-mcrcifiil. 
Omniscience makes all-loving. 

When we ourselves least kindly are. 

We deem the world unkind : 
Dark hearts, in tiowers where honey lies, 

Only the x^oison fiud. 

How thou canst think so well of us, 

Yet be the God thou art, 
Is darkness to my intellect. 

But sunshiue to my heart. 

Yet habits linger in the sonl : 
More grace, O Lord ! more grace ; 

More sweetness from thy loving heart, 
More sunshine from thy face ! 



734 



CYCLOrJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAX rOEIEX. 



aifvcb Doiuctt. 

Born in En_<;land about 1815 (according to some au- 
tliorities, iu 1811), Domett contributed lyrics to Black- 
wood's Magazine as early as 1837. But he became a great 
traveller, and passed some lime in Australia — bis friends 
not knowing what bad become of him. Browning ad- 
dressed a poem to him, beginning — 

" Wlmt's become of Wariug 
yiucc he gave us all the slip, 
Chose laud-travel or seafiiriii!;: 
Boots and chest, or staff and scrip, 
Rather than pace up aud down 
Any longer Loudou town ?" 

Domett does not seem to have redeemed the high prom- 
ise of his youth. We subjoin one of the best of his 
poems. 



A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

It was tho calm aiul silent uigbt ! 

Seven Lnudred years aud fifty-three 
Had Rome been growing- np to might, 

Aud uow was queen of laud aud sea. 
No souud was Leard of clashing wars, 

Peace brooded o'er the linshed domain ; 
Apollo, Ptillas, Jove, and Mars, 

Held undistnrljed their ancient reigu 

In the solemn midnight, 

Centuries ago. 

'Twas iu the calm aud silent uight, 

The senator of liatighty Rome, 
Iiupatient, urged his chariot's lliglif, 

From lordly revel rolling home ; 
Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell 

His breast with thoughts of boundless sway ; 
What recked tho Roman what befell 

A paltry province far away, 

Iu the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago ? 

Within that province far away 

Went plodding home a weary boor : 
A streak of light before him lay. 

Fallen through a half-shut stable door 
Across his path. He passed, for naught 

Told what was goiug on within ; 
How keen the stars, his only thought — 

The air, how calm, and cold, and thin, 

In the solemn midnight, 

Centuries ago ! 

O strange indifference ! low and high 
Drowsed over common joys and cares ; 



The earth was still, but knew not why. 

The world was listening unawares. 
How calm a moment may precede 

One that shall thrill the world forever! 
To that still momctit none would heed 
JIau's doom was linked no more to sever, 
In the solemn midnight. 
Centuries ago. 

It is the calm atid silent night! 

A thousand bells ring out, aud throw 
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite 

The darkness — charmed and holy now ! 
The night that erst no name had worn — 

To it a happy name is given ; 
For iu that stable lay, new-born. 

The iieaceful Prince of earth aud heaven, 
Iu the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago. 



|JI)ilip Panics Cailcn. 

Bailey, a native of Nottingham, England, was born in 
1816. He published at the age of twenty a poem entitled 
"Festus," which passed through many editions both in 
England and America. Few poems have so immediately 
excited so much attention. It was followed by " The 
Angel Woild" (1850), "The Mystic" (18.5.5), "The Age: 
a Colloquial Satire" (18.58), and " The Universal Hymn" 
(1867). No one of these had a success equal to his tirst 
juvenile production. 



LOVE, THE END OF CREATED BEING. 

From "Festus." 

Love is the happy privilege of the mind — 

Love is the reason of all living things. 

A Trinity there seems of principlesj 

Which represent aud rule created life — 

The love of self, our fellows, and our God. 

In all throughout one common feeling reigns : 

Each doth maintain, and is maintained by the other : 

All are compatible — all needful ; one 

To life, — to virtue one, — aud one to bliss: 

Which thns together make the power, the end, 

Aud the perfection of created Being : 

From these tlirce principles comes every deed. 

Desire, aud will, and reasoning, good or bad; 

To these they all determine — sum and scheme : 

The three are one iu centre aud iu round; 

Wrapping the world of life as do tho skies 

Onr world. Hail, air of love, b.v which we live! 

How sweet, how fragrant ! Spirit, though unseen — 



PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.— JOHN GODFREY SAXE. 



735 



Void of gross sign — is scarce a sinii>le essence, 

Immortal, immaterial, though it be. 

One only simjilo essence liveth — God, — 

Creator, nncreatc. The brutes beneath, 

The angels high above us, with ourselves, 

Are but compounded things of mind and form. 

In all things animate is therefore cored 

An elemental sameness of existence ; 

For God, being Love, in love created all. 

As he contains the whole and penetrates. 

Seraphs love God, and angels love the good : 

We love each other ; and these lower lives, 

AVhich walk the earth iu thousand diverse shapes. 

According to their reason, love us too : 

The most intelligent ati'ect us most. 

Nay, man's chief wisdom's love — the love of God. 

The uew religion — final, perfect, pure, — 

Was that of Christ and love. His great command — 

His all-sufficing precept — was't not love ? 

Truly to love ourselves we must love God, — 

To love God we must all his creatures love, — 

To love his creatures, both ourselves and him. 

Thus love is all that's wise, fair, good, and happy ! 



THOUGHTS FROM "FESTUS." 

We live iu deeds, not years ; in thoughts, not breaths; 
In feelings, not iu figures on a dial. 
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives 
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best ; 
And he whose heart beats quickest lives the longest ; 
Lives in one hour more than in years do some 
Whose fat blood sleeps as it slips along their veins. 



Keep the spirit pure 
From worldly taint by the repellent strength 
Of virtue. Think on noble thoughts and deeds 
Ever ; still count the rosary of truth. 
And practise precepts which are proven wise. 
Walk boldly and wisely in the light thon hast : 
There is a hand above will help thee on. 
I am an omnist, and believe in all 
Religions, — fragments of one golden world 
Yet to be relit in its place iu heaven. 



3ol)n Q^obfrcj) Save. 

AMERICAN. 

One of the most popular of the humorous poets of 
America, Saxe was born in Highgate, Vt., in isifi, and 
was graduated at MicUllebury College in the class of 
1S39. After practising law for a time, he abandoned it 



for literature, editing, and lecturing. He lias published 
several volumes of poems, which have had a large sale. 
For some time he was a resident of Albany, N. Y. 



THE SUPERFLUOUS MAN. 

I long have been puzzled to guess, 

And so I have frequently said, 
What the reason could really be 

That I never have happened to wed ; 
But now it is perfectly clear 

I am under a natural ban ; 
The girls are already assigned — 

And I'm a superfluous man ! 

Those clever statistical chaps 

Declare the numerical ruu 
Of women and men iu the world 

Is Twenty to Twenty-and-one : 
And hence iu the pairing, you see. 

Since wooing and wedding began. 
For every connubial score 

They've got a superfluous man ! 

By twenties and twenties they go, 

And giddily rush to their fate. 
For none of the number, of course, 

Can fail of the conjugal mate; 
But while they are yielding in scores 

To nature's inflexible plan. 
There's never a woman for me, — 

For I'm a superfluous man ! 

It isn't that I am a churl. 

To solitude over-inclined. 
It isn't that I am at fault 

In mor.als or manners or mind ; 
Then what is the reason, you ask, 

I'm still with the bachelor clan '? 
I merely was numbered amiss, — 

And I'm a superfluous man ! 

It isn't that I am iu want 

Of personal beauty or grace. 
For many a man with a wife 

Is uglier far in the face : 
Indeed, among elegant men 

I fancy myself iu the van ; 
But wh.at is the value of that, 

When I'm a superfluous man ! 

Although I am fond of the girls, 
For aught I could ever discern. 



736 



CYCLUl'^DIA OF BIUTltiH AND AMERICAN I'OETRT. 



The tender emotiou I feel 

Is one that they never return; 

'Tis idle to quarrel with fate, 
For, struggle as hard as I can, 

They're mated already, you know, 
Aud I'm a supertluous man ! 

No -noudcr I grumble at times, 

Witli wouieu so iirctty and jileuty. 
To know that I never was horn 

To figure as one of the Twenty ; 
But yet, when the average lot 

With critical vision I scan, 
I tliiuk it may be for the best 

Tliat I'm a superfluous man ! 



JUSTINE, YOU LOVE ME NOT! 

" Helas ! V01I8 lie ni'aimez pus." — PmoN. 

I Icnow, Justine, you speak mc fair 

As often as we meet; 
Aud 'tis a luxury, I swear. 

To hear a voice so sweet ; 
And yet it does not please mo quite, 

The civil way you've got ; 
For me you're something too polite — 

Justine, you love me not ! 

I know, Justine, you never scold 

At aught that I may do : 
If I am passionate, or cold, 

'Tis all the same to you. 
"A charmiug temper," say the men, 

" To smooth a luisband's lot :" 
I wish 'twere rufHed now and then — 

.Justine, you love me not ! 

I know, Justine, yon wear a smile 

As beaming as the sun ; 
But who sujiposcs all the while 

It shines for only one? 
Though azure skies are fair to see, 

A transient cloudy spot 
111 yours would promise more to me — 

Justino, you love me not! 

I know, Justine, yon make my name 

Your eulogistic theme. 
And say — if any chance to blame — 

You hold me in esteem. 
Such words, for all their kindly scope. 

Delight me not a jot ; 



Just so you would have praised the Pope- 
Justine, j'ou love mo not! 

I know, Justine — for I have heard 

What friendly voices tell — 
You do not blush to say the word, 

" You like me passing well ;" 
And thus the fatal sound I hear 

That seals mj' lonely lot : 
There's uotliing now to hope or fear — 

Justiue, you love me not ! 



JJljilip jJcuMcton Cooke. 

AMERICAN. 

The son of an eminent lawyer, Cooke (1816-1850) was a 
native of Martinsbur;;, Va. He entered Princeton Col- 
lege at fifteen, studied law w'itli liis father, and before he 
was of ago had married and begun practice. He was ex- 
travagantly fond of Held sports, and grew to be tlio most 
famous hunter of the Slienaiidoah Valley. He published 
a volume of " Froissart Ballads " in 18-17, in which his 
" Florence Vane" is introduced ; wrote novels and talcs 
for the Southern Literary Messenger, wdicn it was edited by 
Poe; and also for Grahani's Magazine; and became an 
accomplished man of letters instead of a busy lawyer. 
He died young, of pneumonia, got in a hunting expedi- 
tion ; leaving one son and several daughters. John Es- 
ten Cooke, his brother (born 1830), has been a prolitle and 
interesting writer, cliielly of prose. Of Philip lie soys: 
" I can sum up my brother's cliaractcr b.v saving lliat he 
was an admirable type of a sensitive, refined, and high- 
ly cultivated gentleman." Impulsive and cliivalrous, lie 
once galloped twenty miles to throw a bouquet into the 
window of his cousin, the " Florence Vane " of bis grace- 
ful little lyric, which, it is interesting to know, was the 
otfspring of a genuine passion, and not of mere fancy. 
He was profoundly read in the English masters of verse, 
from Chaucer to our own day. 



FLORENX'E VANE. 

I loved thee long and dearly, 

Florence Vane. 
My life's bright dream, and early 

Hath come again ; 
I renew in my fond vision 

My heart's dear pain, 
My hope, and thy derision, 

Florence Vane. 

The ruin lone and hoary. 

The ruin old, 
Where thou didst mark my story, 

At evcu told, — 



PHILIP PEKDLETOX COOKE.— CHBIS'POPHER CHRISTIAN COX. 



That spot — the Liues Elysiau 
Of slcy autl plain — 

I treasure in my visiou, 
Florence Vaue. 

Tliou Avast lovelier than the roses 

In their prime ; 
Thy voice excelled the closes 

Of sweetest rhyme ; 
Thy heart ■svas a river 

Without a main. 
Wonld I had loved thee never, 

Florence Vane. 

Bnt fairest, coldest wonder! 

Thy glorious clay 
Lieth tlie greeu sod- under — ■ 

Alas the day ! 
And it boots not to renieudjer 

Tliy disdain — 
To quicken love's i)ale ember, 

Florence Vane. 

The lilies of the valley 

By yonng graves weep. 
The pansies love to dally 

Where maideus sleep ; 
May their bloom in beauty vying 

Never wane. 
Where tliine earthly part is lying, 

Florence Vane ! 



QII)vistopl)cr Cljvistian €ox. 

AMERICAN. 

Born in B.iltimorc, Md., in ISlC, Cox graduated at Yale 
College in 183.5 ; w:is admitted to pr.ictioe medicine in 
1S38 ; was Brigade-surgeon of tlie United States in 1860, 
and Surgeon -general of Maryland in 1803. An out- 
spoken upholder of the Union, he was elected Lieuten- 
ant-governor of Maryland in 180.5. In 1869 he received 
the degree of LL.D. from Trinity College, Hartford. In 
18T1 he was President of the Board of Health, Washing- 
ton, D. C. ; and in 1879 was sent Commissioner to the 
World's Fair in Australia, whence he returned in impair- 
ed liealtli. His poems have appeared mostly in the mag- 
nzines, and are characterized by qualities suggestive of 
the affectionate nature, the tenderness, and intellectual 
gniee, which endeared the writer to many attached 
friends. 



What dreams so fondly pondered o'er 
Forever lost the hue they wore : 
How like a death-knell, .sad and glow, 
Rolls through the soul, " cue year ago!" 

Where is the face we loved to greet ? 
The form that graced the fireside seat? 
The gentle smile, the winning wr.y. 
That blessed our life-path day by day ? 
Where fled those accents soft and low, 
That thrilled our hearts " one year ago ?" 

Ah ! vacant is the fireside chair, 
The smile that won no longer there : 
From door and hall, from porch and lawn. 
The echo of tliat voice is gone, 
And we who linger ouly know 
How much was lost "one year ago!" 

Beside her grave the marble white 
Keeps silent guard by day and night: 
Serene she sleeps, nor heeds the tread 
Of footsteps near her lowly bed : 
Her pulseless breast no more may know 
Tlic p.angs of life "one year ago." 

But why repine ? A few more years, 

A few more broken sighs and tears, 

And we, enlisted with the dead, 

Shall follow where her steps have led ; 

To that far world rejoicing go 

To which she passed " one year ago." 



ONE YEAR AGO. 

What stars have faded from our slcy ! 
What hopes unfolded but to die ! 
47 



HASTE NOT, REST NOT. 

.\FTER THE GEEMAN OF .SCUILLEE. 

Without haste, without rest: 
Bind the motto to tliy breast ; 
Bear it with thee as a spell. 
Storm or sunshine, guard it well ; 
Heed not flowers that round thee bloom- 
Bear it onward to the tomb. 

Haste not : let no reckless deed 
Mar for aye the spirit's speed ; 
Ponder well, and know the right — 
Forward then with all thy might! 
Haste not : years cannot atone 
For one reckless action done. 

Rest not : time is sweeping by — 
Do and dare before thou die: 



738 



CTCLOPJSDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEBICAN rOETRT. 



Sonicthiiig niiglity and sublime 
Lo.ive liehiuel to coimuer time : 
Gliirioiis 'tis to live for aye, 
Wlicu these forms Lave passed away. 

Haste not, rest not : calmly wait ; 
Meekly bear the storms of fate ; 
Duty be thy polar guide — 
Do the right whate'er betide! 
Haste not, rest not: conflicts past. 
Good shall crown thy work at last ! 



(L'ljarlcs (damage (fastman. 

AMERICAN. 

Eastman (lSlG-1860) was a native of Fryebnrg, Mo., 
the son of a watch-maker. At eighteen he became a stu- 
dent at the University of Vermont, Burlingtou. Here, 
to maintain liimsclf, he taught and wrote for the news- 
papers, and finally entered upon the career of an editor. 
In 1840 he Ijonglit the Vcrtnont Patriot, published at 
Montpclicr, in tlie editorship of which he continued 
until his death. An edition of the poems of Eastman, 
copyrighted by his widow, was published in Montpelicr, 
ill issu. 

SCENE IN A VERMONT WINTER. 

'Tis a fearful night in the winter-time, 

As cold as it ever can be! 
The roar of the storm is heard like the chime 

Of the waves of an angry sea. 
The moon is full, but the wings to-night 
Of the furious blast dash out her light ; 
And over the sky, from sonth to north, 
Not a star is seen as the storm conies forth 

lu the streugth of a mighty glee. 

All day had the snow come down — all day. 

As it never came down before. 
Till over the ground at sunset, lay 

Some two or three feet or more. 
The fence was lost, and the wall of stone ; 
The windows blocked and the well-curb gone ; 
The hay-stack rose to a inonntain-lift ; 
And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift. 

As it lay by the farmer's door. 

As the night set in, came wind and hail. 
While the air grew sharp and chill. 

And the warning roar of a fearful gale 
Was heard on the distant hill ; 

.\nd (lie norther! see! on the mountain peak, 

In his brealli how the old trees writhe and shriek! 



He shouts on the plain, Ho ! ho ! 
Ho drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, 
And growls with a savage will ! 

Such a night as this to be found abroad, 

In the hail and the freezing air. 
Lies a shivering dog, in the iield by the road. 

With the snow ou his shaggy hair. 
As the wind drives, see him crouch and growl. 
And shut his eyes with a dismal howl ; 
Then, to shield himself from the cutting sleet, 
His nose is pressed on his quivering feet, — 

Pray, what does the dog do there ? 

An old man came from the town to-night. 

But he lost the travelled way ; 
And for hours ho trod with main and might 

A path for his horse and sleigh ; 
But deejier still the snow-drifts grew, 
And colder still the tierce wind blew ; 
And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown. 
At last o'er a log had floundered down. 

That deep in a hollow lay. 

Many a plunge, with a frenzied snort. 

She made in the heavy snow ; 
And her master urged, till his breath grew short. 

With a word and a gentle blow; 
But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight, 
His hands were numb, and had lost their might; 
So he struggled back again to his sleigh, 
And strove to shelter himself till day. 

With his coat aud the buffalo. 

He has givetr the last faint jerk of the rein. 

To rouse up his dying steed ; 
Aud the poor dog howls to the blast in vain 

For help in his master's need. 
For awhile he strives with a wistful cry 
To catch the glance of his drowsy ej-o ; 
And wags his tail when the rude winds flap 
The skirts of his coat across his lap. 

And whines that ho takes no heed. 

The wind goes down, the storm is o'er, 

'Tis the hour of midnight past ; 
The forest writhes, and bends no more 

In the rush of the sweepifig blast. 
The moon looks out with a silver light 
On the high old hills, with the snow all white. 
And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, 
Of ledge and tree, and ghostly stump, 

Ou the silent plaiu are cast. 



CSARLES GAMAGE EASTMAN.— THEODORE MARTIN. 



:3!> 



lint colli ami dead — by the liidden log — ■ 
Are tUey ■\vbo came from the town ; 

The mau iu the sleigh, the faithful dog, 
And the beautiful Morgan brown ! 

He sits in his sleigh ; with steady grasp 

Ho holds the rcius iu his icy clasp ; 

The dog Tvith his uosecou his master's feet, 

And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet 
Where she lay when she floundered down. 



THANATOS. 

Hush ! her face is chill, and the summer blossom. 
Motionless and still, lies upon her bosom ; 
On the shroud so white, like snow in winter weather, 
Her marble hands unite quietly together. 

Ah, how light the lid on the thin cheek presses! 
Still her neck is hid by her golden tresses ; 
And the lips, that Death left a smile to sever, 



u^ljcoiiorc Illartin. 



Martin, the sou of a lawyer, was born in Edinburgh in 
1816. On the completion of his studies at the Univer- 
sity, he qualified himself as a solicitor, and iu 1846 es- 
tablished himself in that capacity iu London. He was 
associated with -\vtouu in the "Bon Gaultier Ballads," 
which p;tssed through twelve editions. But it was by 
his excellent translations from Heine, Goethe, and oth- 
er German writers, and his successful version of Horace 
(1800), that lie won most fame. In 1803 appeared his 
" Poems, Original and Translated : printed for Private 
Circulation ;"' and in 18T5 the first volume of a "Memoir 
of Prince Albert:" a work prepored under the Queen's 
authority, and the second volume of wliieh appeared in 
1880, when he was kuighted bj' the Queen, and became 
Sir Theodore Martin. In 18.51 lie was married to Miss 
Helen Faucit, the popular and accomplished actress. As 
a lawyer he has been prominent and active. 



NAPOLEON'S MIDNIGHT REVIEW. 

FnoM THE Germ.\n of Baron Joseph Christian von Zedlitz. 

At midnight, from the sullen sleep 

Of death the drummer rose; 
The night winds wail, the moonbeams pale 

Are hid as forth he goes ; 
With solemn air and measured step 

Ho paces on his rounds. 
And ever and anon with might 

The doubling drum he sounds. 



His fleshless arms alternately 

The rattling sticks let fall. 
By turns they beat iu rattlings meet 

Reveill<5 and roll-call ; 
Oh ! strangely drear fell on the ear 

The echoes of that drum. 
Old soldiers from their graves start up 

-And to its summons come. 

They who repose 'raoug Northern suows, 

In icy cerements lapped, 
Or in the mould of Italy 

All sweltering are wrapped, — 
W^ho sleep beneath the oozy Nile, 

Or desert's whirling sand, 
Break from their graves, and, armi5d all, 

Spring up at the command. 

And at midnight, from death's sullen sleep. 

The trumpeter arose ; 
He mounts his steed, and loud aud long 

His pealing trumpet blows; 
Each horseman he.ard it, as he lay 

Deep iu his gory shroud. 
And to the call these heroes all 

On airy coursers crowd. 

Deep gash ,and scar their bodies mar — 

They were a ghastly tile — 
And nuderneath the glittering casques 

Their bleached skulls grimly smile; 
With haughty mien they grasp their swords 

Withiu their bony hands, — 
'Twonld fright the brave to see them wave 

Their long and gleaming brands. 

And at midnight, from the sullen sleep 

Of death, the chief arose, 
Behind him move his officers, 

As slowly forth he goes. 
His liat is small — upon his coat 

No star or crest is strung, 
And by his side a little sword — 

His only arms — is hung. 

The wan moon threw a livid hue 

Across the mighty plain, 
Aud he that wore the little hat 

Stepped proudly forth agaiu — 
And well these grizzly warriors 

Their little chieftain knew. 
For whom they left their graves that night 

To muster in review. 



;4u 



CYCLOPJLDIA OF lilUTJSH AXD AMEHICAX POKTIIT. 



" Pieseut — recover aims !" The cry 

Rhus round in eager lium ; 
Before liim all that host defiles 

While rolls the doubling drum. 
"Halt!" then he calls — his generals 

And captains cluster near — 
Ho turns to one that stands beside 

And whispers in his ear. 

From rank to rank, from rear to flank 

It vings along the Seine ; 
The word that chieftain gives is " France ! 

The answer — "Sainte-Helfene !" 
And thus departed C'lesar holds, 

At midnight honr alway, 
The grand review of his old bauds 

In tlie Champs Elys6es. 



SIE HABEN MICH GEQUALET. 
From Heine. 
People have teased aud vexed me. 

Worried me early and late: 
Some with the love they bore me, 
Other some with their hate. 

They drugged my glass witli poison, 
They poisoned the bread I ate: 

Some with the love they bore me. 
Other some with their hate. 

But she who has teased aud vexed me, 
And worried me far the most — 

She never hated me, never, 

Aud her lovo I could never boast. 



CatiTi i?ol]n Scott. 



THE EXCELLENT MAN. 
From Heine. 
They g.avc mo advice and couusel in store, 
Praised me, and honored me more and more ; 
Said that I only should " wait awhile," 
Offered their patronage, too, with a smile. 

But, with all their honor and approbation, 
I should, long ago, have died of starvation, 
Had there not come an excellent man. 
Who bravely to help mo along began. 

Good fellow ! ho got me the food I ate, 
His kindness and care I shall never forget; 
Yet I cannot embrace him, though oilur folks can, 
For I myself am this excellent man. 



The autliorcss of tlic words and music of many popu- 
lar and spirited songs, Lady John Seott was bom near 
Edinburgli, about the yenr 1816. Her maiden name was 
Anne Alicia Spottiswoode. In 1836 she married Lord 
John Douglas Scott, who died in 1860. Slie shows gen- 
uine lyrical power, aud some of the spirit of Ossian in 
her songs. 

LAJIMERMOOR. 

wild aud stormy Lammcnnoor ! 
Would I could feel once more 

The cold north wiud, the wintry blast 
That sweeps thy mountains o'er. 

■\V(iuld I coidd see thy drifted suow 
Deep, deep in clench and glen. 

And bear the scream of the wild birds. 
And was free on tby hills again ! 

1 hate this dreary Sontbern huul, 
I wearj' day by day 

For the music of thy many streams 

In the birch-woods far away ! 
From all I love they banish me, 

Bnt my thoughts they cannot chain ; 
And they bear me back, wild Lammermoor! 

To thv distant bills again! 



ETTRICK. 

O mnrniuriug waters! 

Have ye no message for me ? 
Ye come from the hills of the West, 

Where his step wanders free. 
Did he not whisper my name? 

Did he not utter one word ? 
And trust that its souiul o'er the rush 

Of thy streams might be lieard. 

O murmuring waters! 

The sounds of the moorlands I hear, 
The scream of the heron aud eagle, 

The bell of the deer ; 
The rnstliug of heather and fern, 

The shiver of grass on the lea, 
The sigh of the wiud from the hill, — 

Hast thou no voice for me? 

O mnrmnring waters! 

Flow on — ye have no voice for me ; 
Bear the wild songs of the hills 

To the depths of the sea ! 



LADT JOHN SCOTT.— nOBERT TRAILL SPENCE LOWELL.— FRANCES BROTTX. 



741 



Briglit stream, from the founts of tbe west, 
Rush ou with thy music aud glee ! 

Oil ! to be borne to ray rest 
In the cold waves with thee! 



Uobcvt itvaill Spnicc £oiiu-ll. 

AMERICAN. 

Born in Boston in 1816, Lowell graduated at Harvard 
in 1833. He entered tlie ministry of the Episcopal Church 
in 1S42, and officiated for a time as cbaplain to tlie Bish- 
op of Newfoundland and Jamaica. He is the author of 
"The New Priest in Conception Bay," a novel ; and he 
published, in ISOO, a volume of poems. He is a brother 
of James Russell Lowell, the poet. 



LOVE DISPOSED OF. 

Here goes Love! Now cut him clear, 

A weight about his neck : 
If he linger longer here, 

Our ship will bo a wreck. 
Overboard ! overboard ! 

Down let him go! 
lu the deep he may sleep 

Where the corals grow. 

He said heVl woo the gentle breeze, 

A bright tear in her eye ; 
I5nt she was false or hard to please, 

Or he has told a lie. 
Overboard ! overboard ! 

Down iu the sea 
He may find a truer mind. 

Where the mermaids be. 

He sang ns many a merry song 

While the breeze was kind ; 
But he has been lamenting long 

The falseness of the wind. 
Overboard ! overboard ! 

Under the wave 
Let him sing where smooth shells ring 

111 the ocean's cave. 

He may struggle; he may weep; 

We'll be stern and cold ; 
His grief will find, within the deep. 

More tears thau eau be told. 
He has gone overboard ! 

We will float on ; 
We shall find a truer wind, 

Now that he is gone. 



Jfrauccs Brown. 

Daughter of the postmaster of Strauolar, Ireland, Miss 
Brown was born in 1816. When only eiijhtcen months 
old, she lost her eyesight from small-pox ; and the de- 
velopment of her poetical faculty uutler this deprivation 
is a remarkable instance of the triumph of the spiritual 
nature over physical obstructions. In 1847 appeared her 
"Lyrics and Miscellaneous Poems," and she has since 
contributed largely to periodical works. A pension of 
twenty pounds a year was settled on her by government. 



LOSSES. 

L'pon the white sea-sand 

There sat a pilgrim hand. 
Tolling the losses that their lives had known, 

While evening waned away 

From breezy cliff and bay, 
And the strong tides went out with weary moan. 

One spake with quivering lip, 

Of a fair freighted ship. 
With all his household to the deep gone down; 

But one had wilder woe — 

For a fair face, long ago. 
Lost iu the darker depths of a great town. 

There were who mourned their youth 

With a most loving ruth. 
For its brave hopes and memories ever green ; 

And one upon the West 

Turned an eye that would not rest 
For far-oft' hills whereon its joys had been. 

Some talked of vanished gold. 

Some of proud honors told. 
Some spake of friends who were their trust no more, 

And one of a gi-een grave 

Beside a foreign wave. 
That made him sit so lonely on the shore. 

But when their tales were done. 

There spake among them one, 
A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free : 

" Sad losses ye have met, 

But mine is heavier yet. 
For a believing heart is gone from me." 

"Alas," these pilgrims said, 

" For the living and the dead — 

For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure cro.ss, 
For the wrecks of land and sea ! 

But, however it came to thee. 

Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest loss." 



742 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH ASD AMElilCAX POETRY. 



Daoii) Barker. 



Bai-kei- (1816-1ST4) was a native of Exeter, JIc. 'When 
seven years old lie lost bis father, and thus early learned 
the lesson of self-dependenee. He was educated at the 
Foxcroft Academy, and became himself a teacher; then 
tried tlje tiadc of a blacksmith, but finally qualified him- 
self as a lawyer, and was admitted to the Bar. Sympathy 
for the distressed was one of bis prominent traits. While 
he repudiated dogmas, he had a firm faith in immortali- 
ty and a divine Providence. Upriuht and charitable, he 
faithfully practised the good he preached in his unpre- 
tending verses. A collection of his poems, edited by his 
brother, was published in Bangor, Me., in 1870. 



THE COVERED BRIDGE. 

Tell the fainting .soul in the weary form, 
There's a woilil of the purest hli.ss, 

That is linked as that sonl ami form are linked, 
By a covered bridge with this. 

Yet to reach that icalui on the other shore, 
We must pass througli a transient gloom, 

And mnst walk unseen, nnhelped, and alone. 
Through that covered bridge — the tomb. 

But we all pa.ss over on equal terms, 

For the universal toll 
Is the outer garb, which the hand of God 

Has flung around the soul. 

Though the eye is dim, and the bridge is dart, 

And the river it spans is wide. 
Yet Faith points through to a shiuiug mount 

That looms on the other side. 

To enable our feet, in the next day's march, 

To climb up that golden ridge, 
We must all lie down for a one night's rest 

Inside of the covered bridge. 



THE UNDER DOG IN THE FIGHT. 

I know that the world — that the great big world- 

Froni the pea.sant up to the king, 
Has a difiVrcnt tale from the tale I tell, 

And a dili'erent song to sing. 

lint for me, — and I care not a single fig 
If they say I am wrong or am right, — 

I shall always go in for the weaker dog. 
For the under dog iu the fight. 



I know that the world — that the great big world — 

Will never a moment stop 
To see which dog may be in the fault. 

But will shout for the dog on top. 

But fr)r me — I never shall pause to ask 

Which dog may be iu the right — 
For my heart will beat, while it beats at all, 

For the under dog iu the fight. 

Perchance what I've said I had better not said, 
Or, 'twere better I had said it incog., 

But with heart and with glass filled chock to the 
brim, — 
Here is luck to the bottom dog ! 



<EI)c Bronte Jirmiln. 

Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Bronte were daughters 
of the Rev. Patrick Bronte, a native of Ireland, who in 
1820 moved, with bis wife and ten children, to the vil- 
lage of Haworth, four miles from Keighley, England. 
His income was one hundred and seventy pounds a year. 
The three daughters showed remarkable literary abili- 
ties. Cliarlotte (1810-1855) wrote the celebrated novel 
of "Jane Eyre" (1817), and became famous. Emily 
(1818-1848) wrote " Wuthering Heights " (1817), a novel ; 
and Anne (18:>0-1849) wrote "The Tenant of Wildfell 
Hall," also published in 1847. The tliree sisters had 
published iu 1840 " Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton 
Bell " — pscudonymes representing Charlotte, Emily, and 
Anne respectively. Of these Emily seems to liave shown 
the most decided talent for poetry. Charlotte married 
(18.54) her father's curate, .Mr. Nicholls, but died the next 
year. An interesting memoir of her by Mrs. Gaskell ap- 
peared in 1857. The other two sisters died young and 
unmarried. " The bringing out our book of poems," 
writes Charlotte, " was hard work. As was to be ex- 
pected, neither we nor our poems were at all wanted." 



LIFE. 



ClI.iRLOTTE BroNTK. 

Life, believe, is not a dream, 

So dark as sages say ; 
Oft a little moruing rain 

Foretells a pleasant day : 
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom, 

But these are transient all ; 
If the shower will make the roses bloom, 

Oh, why lament its fall ? 
Rapidly, merrily. 

Life's sunny hours flit by, 
Gratefully, cheerily, 

Enjoy them as they fly. 



THE BRONTE FAMILY. 



741! 



Wliat tbinigb Death at times stejis in, 

Aud calls oiu- Best away f 
What though Sorrow seems to wiu, 

O'er Hope a heavy sway ? 
Yet Hope agaiu elastic spriugs, 

UucouqiicreJ, though she fell ; 
Still buoyant are l)<;r golden wings, 

Still strong to boar ns well. 
Manfully, fearlessly. 

The day of trial bear. 

For gloriously, victoiiously, 

Can courage quell despair! 



FROM "THE TEACHER'S MONOLOGUE." 

CnAiaoTTE Bronte. 

Life will bo gone ere I have lived; 

Where now is Life's fust prime? 
Fve worked and studied, longed aud grieved, 

Through all that rosy time. 
To toil, to think, to long, to grieve — ■ 

Is such my future fate 1 
The morn was dreary, must the eve 

Bo also desolate ? 
Well, such a life at least makes Death 

A welcome, wished-for friend ; 
Then aid me. Reason, Patience, Faith, 

To suffer to the end I 



FROM '-'ANTICIPATION." 

Emily Bronte. 

It is Hope's spell that glorifies. 
Like youth to my maturer eyes. 
All Nature's million mysteries, 

The fearful and the fair : 
Hope soothes me in the griefs I know ; 
She lulls mj- pain for others' woe, 
And makes me strong to undergo 

What I am born to bear. 

Glad Comforter! will I not brave 
Unawed the darkness of the grave, — • 
Nay, smile to hear Death's billows rave- 
Sustained, my Guide, by thee ? 
The more nnjust seems present fate. 
The more my spirit swells elate. 
Strong, in thy strength, to anticipate 
Rewarding destiny I 



A DEATH SCENE. 

Emily Bronte. 

" O Day ! he cannot die. 

When thou so tiiir art shining ! 

O Sun ! in such a glorious sky, 
So tranquilly declining; 

"He cannot leave thee now. 

While fresh west winds arc blowing, 
Aud all around bis youthful brow 

Thy cheerful light is glowing ! 

" Edward, awake, awake. 

The golden evening gleams 
Warm and bright on Ardeu's lake — 

Arouse fhee from thy dreams ! 

"Beside thee, on my knee. 

My dearest friend ! I pray 
That thou to cross the eternal sea 

Would'st yet one hour delay : 

"I bear its billows roar — 

I see them foaming high ; 
But no glimpse of a further shore 

Has blessed my straining eye. 

" Believe not what they urge 

Of Eden isles beyond : 
Turn back, from that tempestuous surge. 

To thy own native land. 

" It is not death, but pain 

That struggles in thy breast — 

Nay, rally, Edward, rouse agaiu : 
I cannot let thee rest !" 

One long look that sore reproved me 
For the woe I could not bear — 

One mute look of suffering moved me 
To repent my useless prayer. 

And, with sudden check, the heaving 

Of distraction passed away ; 
Not a sign of further grieving 

Stirred my soul that awful day. 

Paled at length, the sweet sun setting; 

Sank to peace the twilight breeze; 
Summer dews fell softly, wetting 

Glen, aud glade, aud silent trees. 



744 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BllITISB AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Then liis e.ves began to weary, 
Weighed beneath a mortal sleep ; 

And their orbs grew strangely dreary, 
Clouded, even as they would weep. 

But they wept not, but they changed not, 
Never moved, and never closed ; 

Troubled sti!!, and still they ranged not — 
Wandered not, nor yet reposed! 

So I knew that he was dying — 

Stooped and raised his languid head ; 

Felt no breath, and heard no sighing, — 
So I knew that he was dead! 



IF THIS BE ALL. 

Anne Bronte.^ 

O God! if this indeed be all 

That Life can show to me ; 
If on uiy aching brow may fall 

No freshening dew from Thee ; — > 
If witli no brighter light than this 

The lamp of Hope may glow, 
And I may only dream of bliss. 

And wake to weary woe ; — 
If fricndsliip's solace must decay, 

When otlier joys are gone. 
And love nnist keep so far away, 

While I go wandering on, — 
Wandering and toiling without gain, 

The slave of others' will. 
With constant care and frequent pain, 

Despised, forgotten still; 
Grieving to look on vice and sin, 

Vet jioworless to qnell 
Tlie silent current from within, 

The outward torrent's swell: 
AVliile all tlie good I would impart. 

The feelings I would share, 
Are driven backward to my heart, 

And turned to wormwood there ; — 
If clouds must ever keep from sight 

The glories of the Sun, 
And I nnist suffer Winter's blight 

Ere Summer is begun ; — 
If Life nnist bo so full of care, 

Then call mo soou to Thee ! 
Or give me strength enough to bear 

My load of misery. 

' The ptiems nf Anne, like those uf her sisters, li.ivf a nnirkoil 
persoual beavhig. 



lllilliain (fllcrn (Tljauning. 



A nephew of the eminent American preacher HTKtl- 
1842) of the same name, Chauning, the son of Dr. Walter 
C'hanning, a well-known pliyeieian, was liorn in Boston, 
1S17. He lias publislied : " Poems, First Series " (184.3), 
" Second Series " (1847) ; " Youth of the Poet and Paint- 
er, Psychological Essays " (1844) ; " Conversations in 
Rome, between an Artist, a Catholic, and a Critic " 
(1847) ; " The Woodman, and other Poems " (1849). His 
productions are suggestive of reserved power. Emerson 
once characterized them as '• poetry for poets." 



TO MY COMPANIONS. 

Ye heavy-hearted mariners 

Who sail this shore ! 
Yo patient, ye who labor 

Sitting at the sweeping oar, 
And see afar the flashing sea-gulls pl.Ty 
On the free waters, — and the glad bright day 
Twiuo with his hand the spray ! 

From out your dreariness, 

From your heart weariues.*!, 

I speak, for I am yours 

On these gray shores. 

Nay, nay, I know not, mariners! 

What cliffs they are 
That high uplift their smooth dark fronts, 

Aud sadly round us bar ; 
I do imagine that tlie free clouds play 
jUiovo those eminent heights; that somewhere Day 
Rides his triumphant way. 

And hath secure dominion 

Over our stern oblivion, — 

But see no patli thereout 

To free from doubt. 



A POET'S HOPE. 

Lady, there is a hope that all men have, 
Some mercy for their faults, a grassy place 

To rest in, ami a flower-strewn, gentle grave; 
Another hope which purifies our race, 

That when that fearful bourn forever past, 

Tliey may find rest, — and rest so long to last ! 

I seek it not, I ask no rest forever. 

My path is onward to the farthest shores, — 

Upbear mo in your arms, unceasing river! 

Tliat from the soul's clear fountain swiftly pours, 



WILLIAM ELLERT CHANNIXG.—HEXUY DAVID THOUEAU. 



745 



Miitiniiless not, until the end is wou, 

Wliicb now I feel buth scarcely felt tlie snu ! 

To feel, to know, to soar nulimited, 

'Mid throngs of liglit-wiugcd angels, sweeping far. 
And pore npou the realms nuvisited, 

That tesselate the unseen, unthought star, 
To be the thing tliat now I feebly dream 
Flashing within my faintest, deepest gleam ! 

Ah! caverns of my sonl ! how thick yonr shade, 
Wheie flows that life by which I faintly see, — 

Wave your bright torches, for I need your aid, 
Goldeu-eyed demons of my ancestry ! 

Your son, though blinded, hath a light witliin, 

A heavenly tire which ye from suns did win. 

Time ! O Death ! I clasp you in my arms. 
For I can soothe an iniinivo cold sorrow. 

And gaze contented on your icy charms. 

And that wild snow-pile which we call to-morrow ; 
Sweep on, O soft and azure-lidded sky ! 
Earth's waters to your gentle gaze reply. 

1 am not earth-born, though I here delay; 
Hope's child, I summon inliniter powers. 

And laugh to see the mild and sunny day 

Smile on the shrunk and thin autumnal hours ; 
1 laugh, for hojie hath happy jilace with me, — 
If my bark sinks, 'tis to another sea. 



fjcnnj DiiMib «;i)orcan. 

AMERICAN. 
Tliorcaii (1S17-1S02) was a native of Boston, Mass., and 
was graduated at Harvard College in 1S37. His father 
was a malcer of lead -pencils at Concord. Henry sup- 
ported himself by surveying, teaching school, carpenter- 
ing, and other work. But tlie burdens and restrictions 
of society were intolerable to bis free, unconventional 
nature. He remained single; be never attended church, 
never voted, and never paid a tax. Tbe town-constable 
once attempted to collect a poll-tax of him, and took 
bim to jail; but after a short imprisonment he was set 
at liberty. In 1S45 he built for himself a wooden bouse, 
or but, on the shore of Waklcn Pond, near Concord, and 
lived there several years. He gives this account of his 
expenses for a year: Tlie house cost him $38 V2}i\ his 
crop of vegetables was valued at $33 44, and tbe outgoes 
were S14 T2%. Tbe cost of groceries for eight months 
was $8 74, and for clothing $8 40. Total expenses for the 
year, SGI 99?^. Thorcau published " A Week on Concord 
and Jlerrimae Rivers" (1849); "Waldcn, or Life in tbe 
Woods" (1&54); " Excursions" (1863); "Maine Woods, 
Cape Cod, A Yankee in Canada, Letters to various Per- 
sons" (18e.5). His poetry is for the most part scattered 



through bis prose writings. Some of it was contributed 
to Tlic Dial. The thought in it is often too subtle and 
recondite to be traced without an effort. In a letter 
which Hawthorne wrote us, under date of Concord, Oc- 
tober 21st, 1842, we find this pertinent passage : "There 
is a gentleman in this town by tbe name of Tboreau, a 
graduate of Cambridge, and a tine scholar, especially in 
old English literature — but withal a wild, irregular, In- 
dian-like sort of fellow, who can find no occupation in 
life that suits liini. He writes, and sometimes — often, 
for auglit I know — very well indeed. He is somewliat 
tinctured with transcendentalism ; but* * * is a genuine 
and exquisite observer of nature — a character .almost as 
rare as that of a true poet. He writes poetry also — for 
instance, 'To the Maiden in tlie East,' 'The Snmnior 
Rain,' and other pieces in The Dial for October, which 
seem to be very careless and imperfect, but as true as 
bird -notes. The man has stuff to make a reputation 
of, and I wish you would find it consistent with your 
interest to aid him in attaining that object." 



SMOKE IN WINTER. 

The sluggish smoke curls up from some deep dell, 
The stiffened air exploring in the dawn. 
And making slow acquaintance with the day ; 
Delaying now upon its heavenward course 
In wreath<5d loiterings dallying with itself. 
With as uncertain ijurpose and slow deed, 
As its half-wakened master by the hearth, 
Whose mind still slumbering and sluggish tiionghts 
Have not yet swept into the onward current 
Of the new day ; — and now it streams afar, 
Tlio while the chopper goes witli step direct, 
And mind intent to swing the early axe ! 

First in the dusky dawn he scuds abroad 
His early scout, bis emissary, smoke, 
The earliest, latest pilgrim from the roof. 
To feel the frosty air, inform the day ; 
And while he cronches still beside the hearth. 
Nor musters courage to unbar the door. 
It has gone down the gleu with the light wind, 
And o'er the plain unfurled its venturous wreath, 
Draped the tree-tops, loitered upon the hill. 
And warmed the pinions of the early bird ; 
And now, perchance, high in the cri.spy air, 
Has caught sight of the day o'er the earth's edge. 
And greets its master's eye at his low door, 
As some refulgent cloud in the upper sky. 



UPON THE BEACH. 

Jly life is like a stroll upon the beach. 
As near the ocean's edge as I can go ; 

Jly tardy steps its waves sometimes o'erreach, 
Sometimes I stay to lot them overflow. 



74C 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AilEEICJX I'OETRT. 



My solo cinploymeut 'tis, and scnipnlons care, 
To set my gains beyond the reacli of tides, — 

Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare, 
Which ocean kindly to my hand confides. 

I have but few companions on the shore, — 
They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea ; 

Yet oft I think the ocean they've sailed o'er 
Is deeper known upon the strand to me. 

The middle sea contains no crimson dulse, 
Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view ; 

Along the shore my hand is on its pulse, 

And I converse with many a shijiwreeked crew. 



tjorace Binucij lllalUuc. 

AMERICAN, 
Wallace (1817-1853) was a native of Pliiladelpbia, a 
nephew of tlio eminent jurist, Horace Biuney, and a 
consin of Horace Binucy Sargent. He graduated at 
Princeton in the class of 1835; studied both metlicinc 
and law, but practised neither. He travelled in Europe 
between 1840 and 1852, and died in Paris. He had been 
intimate with the celebrated Comte. much of whose phi- 
losophy, however, he rejected. His first publication was 
" Stanley," a novel written at the age of twenty. After 
liis death appeared "Art and Scenery in Europe," "Lit- 
erary Criticism, and other Papers." Daniel Webster said 
of him : " I doubt wliethcr history displays a loftier nat- 
ure, or one more usefully or profoundly cultivated, at 
tliirty years of age." 

ODE ON THE RHINE'S RETURNING INTO 
GERMANY FROM FRANCE. 

Oh sweet is thy current by town and by tower. 
The green sunny vale and the dark linden bower ; 
Thy waves as they dimple smile back on the plain, 
And Rhine, ancient river, thon'rt German again ! 

The roses are sweeter, tlie air is more free, 
More blithe is the song of the bird on the tree; 
The yoke of the mighty is broken in twain, 
And Rhine, dearest river, thon'rt German again ! 

The land is at peace and breaks forth into song. 
The hills, in their echoes, the cadence prolong, 
The sons of the forest take np the glad strain, 
" Our Rhine, our own river, is German again !" 

Tliy daughters, sweet river, thy daughters so fair, 
Witli their eyes of dark azure and soft, sunny hair. 
Repeat 'mid their dances at eve on the plain, 
"Our Rhine, our own river, is German again !" 



Orli^a (Eook. 

Born in Southwark, London, in 1817, the daughter of a 
tradesman. Miss Cook published in 1840 a volume enti- 
tled " Melaia, and otiier Poems." She contributed a 
great variety of short poems to periodical works, and in 
1849 established a weekly — Eliza Cook's Journal — which 
had a fair success from 1849 to 1853, when failing health 
compelled her to give it up. She seems to have had that 
" fatal facility " in rhyming which is a bar to excellence ; 
but many of her poems are spirited and pleasing. In 
1SG4 she received a literary pension of one hundred 
jiounds a year. In 1874 an edition of her complete poet- 
ical works was published. The "Old Arm-chair" was 
set to music, and became quite a popular song. 



THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 

I love it, I love it, and who shall dare 

To chide me for loving that old arm-chair? 

I've treasured it long as a sainted prize. 

I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with 

sighs ; 
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; 
Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 
Would ye learn the spell ? a mother sat there, 
And a sacred thing Is that old arm-chair. 

In childhood's hour I lingered near 

The hallowed seat with listening ear ; 

And gentle words that motlier would give, 

To fit me to die and teach me to live. 

She told me shame would never betide. 

With truth for my creed and God for my guide ; 

She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer. 

As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 

I sat and watched her many a day, 
When her eye grew dim and her locks were gray ; 
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled 
And turned from her Bible to bless her child. 
Years rolled on, but the last one sped — 
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled ; 
I learned how much the heart can bear, 
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair. 

'Tis past ! 'tis past ! but I gaze on it now 
Witli quivering breath and throbbing brow: 
'Twas there slie nursed me, 'twas there she died ; 
And memory flows with lava tide. , 

Say it is folly, and deem me weak, 
While the scalding drops start down my check ; 
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear 
Mv soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 



Mils. EMILT JVDSOX.—rnUilAS BVRBIDGE. 



747 



illrs. (Cmiln iJulisou. 



Miss Chubbuck (1S17-1854) was a native of Morrisville, 
N. Y. At an eai-ly age she went to Utica as a teaclicr, 
and tliere made her fii'st attempts at autliorsliip. Slie 
wrote under tlie assumed name of Fanny Forrester, and 
published a collection of her essays and sketches in two 
volumes under the title of " Alderbrook." This work 
liad quite a success. In 1816 slit married Dr. Judson, the 
missionary, and sailed for Burmah. She returned home 
after her husband's decease, but followed him soon after. 



WATCHING. 

Sleep, love, sleep ! 

The dusty day is doue. 

Lo ! from afar the freshen iug breezes sweep, 

Wild over groves of halni, 

Down from the towering palm. 

In at the open casement cooling run, 

And round thy lowly bed, 

Thy bed of pain, 

Bathing thy patient head, 

Like grateful showers of raiu, 

They come ; 

While the white curtains, wavering to and fro, 

Fau the sick air. 

And pityingly the shadows come and go. 

With gentle human care, 

Compassionate and dumb. 

Tlie dnsty day is done. 

The night begun ; 

While iJrayerful watch I keei>. 

Sleep, love, .sleep I 

Is there no magic in the touch 

Of fingers thou dost love so much ? 

Fain would they scatter iioppies o'er thee now ; 

Or, with a soft caress. 

The tremulous lip its own nepenthe press 

I'pon the weary lid and aching brow. 

While prayerful watch I keep — 

Sleep, love, sleep ! 

On the pagoda spire 

The bells are swinging. 

Their little golden circles in a flutter 

With tales the wooing winds have dared to utter. 

Till all are singing 

As if a choir 

Of golden-nested birds in heaven were singing; 

And with a lulling sound 

The music floats around, 



And drops like balm into the drowsy car ; 

Commingling with the hum 

Of the Sepoy's distant drum. 

And lazy beetle ever droning near, — 

Sounds these of deepest silence born 

Like night made visible by morn; 

So silent that I sometimes start 

To hear the throbbiugs of my heart. 

And watch with shivering sense of pain 

To see thy pale lids lift again. 

The lizard, -with his mouse-like eye.s. 

Peeps from the mortise in surprise 

At such strange quiet of the day's harsh din ; 

Then ventures boldly out, 

And looks about. 

And with his hollow feet 

Treads his small evening beat, 

Darting upon his prey 

In such a tricksy, winsome sort of way. 

His delicate marauding seems no sin. 

And still the curtains swing. 

But noiselessly ; 

The bells a melancholy murmur ring. 

As tears vrere in the sky ; 

More heavily the shadows full 

Like the black foldings of a pall. 

Where juts the rough beam from the wall; 

The candles flare 

With fresher gusts of air ; 

The beetle's drone 

Turns to a dirge-like, solitary moan ; 

Night deei)eus, and I sit, in cheerful doubt, alone. 



^Ijomas Burbibgc. 



Burbidge, the friend and school-mate of Arthur Hugh 
Clough, published with him in 1849 a volume of poems 
under the title of " Ambarvalia." He was born in Eng- 
land in 1817. 



SONNET. 

Oh leave thyself to God! and if indeed 
'Tis given thee to perform so vast a task. 
Think not at all — think not, but kneel and asl-. 
O friend, by thought Avas never creature freed 
From any siu, from any mortal need : 
Be patient ! not by thought canst thou devise 
What course of life for thee is right and wise ; 
It will be written up, and thou wilt read. 
Oft like a sudden pencil of rich light. 
Piercing the thickest umbrage of the wood, 



74B 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH ASD JMEIilCAX POETRY. 



Will slioot, ainiil our troubles iufiiiite. 

The Spirit's voice; oft, like the Ijalmy flooil 

Of morn, surprise the universal night 

With glory, and make all things sweet autl good. 



EVKX-TIDE. 

Conies something down with even-tide 
Beside the sunset's golden bars, 

Beside the tloating scents, beside 

The twinkling shadows of the stars. 

Upon the river's rippling face, 

Flash after flash the white 
Broke up iu manj' a shallow place ; 

The rest was soft and bright. 

By chance my eye fell on the stream ; — • 
How many a marvellous iiowcr 

Sleeps in us, — sleeps, and doth not dream ! 
This knew I iu that hour. 

For tlieu n)y heart, so full of strife, 

No more was iu me stirred ; 
My life was in the river's life, 

Aud 1 nor saw nor heard. 

I and the river we were one : 

The shade beneath the bank, 
I felt it cool; the setting sun 

Into my spirit sank. 

A rushing thing iu power serene 

I was ; the mystery 
I felt of having ever been, 

And being still to be. 

Was it a moment or an hour? 

I knew not ; but I monrued 
When from that realm of awful power 

I to these fields retnrued. 



iJaincs ^. Jiclbs. 

AMERICAN. 
Fields was born in 1817, iu Portsmouth, N. IT. While 
yet a eliikl lie lost his father, a sea-eaptaiu. He became 
a clerk iu a Boston book-store, tliough he had been fit- 
ted for college, and his tastes were literary. Successful 
as a publisher, he withdrew from business in 1803, and 
Mttiiined high popularity as a lecturer. In his few poems 
he shows a delicate fancy and a flue lyrical vein. His 
voUuneB of verse have been printed for private circula- 
tion only. 



LAST WOKDS IN A STRANGE LAND. 

Oh to be home again, home again, home again 1 
Under the apple-boughs, down by the mill ; 

Mother is calling nie, father is calling me, 
Calling me, calling me, calling me still. 

Ob, how I long to be wandering, wandering 
Through the green meadows and over the hill 

Sisters are calling me, brothers are calling me, 
Calling me, calling me, calling me still. 

Oh, once more to bo home again, home again, 
Dark grows my sight, aud the evening is chill,— 

Do yon not hear how the voices are calling me, 
Calling me, calling me, calling me still? 



AGASSIZ. 

Once iu the leafy prime of Spring, 
When blossoms whitened every thorn, 

I wandered through the Vale of Orbe, 
Where Agassiz was born. 

The birds iu boyhood he h.id known. 

Went flitting through the air of ilay. 
And happy songs he loved to hear, 

Made all the landscape gay. 

I saw the streamlet from the hills 

Run laughing through the valleys green, 

And, as I watched it run, I said, 
•' This his dear eyes have seen !" 

Far cliff's of ice his feet had climbed 
That day outspoke of him to \m\ ; 

The avalanches seemed to sound 
The name of Agassiz ! 

And standing on the mountain crag, 
Where loosened waters rush and foam, 

I felt that, though on Cambridge side. 
He made that spot my home. 

And loidving round me as I mused, 
I knew no pang of fear or care, 

Or hoinesick weariness, because 
Once Agassiz stood there ! 

I walked beneath no alien skies, 
No foreign heights I came to tread. 

For everywhere I looked, I saw 
His grand, belovdd he.ad. 



JAMES T. FIELDS.— DENIS F. MCCARTHY.— MRS. ELIZABETH FRIES ELLET. 



749 



His smile was st.Tiiipetl on every tree, 
The glacier shone to giUl his name, 

And every image in the lake 
Reflected back his fame. 

Great keeper of the magic keys 
That conld unlock the magic gates 

Wliere Science like a monarch stands, 
And sacred Kuouledgo waits, — 

Thine ashes rest ou Auburn's banks, 
Thy memory all tbo world contains. 

For tlion couldst bind in human love 
All hearts in golden chains ! 

Thine was the heaven-boru spell that sets 
Our warm and deep aifectious free, — 

Who knew thee best must love tiiee best. 
And longest monrn for thee ! 



Denis i'lorciuE illcCavtIjij. 

Born in Ireland in 1817, McCarthy published in 1853 
an excellent translation of some of the Spauisli dramas 
of Caldcron. He is also the author of" Ballads, Poems, 
and other Lyrics" (1850), "Under Glimpses, and other 
Poems" (1857), "Bell-Fonnder, and other Poems" (1857), 
"Shelley's Early Life" (1873). 



SUMMER LOXGINGS. 

Las mtUK'mas floridas 

De Abril y Mayo. — Caldeuon. 

Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, 
Waiting for the May — 
Waiting for the pleasant rambles, 
Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles. 
With the woodbine alternating, 

Sceut the dewy way. 
Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, 
Waiting for the May. 

Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, 
Longing for the May — 
Longing to escape from study, 
To the young face fair and ruddy, 
And the thousand charms belonging 

To the summer day. 
Ah ! my heart is sick with longing. 
Longing for the May. 

All ! my heart is sore with sighing, 
Sighing for the May — 



Sighing for their sure returning, 
Wlieu the summer beams are burning, 
Hopes and flowers, that, dead or dying. 

All the winter lay. 
Ah ! uiy heart is sore with sighing, 
Sighing for the May. 

Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing 
Throbbing for the May — 
Throbbing for the sea-side billows, 
Or the watei-wooing willows ; 

Where in laughing and in sobbing. 

Glide the streams away. 
Ah ! my heart, my heart is throbbing. 
Throbbing for the May. 

Waiting sad, dejected, weary, 
Waiting for the May. 
Spring goes by with wasted warnings — 
Moonlit evenings, sun-bright mornings — 
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary, 

Life still ebbs anay — 

ilau is ever weary, weary. 

Waiting for the Mav ! 



i\\x5. (!:li?abctl) fries Grllct. 



Mrs. Ellct, whose maiden name was Lummis, was a 
native of Sodus, N. Y.,and born in 1818. She married 
early in life Professor W. H. Ellet. She has ])ublished 
"Poems, Orisinal and Selected," and numerous prose 
works, of which her "Women of the American Revolu- 
tion " has passed througli many editions. 



SONNET. 

O weary heart, there is a rest for thee ! 
O truant heart, there is a blessed home. 
An isle of gladness ou life's Avayward sea, 
Where storms that vex the waters never come! 
There trees perennial yield their balmy shade ; 
There flower-wreathed hills in snnlit beauty sleep ; 
There meek streams murmur through the verdant 

glade ; 
There heaven bends smiling o'er the placid deep. 
Winnowed by wings immortal that fair isle ! 
Vocal its air with music from above ! 
There meets the exile eye a welcoming smile; 
There ever speaks a gummouiug voice of love 
Unto the heavy-laden and distressed, — 
" Come unto me, and I will give you rest !" 



7cO 



CYCLOPJiDIA UF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



^iil)ur (I'lcrclanii Core. 

AMERICAN. 
The son of a well - known Presbyterian clergyman, 
Coxe was born in New York in 1818. He graduated at 
the University of that city in ISoS; studied divinity, and 
became Bisliop of Western New York. He began to 
write poetry while quite young. His " Christian Bal- 
lads" have had a large sale both in England and the 
United States. Among his other works are: "Advent, a 
Mystery: a Dramatic Poem;" "Athwold: aRomaunt;" 
"Halloween;" "Athanasion ;" "Sermons on Doctrine 
:ind Duty;" "Impressions of England," etc. 



WATCHWORDS. 

We are living, — wo are dwelling 

In a grand and awfnl time ; 
In aw age, ou ages telling, 

To be living — is sublime. 

Hark ! tbe waking up of uations, 

Gog and Magog to tlie fray; 
Hark i what sonndetli, is Creation's 

Groaning for its latter day. 

Will ye play, then ! will ye dally, 
With your lun.sic, with your wiue ? 

Up ! it is Jehovah's rally '. 

God's own arm hath uocd of thine. 

Hark ! the onset ! will ye fold your 

Faith-clad arms in lazy lock 1 
Up, oh up, thou drowsy soldier! 

Worlds aro charging to the shock. 

Worlds are charging — heaven beholding'. 

Thou hast but an hour to fight ; 
Now, the blazoned cross unfolding, 

Oil — right onward, for the right! 

What ! still hug thy dreamy slumbers ? 

'Tis no time for idling play, 
Wreaths, and dance, and poet-uumbcrs, 

Flout them! we must work to-day! 

Fear not! spurn the worldling's laughter; 

Thine ambition — trample thou! 
Thou sh;dt iind a long Hereafter, 

To be more than tempts thee now. 

On ! let all the soul within yon 
For the truth's sake go abroad! 

Strike ! lot every nerve and sinew 
Tell on ages — tell for God ! 



MATIN BELLS. 

The Sun is up betimes. 

And the dapi)led East is blushing, 
And the merry matin chimes, 

They are- gushing — Christian — gushing ! 
They are tolling in the tower, 

For another day begun ; 
And to hail the rising hour 

Of a brighter, brighter Sun ! 
Rise — Christian — rise ! 

For a sunshine brighter far 
Is breaking o'er thine eyes, 

Thau the bounie morning star! 

The lark is in the sky, 

And his morniug-uote is pouring; 
He hath a wing to fly, 

So he's soaring — Christian — soaring ! 
His nest is ou the ground, 

But only ia the night ; 
For he loves the matin sound. 

And the highest heaven's height. 
Hark — Christian — hark ! 

At heaven-door he sings ! 
And be thou like the lark. 

With thy soariug spirit-wings ! 

The merry matin bells, 

In their watch-tower they aro swinging ; 
For the day is o'er the dells. 

And they're singing — Christian — singing! 
They have caught tlio morning beam 

Through their ivied turret's wreath, 
And the chancel-window's gleam 

Is glorious beneath : 
Go — Christian — go. 

For the altar UametU there. 
And the snowy vestments glow 

Of the presbyter at prayer! 

There is morning incense flung 

From the child-like lily-flowers ; 
And their fragrant censer swung. 

Make it ours — Christiau — ours ! 
And hark, the morning hymn, 

And the organ-peals we love ! 
They souud like cherubim 

At their orisons above ! 
Pray — Christian — pray. 

At the bounie peep of dawn, 
Ere the dew-drop and the spray 

That christen it are gone ! 



THOilAS HILL. 



"A 



Jljomas tlill. 

AMERICAN. 

The Rev. Tliomas Hill, D.D., LL.D., was born iu New 
Branswick, N. J., in 1818. His parents were both of 
English birth, and died while he was j'et a child. When 
twelve years old, he was apprenticed to a printer, with 
whom he remained three y*'ars. But he studied Latin 
and Greek, entered Harvard College, graduated in 1843, 
and passed two years at the Divinity Scliool. He pre- 
sided over the Unitarian Church in Waltham, Mass., for 
fourteen years; in 1859 succeeded Horace Mann as Pres- 
ident of Antiocli College, Ohio ; was thence called to the 
Presidency of Harvard — an oliiee he held six years, when 
failing health caused him to resign. He accompanied 
Agassiz in the voyage of the Hasder through the Sti'aits 
of Magellan. On his return (1873) he was installed over 
a church in Portland, Maine. Dr Hill was the first to 
propose (1817) daily predictions of the weather, founded 
on telegraphic reports. He is gifted as a mathematician, 
and published (1849) a valuable little work, entitled "Ge- 
ometry and Faith." He is one of the most American of 
our poets, and his productions evince an irrepressible 
love of Nature. He is tlie author of some excellent 
hymns. As versatile in his accomplishments as iu his 
pursuits, a poet and a philosopher, a man of executive 
ability and an eloquent preacher, he has shown eminent 
talents in all his undertakings. Four years of his youth 
in an apothecary's shop made him a skilful pharmacist. 



THE BOBOLINK. 

Bobolink! that in the meadow, 
Or beneath the orchaiil's sbadow, 
Keepest up a constant rattle, 
Joyons as my cbikUeu's prattle, — • 
Welcome to the North again ! 
Welcome to mine ear thy strain, 
Welcome to mine eye the sight 
Of thy l)ulf, thy black and white. 
Brighter plumes may greet the snu 
By the banks of Amazon ; 
Sweeter tones m.ay weave the spell 
Of enchanting Philomel ; 
But the tropic bird would fail, 
And the English nightingale. 
If we should compare their worth 



Wbeu the ides of May are past, 
June and Summer ueariug fast, 
While from depths of blue above 
Comes the mighty breath of love, 
Calling out each bud and flower 
With resistless, secret power, — 
Waking hojie and fond dcsiie. 
Kindling the erotic fire, — ■ 



rilling youths' aud maidens' dreams 
With mysterious, pleasiug themes ; 
Then, amid the suulight clear 
Floating in the fragrant air, 
Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure 
By thy glad, ecstatic measure. 

A single note so sweet and low. 
Like a full heart's overflow, 
Forms the prelude ; but the strain 
Gives us no snch tone again, 
For the wild aud saucy song 
Leaps and skips the notes among, 
W'ith snch quick and sportive play, 
Ne'er was madder, merrier lay. 

G.ayest songster of the spring! 
Thy melodies before me bring 
Visions of some dream-bnilt land, 
Where, by coustant zephyrs fanned, 
I might walk the livelong day 
Embosomed iu perpetual May. 
Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows ; 
For thee a tempest never blows ; 
But when onr Northern summer's o'er, 
By Delaware's or Schuylkill's shore 
The wild rice lifts its airy head, 
Aud royal feasts for thee are spread. 
Aud when the wiuter threatens there, _ 
Thy tireless wings yet own no fear, 
But bear thee to more Southern coasts. 
Far beyond the reach of frosts. 

Bobolink ! still may thy gladness 
Take from me all taint of sadness : 
Fill my soul with trust unshaken 
In that Being who has t*keu 
Care for every living thing, 
In summer, winter, fall, and spring. 



ANTIOPA.' 

At dead of night a south-west breeze 

Came silently stealing along ; 
The bluebird followed at break of day, 

Singiug his low, sweet song. 

Tlie breeze crcjit through the old stone wall. 
And wakened the butterfly there, 

* Written iu the Straits of Magellan in the epriiig of 1ST5. The 
bntferfiy which comes out of stone walls iu April is Vanesm 
antiopa. 



CrCLOPJEDId OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETHY. 



Aud she camo out, as nioniing broke, 
To float through the suulit air. 

Within this stony, lifted heart 
Tlie softening iuflnence stole, 

Filling with melodies divine 
The chambers of my sonl. 

With geutle words of hope aud faith, 
By lips uow sainted spoken ; 

With vows of teuderest love toward me, 
Which uever ouco were broken. 

At morn my soul awoke to life, 
And glowed with faith anew ; 

The buds that perish swelled without, 
Within the immortal grew. 



THE WINTER IS PAST.' 

Soft on this April morniug, 
Breathe, from the South, delicate odors, 
Vaguely defiued, giving the breezes 

Spriug-like, delicious zest ;— 

Breezes from Southern forests. 
Bringing ns glad tidiugs of summer's 
Promised return ; waking from slumber 

Each of the earliest plants. 

Lo ! in the night tlie elm-tree 
Opened its buds; catkins of hazel 
Tasselled the hedge ; maple and alder 

Welcomed with bloom the spring. 

Faintly the warbling bluebird 
Utters his note ; song-sparrows boldly 
Fling to the wind joyous assurance, 

"Summer is coming North!" 

None can express the longing, 
Mingled with joy, mingled with sadness, 
Swelling my heart ever, when April 

Brings us the bird and flower. 

Tender and sweet roniembrance. 
Filling my soul, gives me assurance, 
"Death is but frost; lo! the eternal 

Spring-time of heaven shall come." 

' The measure is au iiiiit;ition of the Clioriatiibic. 



lllilliam lllctniovc Stoni. 



Bom in Salem, Mass., in ISUt, Story gnuhiated at Har- 
vard in 1S38. His father, a judge of tlie U. S. Supreme 
Court, was also a poet in liis youtli. Having a strong 
artistic taste, William turned liis back on the law, and 
in 1.S4S went to Rome and became distir.guii^lied as a 
sculptor. He is tlie author of "Roba di Roma," an ex- 
cellent descriptive account of modern Rome. 



THE UNEXPRESSED. 

Strive not to say the whole! the Poet in his Art 
Must intimate the whole, and say the smallest part. 

The yonng moon's silver arc her perfect circle tells, 
Tlie limitless within Art's bounded outline dwells. 

Of cvei'y noble work the silent part is best. 

Of all expression, that which cannot bo expressed. 

Each act contains the life, each work of Art the world, 
And all the planet laws are in each dew-drop pearled. 



WETMORE COTTAGE, NAHANT. 

The hours on the old piazza 

That overhangs the sea, 
With a tender aud pensive sweetness 

At times steal over me ; 
And again o'er the balcony leaning. 

We list to the surf on the beach, 
Tliat fills with its solemn warning 

The intervals of speech. 

We three sit at night in the moonlight, 

As wo sat in the summer gone, 
Aud wo talk of art and nature, 

And sing as wo sit alone; 
Wo sing the old songs of Sorrento, 

Where oranges hang o'er the sea. 
And our hearts arc tender with dreaming 

Of days that no more .shall be. 

How gayly the hours went with iis 

In those old days that are gone! 
Ah ! would we were all together. 

Where now I am standing alone. 
Could life be again so [lerfect ? 

Ah, never! these years so drain 
The heart of its freshness of feeling, — 

But I loui;- though the longing be vain. 



ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 



vlvtljur f)U(}l) tflougl). 

CloHgli, born at Livei-pool, 1819, died of malarial fever 
at Florence, 1861. He was educated at Rugby under Dr. 
Arnold, and was on affectionate terms with tliat noble 
tcaelier. "Over the career of none of his pupils," says 
r. T. Palgrave, "did Arnold watch with a livelier inter- 
est or a more sanguine hope:" Having won the Baliol 
scholarship in 1836, Clough went to Oxford, and in 1843 
was appointed tutor as well as fellow of Oriel College. 
His iiriueipal poem, "The Bothie of Tobcr-Na-Vuolich," 
which he terms "a long vacation pastoral," appeared in 
1S48. It is written in hexameter verse, and is rich in 
evidence of his own yearning for the higher truths of life. 

His "Amours de Voyage," tlie result of a holiday of 
tr.avel in Italy, is in the same measure. It appeared orig- 
inally in the Atlantic 3IonlM;/ while Clough was residing 
(1S.53) at Cambridge, near Boston, Mass. It is an uusuc- 
cr>bful attempt to give the poetical form to what might 
have been more aptly and efFectively said in prose. 
"Dipsyehus," his third long poem, was written in Ven- 
ice in 1850. In 1848, from conscientious motives, Clough 
had given up both his tutorship and his fellowship at 
0.\ford. His life, though uneventful, was full of work, 
and the great problems of humanity exercised his sin- 
cere and searching intellect to the last. As a poet he is 
very unequal ; at times showing himself in his flights the 
peer of Tennyson, and then lapsing into the common- 
place or obscure. In his forty-two years he did mucli 
good work, but his life was even richer in promise than 
in performance. A selection from his papers, with letters 
and a memoir, edited by his widow, was published in two 
volumes in 1S6'J. • 



♦ 



I WILL NOT A.SK TO FEEL THOU ART. 

O Thou vvbose image in the shriue 
Of human sijirits dwells divine, 
Which from that precinct once conveyed, 
To be to outer day displayed, 
Doth vanish, part, and leave behind 
Mere blank, and void of empty mind, 
Which vvilfnl fancy seeks in vain 
AVith casual shapes to fill again, — 

Thou that in our bosom's shrine 
Doth dwell, unknown because divine ! 

1 thought to speak, I thought to say, 

" The light is here," " behold the way," 
"The voice was thus," and "thus the word," 
And " thus I saw," and " that I heard," — 
But from tlie lips that half essayed 
Tlie imperfect utterance fell unmade. 

Thou in that mysterious shrine 
Enthroned, as I must say, divine ! 

1 will not frame one thought of what 
Thou mayest either be or not. 

48 



I will not prate of "thus" or "so," 
And be profane with "yes" and "no;" 
Enough that in our soul and heart 
Thou, whatsoe'er Thou may'st be, art! 

Unseen, secure in that high shrine, 
Acknowledged present and divine, 
I will not ask some upper air. 
Some future day, to place Thee there ; 
Nor say, nor yet deny, such men 
And women saw Thee thus or then : 
Thy name was such, and there or here 
To him or her Thou didst appear. 

Do only Thou in that dim shrine, 
Unknown or known, remain, divine ; 
There, or if not, at least in eyes 
That scan the fact that round them lies, 
The hand to sway, the judgment guide, 
In sight and sense Thyself divide : 
Be Thou but there, — in soul and heart, 
I will not ask to feel Thou art. 



CONSIDER IT AC4AIN. 

" Old things need not be therefore true :" 
O brother men, nor yet the new ! 
Ah! still awhile the old thought retain. 
And yet consider it again ! 

The souls of now two thousand years 
Have laid up here their toils and fears. 
And all the earnings of their pain, — 
Ah, yet consider it again ! 

AVe ! what do we see ? each a space 
Of some few yards before his face ; 
Does that the whole wide plan explain ? 
Ah, yet consider it again! 

Alas! the great world goes its way, 
And takes its truth from each new day ; 
They do not quit, nor can retain. 
Far less consider it again. 



QUI LABORAT, ORAT. 

O only Source of all our light and life. 

Whom as our truth, our strength, we see and feel, 

But whom the hours of mortal moral strife 
Aloue aright reveal ! 



754 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AilERWAX POETRY. 



Miue inmost soul, before Thee iuly brought, 
Thy presence owns ineffable, divine ; 

Chastised each rebel self-encentred thought, 
My will adoreth Thine. 

With eye down-dropped, if then this earthly mind 
Speechless remain, or speechless e'en depart, — 

Nor seek to see — for what of earthly kind 
Can see Thee as Thou art ? — 

If well-assured 'tis but profanely bold 

la thought's abstractest forms to seem to see, 

It dare not dare the dread communion hold 
lu ways unworthy Thee, — 

Oh not unowned. Thou shalt unnamed forgive, 
In worldly walks the prayerless heart prepare ; 

And if in work its life it seem to live, 
Shalt make that work be prayer. 

Nor times shall lack, when while the work it plies, 
Uusnmmoned powers the blinding film shall part. 

And scarce by happy tears made dim, the eyes 
Iji recoguition — start. 

But as Thou wiliest, give or e'en forbear 

The beatific supersensual sight. 
So, with Thy blessing blessed, that humbler prayer 

Approach Thee morn and night. 



DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MOKI." 

The following from tlie " Amours de Voyage " is a specimen 
nf the measure and Ptyle of that work, as well as of " The 
Bothie of Tober-N:i-Vuolich." 

Dalce it is, and decorum, no doubt, for the country 
to fall,— to 

Offer one's blood an oblatiou to Freedom, and die 
for the Cause ; yet 

Still, individual culture is also something, and no man 

Finds quite distinct the assurance that he of all oth- 
ers is called on, 

Or would be justified, even, in taking away from 
the world that 

Precious creature, himself. Nature sent him here 
to abide here ; 

Else why send him at all ? Nature wants him still, 
it is likely. 

On the whole, wo are meant to look out for our- 
selves ; it is certain 

' Sweet and hecoming it is to die for one's country. 



Each has to eat for himself, digest for himself, aud, 
iu general, 

Care for his own dear life, and see to his own 
preservation ; 

Nature's intentions, iu most things uuccrtaiu, in this 
are decisive ; 

"Which, ou the whole, I conjecture the Komaus will 
follow, and I shall. 
So we cling to our rocks like limpets ; Ocean 
may bluster. 

Over and under aud round us ; we open our shells 
to imbibe our 

Nourishment, close them again, aud are safe, fulfill- 
ing the purpose 

Nature intended, — a wise oue, of course, and a im- 
ble, we doubt uot. 

Sweet it may be and decorous, perhaps, for the conn- 
try to die ; but, 

Oil the whole, we conclude, the Romans won't dn 
it, and I sha'n't. 



QUA CURSUM VENTUS.' 

As ships becalmed at eve that lay 
With canvas drooping, side by side, 

Two towers of sail, at dawn of day 

Are scarce long leagues apart descried ; 

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, 
And all the darkling hours they jilied ; 

Nor dreamed but each the self-same seas 
By each was cleaving, side by side. 

E'en so — bnt why the tale reveal 

Of those whom, year by year uuchanged. 

Brief absence joiued anew, to feel, 
Astounded, soul from soul estranged. 

At dead of night their sails were filled, 
And onward each rejoicing steered ; 

Ah! neither blamed, for neither willed 
Or wist what first with dawn appeared. 

To veer, how rain ! On, onward straiu, 
Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too ! 

J A fragment of a verse iu Virgil : 

"Teuduut vela Noti : fngimns spumantibiis iindis, 
QtM cursuvi vcJtfKfl-qne guberuatorque vocabanl.'* 

It may be thus translated : — 

"We scud the foaming waters, the south winds swell oar sails. 
And our way lies where it listeth the pilot and the gales.' 



ARTHUR BVGH CLOUGE. — TTALT WHITMAX. 



Tliroiigli winds anil tides one compass guidcs- 
To tliat and youi- own selves be trne. 

But O, blithe breeze ! aiid O, great seas ! 

Though ue'ei- that earliest parting i>ast, 
On your wide plain they join again, 

Together lead them home at last. 

One port, methonght, alike they sought — 
One purpose hold where'er they fare ; 

O bounding breeze, O rushing seas, 
At last, at last, unite them there ! 



IN A GONDOLA. 

ON THE GRAND CAN.\L, VENICE. 

Afloat ; we move — delicious ! Ah, 
AVhat else is like the gondola ? 
This level floor of liquid glass 
Begins beneath us swift to pass. 
It goes as though it went alone 
By some impulsion of its own. 
(How light it moves, how softly! 
Were all things like the gondola.') 



Ah, 



How light it moves, how softly ! Ah, 
Could life as does our gondola, 
Unvexed with quarrels, aims, and cares, 
And moral duties and affaii's, 
Uuswaying, noiseless, swift, aud stroug. 
Forever thus — thus glide along ! 
(How light we move, how softly! Ab, 
Were life but as the gondola !) 

With uo more motion than should bear 
A freshness to the languid air ; 
With no more effort than expressed 
The need aud naturalness of rest. 
Which we beneath a grateful shade 
Shoiild take on peaceful pillows laid ! 
(How light we move, how softly ! Ah, 
Were life but as the gondola !) 

In one unbroken passage borne 
To closing niglit from opening morn. 
Uplift at whiles slow eyes to mark 
Some palace front, some passing bark ; 
Tlirough windows catch the varying shore. 
And hear the soft turns of tlie oar ! 
(How light we move, how softly I Ah, 
Were life but as the gondola!) 



lUalt lUljitman. 



AMERICAN. 

Wliitnian was born in 1819 at AVest Hills, L. I., but 
moved with his family to Brooklyn, N. Y., while he was 
yet a child. At thirteen he learned to set type, and a 
few years later was employed as a teacher in a country 
school. In 1SJ9 he travelled in the Western States. He 
drifted to New Orleans, and tliere, for a year, edited a 
paper. Returning home, lie went into business as a 
builder — his father's occupation. In 18.56 he published 
"Leaves of Grass," which attracted attention for the 
rough, untrammelled power it displayed. It was marred, 
however, by mucli that was offensive to ears geutle and 
polite. During the Civil War he was employed in hos- 
pitals and camps. He gave the result of liis experiences 
in a thin volume, entitled " Drum Taps." He was on 
one occasion removed from his post as a Department 
Clerk, because of the literary sins in his "Leaves of 
Grass." He has been praised by Emerson, Tennyson, 
and Ruskin — high authorities in literature. His impulse 
seems to have been to be true to tlie thoughts of the 
moment at all hazards, and to say what came uppermost 
without regiird to consccpiences. Rnskiu, in a letter 
(18T9) ordering copies of Whitmau's works, remarked that 
the reason they excite sucli furious criticism is, "They 
are deadly true— in the sense of rifles — against all our 
deadliest sins;" an assertion which will be contested 
by manj' as eccentric if not extravagant. 



FROM "THE JIY.STIC TRUMPETEK." 

Now, trumpeter ! for thy close, 

Vouchsafe a higher strain than any yet; 

Sing to my soul — renew its languishing faith and 

hope ; 
Rouse up my slow belief — give me some vision of 

the future ; 
Give me, for once, its prophecy and joj*. 

O glad, exultiug, culminating song ! 
A vigor more than earth's is in thy notes ! 
Marches of victory — man disenthralled — the con- 
queror at last ! 
Hymns to the universal God, from universal Man — 

all joy ! 
A re-born race appears — a perfect world — all joy I 
Women and men iu wisdom, innocence, aud health — 

all joy ! 
Riotous, laughing bacchanals, fllUd with joy! 
War, sorrow, suli'ering gone — the rank earth purged 

— nothing but joy left! 
The ocean filled with joy — the atmosphere all joy ! 
Joy ! joy ! in freedom, worship, love ! Joy iu the 

ecsta.sy of life ! 
Enough to merely be ! Enough to breathe ! 
Joy ! joy ! all over joy ! 



756 



CTCLOP^DIA OF BRITISH AND AilElUCAX POETltT . 



PASSAGES FROM "LEAVES OF GRASS." 

U triitli of tUe earth ! O truth of thiugs ! I am 
determined to press my way toward you, 

Souud your voice! I scale mountains, or dive into 
the sea after you. 

J* # 7f ^ ^ ^ 

Great is Life, real aud mystical, -nhcrevcr and who- 
ever, — 

Great is Death : — sure as Life holds all parts to- 
gether, Death holds all parts together ; 

Deatli ha.s just as much purport as Life has: 

Do you enjoy what Life confers ? 

You shall enjoy what Death confers : 

I do uot understand the realities of Death, hut I 
kuow they are great : 

I do not understand the least reality of Life — how- 
then can I understand the realities of Death ? 

To me every hour of tlic light aud dark is a miracle. 

Every inch of space is a miracle, 

Every square yard of the surface of the eartli is 

.si)read with the same, 
Every cubic foot of the interior swarms with the 

same ; 
Every spear of grass — the frames, limbs, organs, of 

nieu and women, and all that concerns them, 
All these to me are uuspeakably perfect miracles. 
To me the sea is a continual miracle, 
Tlie fishes that swim — the rocks — the motion of 

the waves — the ships with men in tlieni. 
What stranger miracles are there? 

+^ * * * * # 

You felons on trials in courts. 

You convicts in prison cells — you sentenced assas- 
sins, chained aud handcuffed w ith iron, 

Wlio am I that I am not ou trial or in prisou ? 

Me.rutldess aud devilish as any, tliat my wrists are 
not chained witli iron, or my ankles with iron ? 

I was thinking the day most splendid, till I saw 
■nliat \\\c not-day exhibited ; 

I was tliinking tliis globe enough, till there tum- 
bled upon me myriads of other globes : 

Oil. how plainly I see now that this life cauuot 
exhibit all to me — as the day cannot : 

Oil, I see that I am to wait for what will be cx- 
hiliited by death. 

O Death; 

Oil. the beautiful touch of Death, soothing and be- 
numbing a few moments, for reasons; 



Oh, that of my.self, discharging ray excremeutitious 

body, to be burned, or rendered to powder, 

or buried, 
5Iy real body doubtless left to mo for other spheres. 
My voided body, nothing more to me, returning to 

the purifications, further offices, eternal uses 

of the earth ! 

Whoever you are ! you are he or she for whom the 

earth is solid and liiiuid, 
Y'ou are ho or she for wliom the suu aud moon 

hang iu the sky, 
For none uiore than you are the present aud the past, 
For none more than you is immortality! 
Each man to himself, and each woman to herself, 

is the word of the past and i^reseut, atid the 

word of immortality : 
No (me can acquire for another — uot one ! 
Not one can grow for another — uot one ! 

^ -t Tf * # * 

The earth never tires. 

The earth is rude, silent, iucompreheusible at fust — 
Nature is rude aud Iucompreheusible at first ; 

Bo uot discouraged — keep ou — there are divine 
things, well enveloped, 

I swear to you there are divine tfiiugs more beau- 
tiful than words can tell. 



(HljavUs ^niicvsou Dana. 

AMERICAN. 

Born in Hinsdale, N. H., August 8tli, ISl'J, Dana passed 
two years at Harvard, but left before graduating, on ac- 
count of an affection of the eyes. He joined George 
Ripley (1803-1880) aud others., in the Brook Farm Asso- 
ciation. Removing to New York, he became a pioiiii- 
iient journalist, and was connected with the Tribune. In 
18G:>-"04 he was Assistant Secretary of War. On leaving 
that post, he bought.with the aid ofsonie associates, tlic 
Xcw York Sun, which was in a declining condition, and 
made it a great financial success. He was associated 
with Ripley in editing .-I^j/jWoji's Cijclopmlia ; and in 18.58 
lie edited " The Household Book of Poetry." His poetry 
was nearly all written before his twenty-liflh year. One 
of his early achievements was a tour of Europe on foot. 
lie is a great linguist, and can converse with his foreign 
guests in tlicir own languages. 



MANHOOD. 

Dear, noble .soul, wisely thy lot thou bearcst ; 
For, like a god toiliug iu earthly slavery, 
Fronting thy sad fiito with a joyous bravery, 
Each darker dav a suunier mien thou wearest. 



CHARLES AKDEBSON DANJ.—MBS. HARRIET WINSLOW SEWALL. 



757 



Xo grief can touch tby sweet and spiritual smile ; 
Xo paiu is kceu enough that it has power 
Over thy chikUike love, that all the while 
Tpon the cold earth huihls its heavenly bower; — 
Aud thus with thee bright angels make their dwell- 

I'riiigiug thee stores of strength wheu uo niau 

kuoweth ; 
Tlie oceau-streara from God's heart ever swelling, 
That forth through each least thing iu Nature goetb, 
In thee, oh, truest hero, deeper floweth ; — 
\Vitli joy I bathe, and many souls beside 
Feel a new life iu the celestial tide. 



VIA SACRA. 

Slowly along the crowded street I go. 
Marking with reverent look each passer's face, 
Seeking, and not in vain, in each to trace 
That primal soul whereof he is the show. 
For here still move, by many eyes iiuaeen, 
The blessed gods that erst Olympus kept ; 
Through every guise these lofty forms serene 
Declare the all-holding Life hath never slept ; 
But known each thrill that iu man's heart hath been, 
And every tear that his sad eyes have wept : 
Alas for us! the heavenly visitants, — 
We greet them still as most unwelcome guests, 
Answering their smile with hateful looks askance, 
Tlieir sacred speech witli foolish, bitter jests ; 
Hut oil! what is it to imperial Jove 
Tliat this poor world refuses all his love ! 



TO K. B. 

Belovdd friend ! they say that thou art dead, 
Xor shall our asking eyes behold thee more. 
Save in the company of the fair and dread, 
Along that radiant and immortal shore. 
Whither thy face was turned for evermore. 
Tliou wert a pilgrim tow.ird the True and Keal, 
X'ever forgetful of that infinite goal ; 
.Salient, electrical, thy weariless soul. 
To every faintest vision always leal, 
Even 'mid these iihantoms made its world ide.al. 
And so thou hast a most iierennial fame, 
Tliongh from the earth thy name should perish quite : 
When the dear sun sinks goldeu whence ho came. 
The gloom, else cheerless, hath not lost his light ; 
.So in our lives impulses born of thine, 
Jjike fireside stars across the night shall shiue. 



fllrs. fjarrict llVmsloiu Scumll. 



Miss Winslow wiis born in Portlaml, Mc, June oOtli, 
1SI9. She is of Quaker extraction. She was married in 
1S48 to Charles List, of Philadelphia; and some years af- 
ter his death to Samuel E. Scwall, of Boston. Her sum- 
mer residence is at Melrose, Mass. Iu a letter to a friend 
(1880) she says: "I have written little, aud published 
almost nothing; and most of my verses are of a local 
or personal nature that would not interest the public." 
But will the public agree to that after reading her " Why 
thus Longing?" 



WHY THUS LONGING? 

Why thus longing, thus forever sighing 

For the far-off, uuattained, and dim, 
While the beautiful, all round thee lying, 

Otl'ers up its low, perpetual hymu ? 

Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching. 
All thy restless yearnings it would still. 

Leaf aud flower and laden bee are preachiug 
Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill. 

Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee 
Thou uo ray of light aud joy canst throw, 

If uo silken cord of love hath bouml thee 
To some little world through weal aud woe; 

If no dear eyes thy fond love can brigliten. 
No fond voices answer to thine own, 

If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten 
By daily sympathy and gentle tone. 

Not by deeds that gain the world's applauses. 
Not by works that v\in thee world renown. 

Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses, 

Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown. 

Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely, 
Every day a rich reward will give; 

Thou wilt find by hearty striving only. 
And truly loving, thou canst truly live. 

Dost thou revel in the rosy morning 

When all nature hails the Lord of light, 

Aud his smile, nor low nor lofty scorning. 
Gladdens h.all aud hovel, vale and height? 

Other bauds may grasp the field and forest. 
Proud proprietors in pomp may shine, 

But with fervent love if thou adorest, 

Thou art wealthier, — all the world is thine. 



I 



.-,8 



CYCLOI'JLDIA OF BRITISH A\D AMERICAN POETRY. 



Yet if tliiongb earth's wide domaius tbou rovest, 
Sighing that they are not thine aloue, 

Xot tliosc fair fiekln, hut thyself thou lovest, 
And their hciuity and tliy wealth are gone. 



SPECIAL PROVIDENCES. 

When g.atliering clouds are darkly round us lowering, 
O'erhanging heavy with impending woe, 

And Heaven, to which we turn for help imploring, 
Seemingly, by its silence, answers, " No ;" — 

"We are not worth its heed," — we say, despairing; 

" Wc are but puppets of relentless law ;" 
Before a Power, crushing and uncaring. 

We bow with reverent, unloving awe. 

Ungrateful and prosnmptuous we, deriding 

The Power that knows our ueeds before we call. 

And in advance of them, has been providing 
The helping hands to aid us wheu we fall ! 

Before we see the light this kind pi'ovision 
Awaits us in maternal care and love ; 

Its wondrous divin.ation, intuition, 
Arc, all recorded miracles, above : 

And farther on a baud of sistei's, brothers, 

Holding us with the strongest, teuderest thrall ; 

And finally tlie Friend above all others, 
Tlie most especial rrovidenee of all! 



JJulia llliULi Cjouic. 



AMERICAN. 
>Irs. Howe, a diniirlitei' of Samuel Waid.a well-known 
banker, was born in llic city of New York in 181U. Slie 
bad tlie advantage of a thorough education, and in 1*43 
was married to Samuel G. Howe, the well-known plii- 
lanthropist of Boston. In 18.54 she published "Passion 
Flowers," a volume of poems ; and in 18.56 " Words for 
the Hour." In 1800 appeared her "Later Lyrics," con- 
taining her most notable poem, "The Battle Hymn." 
This seems to have been suggested by one of those im- 
provised effusions, got up, by nobody knows whom, on 
stirring occasions, and in this case by some ouc in a com- 
p.any of Boston militia, early in the Civil War. It began: 
"John Brown's l)ody lies a-mouldering in the grave," 
which, being repeated three times, was followed by "His 
soul is marching on." Then came the refrain, "Glory, 
glory, hallelujah !" This being sung to a spirited melo- 
dy, the origin of which is also unknown, produced a mem- 
orable cffi'd. Mrs. Howe's poem is a refinement on this 
rough production. She has published several volumes 
of travels ; and is active in all movements for the im- 
provemcut of the condition of women. 



BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the 

Lord : 
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of 

wrath are stored ; 
He hath loosed the fateful liglitning of his terrible 

swift sword ; 

His truth is marching on. 

I have secu him in the watch-fires of a hundred cir- 
cling camps ; 

They have builded him an altar in the evening dews 
and damps ; 

I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and 
flaring lamps. 

His day is marching on. 

I liavc read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of 

steel : 
"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my 

grace shall deal ;" 
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with 

his heel. 

Since God is marching on. 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never 
call retreat ; 

He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judg- 
ment-seat ; 

Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him ! be jubilant, 
my feet ! 

Our God is marching ou. 

lu the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across 

the sea, 
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and 

me ; 
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make 

men free. 

While God is marching on. 



SPEAK, FOR THY SERVANT HEARETH. 

Speak, for thy servant heareth ; 

Alone in my lowly bed, 
Before I laid me dowu to rest. 

My nightly prayer was said; 
And uanght my spirit fearetb, 

In darkness or by day : 
Speak, for thy servant heareth, 

Aud heareth to obey. 



JULIA WJED SOWE.— THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS. 



759 



I've stood before thiue altar, 

A cbild bff'orc tby might ; 
No breath within thy temple stirred 

The dim and cloudy light ; 
And still I knew that thou wast there, 

Teaching my heart to say — 
'■ Speak, for thy -servant heareth, 

And heareth to obey." 

O God, my flesh may tremble 

When thou spcakest to my sonl ; 
But it cannot shun thy presence blessed, 

Nor shrink from thj' control. 
A joy my spirit cheereth 

That cannot pass away : 
Speak, for thy servant heareth, 

And heareth to obey. 

Thou biddost me to utter 

Words that I scarce may speak, 
And mighty things are laid on me, 

A helpless one, and weak r 
Darkly thy truth declareth 

Its purpose and its way : 
Speak, for thy servant heareth. 

And heareth to obey. 

And shouldst Thou be a stranger 

To that which Thou hast made 1 
Oh! ever bo about my path. 

And hover near my bed. 
Lead me in every step I take. 

Teach me each word I say : 
Speak, for thy servant heareth. 

And heareth to obey. 

How" hath thy glory lighted 

6Iy lonely place of rest ; 
How sacred now shall be to me 

The spot which Thou hast blessed ! 
If aught of evil should draw nigh 

To bring me shame and fear. 
My steadfast sonl shall make reply, 

'• Depart, for God is near !" 

I bless thee that tliou speakest 

Thus to an humble child ; 
The God of Jacob calls to me 

In gentle tones and mild ; 
Thiue enemies before thy face 

Are scattered in dismay : 
Speak, Lord, tby servant heareth, 

And heareth to obey. 



I've stood before thee all my days- 
Have ministered to thee ; 

But in the hour of darkness tirst 
Thon speakest unto me. 

And now the night apiieareth 
More beautiful than day : 

Speak, Lord, thy servant heareth, 
And heareth to obey. 



(tljomas lUilliam |3arsous. 

AMERICAN. 
Parsons (1819-18..) was born in Boston, Mass., and 
educated at the Latin School. He visited Italy with his 
father in ISSS, and accomplished himsell' in the Italian 
language. He published in Boston, in 1SC.5, a translation 
of seventeen cantos of the "Inferno" of Daute; and to 
these he has since made additions. In 1854 he published 
a collection of his poems. His translations are masterly, 
and many of his original lyrics show that his poetical 
vein is of a quality rich and rare. 



SAINT Pf:RAY. 

When to any saint I pray. 
It shall be to Saint Peray. 
He alone, of all the brood, 
Ever did me any good : 
Many I have tried that are 
Humbugs in the calendar. 

On the Atlantic, faint and sick. 
Once I prayed Saint Dominick ; 
He was holy, sure, and wise ; — 
Was't not he that did devise 
Anto-da-f6's and rosaries? — 
But for one in iny condition 
This good saint was no physician. 

Next, in pleasant Normandie, 
I made a prayer to Saint Deuis, 
In the great cathedral, where 

All the ancient kings repose ; 
Bnt how I was swindled there. 

At the "Golden Fleece," — he knows! 

In my wanderings, vague aud various. 
Reaching Naples, — as I lay 
Watching Vesuvius from the bay, 

I besought Saint Jaunarius. 

But I was a fool to try him ; 

Naught I said conld liquefy him ; 

And I swear he did me wrong. 

Keeping me shut up so long 



7t;o 



CrCLOPJiDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



In that post-house with obscene 

Jews aud Greeks and things unclean :— 

What need had I of qnarautiue ? 

In Sicily at least a score,^ 
In Spain about as mauy more, — 
And in Eome almost as many 
As the loves of Don Giovanni, — • 
Did I pray to — sans reply ; 
Devil take the tribe! — said I. 

Worn with travel, tired aud lame. 

To Assisi's walls I came : 

Sad and full of homesick fancies, 

I addressed me to Saint Francis ; 

I5ut the beggar never did 

Anything as he was bid, 

Never gave ine aught — but fleas, — • 

Plenty had I at Assise. 

But in Provence, near Vauclnse. 

Hard by tlie Rhone I found a saint 
Gifted with a wondrons juice. 

Potent for the worst complaint. 
"Twas at Avignon tlnit first — 
III the witching time of thirst — 
To my brain the knowledge came 
Of this blessed Catholic's name ; 
Forty miles of dust that day 
Made me welcome Saint Peray. 

Tliongh till then I had uot heard 
Aught about him, ere a third 
Of a litre passed my lips, 
All saints cl.se were in eclipse. 
For liis gentle spirit glided 

With such magic into mine, 
That mcthought snch bliss as I did 

Poet never drew from wine. 

Kest he gave me, and refection, — 

C'luisteued hopes, calm retrospection, — 

Softened images of sorrow, 

liright forebodings for tlie morrow, — 

('harity for what is jiast, — 

Faith iu something good at last. 

Now wliy .should any almanac 
Tlie name of this good ereatnro lack? 
Or wherefore slionld the breviary 
Omit a saint so sage and merry ? 
TIic Pope himself should graut a day 
Especially to Saint Peray. 



But since no day hath been appointed, 

On jiurpose, by the Lord's Anointed, 

Let us not wait — we'll do him right ; 

Send round your bottles, Hal ! and set your night. 



IN ST. JAMES'S PARK. 

I watched the swans in that proud park. 

Which England's Queen looks out upon; 
I sat there till the dewy dark. 

And every other soul was gone ; 
Aud sitting silent, all alone, 

I seemed to hear a spirit say, 
Be calm; the night is: never luoau 

For friendships that have passed away. 

The swans that vanished from thy sight 

Will come to-morrow at their lionr ; 
But when thy joys have taken flight, 

To bring them back uo prayer hath power. 
'Tis the world's law ; and why deplore 

A doom that from thy birth was fate ? 
True, '((■« a bitter word, " No more !" 

But look beyond this mortal state. 

Believ'st thou iu eternal things? 

Thou kuowest, iu thy inmost heart, 
Tliou art not clay ; tliy soul hath wings, 

Aud what thou seest is but jiart. 
Make this thy med'cine for the smart 

Of every day's distress : Be dumb, 
In each new loss thou truly art 

Tasting the power of things to come. 



i^rci^cnf Dan l3untiiif(ton. 



Iluurnistoii was boni in Hadlcy, Mass.,iu 1819. Grad- 
uating at Amlierst College, he studied divinity in tin- 
Ciunbridgc Theological School, and, while quite young, 
was settled as pastor over the South Congregational 
Cliurch in Boston. He was appointed Plummer pro- 
fessor at Harvard College, which post he resigned, too'.; 
orders in the Episcopal Church, and became Rector ot 
Emanuel Chuicli iu Boston. Being appointed Bishop 
of Central New York, he took up his residence in Syra- 
cuse, N. Y. 



A SUPPLICATION. 

O Love Divine! lay on me burdens if Thou wilt. 
To break thy faithless oue-liour watchman's 
shameful sleep ! 



FREDERIC DAX HVXriyGTOK—THOMJS WHXTEHEAD. 



761 



\ 



Turn comfcirts into awful propliets to my guilt! 
Close to tliy gardon-tra\ail let me wake ami weep ! 

For wliile the Resurrection waved its signs august, 
Lilic iiioriiiiig's dew-bright bauuers on a cloud- 
less sky, 
My weak feet clung euamored to the parching dust, 
And the vain sand's poor pebbles lured luj' rov- 
ing eye. 

By loneliuess or hunger turn and re-create mo! 

Ordain whatever masters in thy saving school. 
Let the whole prosperous host of Fasliion's flat- 
terers hate me. 
So Thou wilt henceforth bless me with thy gra- 
cious rule. 

I pray not to be s.aved. Ascended Lord, from sorrow : 
I{edi*in me only from my fond and mean self-love. 

Let each long night of wrestling bring a mourning 

morrow, [al)Ove! 

If thus my heart ascend and dwell with Thee 

Vales of Repentance mount to hills of high Desire: 
.Seven times seven suffering years gaiu the Sab- 
batic Rest ; 

Earth's fickle, cruel lap, alternate frost and fire, 
Tempers beloved disciples for the Master's breast. 

Onr work lies wide; men ache and doubt and die; 

Tliy Ark 

Shakes in our bauds; Reason and F.aith, God's sou 

And daughter, fight their futile battle in the dark. 

Onr sluggish eyelids slumber with our task half 

done. 

Oh, bleeding Priest of silent, s.ad Gethsemand, — 
Tliat second Eden where npspriugs the Healiug 
Viue, 
Press from our careless foreheads drojis of sweat 
for Thee ! 
Fill us with .sacrificial love for souls, like Thine. 

Thou who didst promise cheer along with tribulation. 
Hold np our trust aud keeii it firm hy much eu- 
during; 
Feed fainting hearts with patient hopes of thy sal- 
vation : [.alluring. 
Make glorious service, more than luxury's bed, 

Hallow our wit with prayer; our mastery steep 
in meekness ; 
Pour on our stumbling studies Inspiration's light : 



How out for thy dear Church a Future without 
weakness, 
Quarried from thine etern.al Order, Beauty, Might I 

Met there mankind's great Brotherhood of souls 
and powers, 
Raise Thou full iiraises from its farthest corners 
dim ; 
Pour down, oh steadfast Sun, thj' beams on all its 
towers ! 
Roll through its world-wide space Faith's Euch.a- 
ristic Hyum I 

Way for all that live, win ns by pain and loss! 

Fill all our years with toil, — aud comfort witli 
Thy rod! 
Through thy ascension cloud, beyond the Cross, 

Looms on our sight, in peace, the City of our God ! 



QlljomaG llll)ijtcl)cab. 

Whytchcad was a fellow of St. John's College, Eng- 
land, and wiis second-class medallist in 1837. He died 
early in Australia, whither he had gone as ii missiona- 
ry. He twice obtained the University prize for Engli-sli 
verse ; and was the author of several short poems, print- 
ed for private circulation only. He was born about the 
year 1819. Of the following rcniarkalile poem from his 
pen there have been several differing versions. 



THE SECOND DAY OF CREATION. 

Tins world I deem 

But a beautiful dream 
Of shadows that are not what they seem ; 

When visions rise, 

Giving dim surmise 
Of the things that shall meet our wakiug eyes. 

Arm of the Lord ! 

Creating Word ! 
Whose glory the silent skies record, 

Where stands Thy name 

111 scrolls of flame 
On the firmament's high-sbadowing frame, — 

I gaze o'erhead 

Where Tliy hand bath spread 
For the waters of Heaven that crystal bed. 

And stored the dew 

In its deeps of blue 
Which the fires of the sun come tempered throngli. 



762 



CTCLOPJ^DIA OF BRITISH AND AMEEWAX POETRY. 



Softly tlicy shine 

TliioiigU tbat pure shrine, 
As beneath the veil of Thy flesh divine 

Beams forth tlie light, 

That •were else too bright 
For the feebleness of a sinner's sight. 

I gaze aloof 

On the tissneil roof, 
Where time and space are the warji and woof; 

Which the King of kings 

As a curtain tliugs 
OVr the dreadfnlness of eternal things, — 

A tapestried tent. 

To shade us meant, 
From the bare everlasting iirniaineut ; 

When the blaze of the skies 

Comes soft to onr eyes 
Through a veil of mystical imageries. 

Bnt could I see. 

As in trntli they be, 
The glories of Heaven that encompass me, 

I should lightly hold 

The tissued fold 
(_)f that marvellous curtain of blue aud gold. 

.Soon the whole, 

Like a parched scroll, 
Sliall before my amazed sight nproll ; 

And without a screen. 

At one burst be seen 
The Presence wherciu I have ever been. 

( Hi I wlio .shall bear 

The blinding glare 
Of the majesty that shall meet us there ? 

What eye may gaze 

On the unveiled blaze 
Of the light-girdled throne of the Ancieut of Days? 

Christ us aid ! 

Himself be onr shade. 
That in that dread day we be not dismayed. 



James Uusscll Couicll. 

AMERICAN. 

Boni at Caniliridi^c, Mass., in 1819, the son of a Uni- 
tarian eleryyni.in, Lowell conunenced authorship early. 
His first volume of poems, " A Year's Life," appeared in 
1S41. He iinuhiated at Harvard in the class of 1S38, and 
commenced the study of law, but soon left it for litera- 



ture. In 1844 he produced a second scries of poems ; in 
1845, " Conversations on some of the Old Poets ;" in 
1848, a witty review, in verse, of some of the conspicuous 
American men of letters, entitled " A Fable for Critics ;" 
also a third series of poems, and " Tlie Bigelow Papers," 
containing some dainty bits of Yankee humor, and indi- 
cating the writer's place in the front rank of American 
political reformers. In 1869 appeared "under the Wil- 
lows, and other Poems," and soon afterward "The Ca- 
thedral," perhaps the most mature and vigorous of all 
his poems. In 1864 appeared "Fireside Travels;" iu 
1870, a volume of prose essays, entitled "Among my 
Books;" and in 1871, "My Study Windows," a second 
collection of essays, cliieHy critical. 

In 1S55 he succeeded Longfellow as Professor of Mod- 
ern Languages, etc., in Harvard University. Having 
taken a somewhat active part in the Presidential can- 
vass of 1876, he was appointed Minister to Spain in 1877, 
aud Minister to England in 1880. His first wife, Maria 
White (1831-1853), has shown, in some finished verses, 
that she shared with him the poetic gift. His rank is 
higli' among the most original and vigorous of the poets 
of tlie age. He was editor of the Atianik Monthly in 
1857, and was also editor for a time of the North Ameri- 
can Review. 



AUF WIEDERSEHEN! 

The little gate was reached at last, 
Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; 
She ijnshed it wide, and, as she passed, 
A wistful look she backward cast, 

Aud said, — "Aiif u-lcdersclien .'" 

With hand on latch, a vision white 

Lingered reluctant, aud again 
Half doubting if she did aright. 
Soft as the dews that fell that night. 
She said, — "Aiif wicderschen .'" 

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; 

I linger iu delicious paiu ; 
Ah, iu that chamber, whose rich air 
To breathe iu thought I scarcely dare, 
Thiuks she, — "Aiif wkderschen .'" 

'Tis thirteen years ; ouco more I press 

The turf that silences the lane ; 
I hear the rustle of her dress, 
I smell the lilacs, and — ah, yes, 
I hear "Aiif wicdcrsclwn .'" 

Sweet piece of bashfnl maiden art ! 

The English words had seemed too fain, 
Bnt these — they drew us heart to heart. 
Yet held us tenderly apart ; 

She said, ^'Aiif uicderachen !" 



JAMES UrSSELL LOWELL. 



763 



A DAY IN JUNE. 

From " Sir Lavnfal," a Poem. 

Ami what is so rare as a day in June ? 

Then, if ever, come perfect days; 
The lieaveu tries the -earth if it he in tnne, 

And over it softly her warm car lays ; 
Whether we look, or whether we listen, 
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; 
Every clod feels a stir of might, 

An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
And, grasping blindly above it for light, 

Climbs to a sonl in grass and flowers ; 
The flush of life may well be seeu 

Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; 
The cowslip startles in meadows green, 

The buttercup catches the suu in its chalice, 
Aud there's never a leaf or a blade too mean 

To be some happy creature's ])alace ; 
The little bird sits at his door in the snn, 
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 
And lets his illuminated being o'errun 

With the deluge of summer it receives ; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 

And the heart in her dumb breast flutters aud 
sings; 
He sings to the wide world, aud she to her nest — 
In the nice ear of nature which song is the best ? 

Now is the high tide of the year. 

And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer, 

Into every bare inlet and creek aud bay; 
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it ; 
We are happy now because God so wills it ; 
No matter how barren the past may have been, 
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green ; 
We sit in the warm shade, and feel right well 
How the sap creeps up aud the blossoms swell ; 
We may shut our eyes, but we caunot help knowing 
'J'hat skies arc clear and grass is growing; 
The lireeze comes whispering in our ear. 
That dandelions ai'e blossoming near. 

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, 
That the river is bluer than the sky. 
That the robin is plastering his house hard by; 
And if the breeze kept the good news back. 
For other couriers we should not lack ! 

We could guess it by you heifer's lowing — 
And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer. 
Warmed with the new wine of the year, 

Tells all in his lusty crowing! 



Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how ; 
Everything is happy now, 

Everything is upward striving; 
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true 
As the grass to be green, or the skies to be blue- 

'Tis the natural way of living. 



TO H. Vf. L." 

OX HIS BIRTHDAY, FEBRUARY 27, 1807. 

I need not praise the sweetness of his soug, 
Where limpid verse to limpid verse succeeds 
Smooth as our Charles, when, feariug lest he wrong 
The new-moon's mirrored skiff, he slides along, 
Full without noise, and whispers in his reeds. 

With loving breath of all the winds his name 
Is blown about the world, but to his friends 
A sweeter secret hides behind his fame, 
Aud Love steals shyly through the loud acclaim 
To murmur a God bless you ! and there ends. 

As I muse backward up the checkered years 
Wherein so much was given, so much was lost. 
Blessings in both kinds, such as cheapen tears — 
But hush ! this is not for profaner ears ; 
Let them drink molten pearls, nor dream the cost. 

Some snck up polsou from a sorrow's core. 
As naught but nightshade grew upon earth's ground ; 
Love turned all his to heart's-ease, and the more 
Fate tried his bastions, she but found a door 
Leading to sweeter manhood aud more sound. 

Even as a wind-waved fountain's swaying shade 
Seems of mixed race, a gray wraith shot with snn, 
So through his trial faith translucent rayed 
Till darkness, half disnatured so, betrayed 
A heart of sunshine that would fain o'errun. 

Surely, if skill iu song the shears may stay. 
And of its purpose cheat the charmed abyss, 
If onr poor life be lengthened by a lay. 
He shall not go, although his presence may ; 
And the next age iu praise shall double this. 

Long days be his, and each as lusty-sweet 
As gracious natures find his song to be ; 
May Age steal on with softly cadeuced feet 
Falling iu music, as for him were meet 
Whose choicest verse is not so rare as he ! 
' Heui-y Wndsworth Lougfellow. 



-64 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH JSD AMERICAN I'OlirRY. 



LONGING. 

Of all the myriail moods of niiiul 

That through the soul come thronging, 
■Which ouc was e'er so dear, so kiud, 

So beautiful as longing ? 
The thing we long for, that we are. 

For one transcendent moment, 
Before the j)resent, iioor and bare, 

Can make its sneering comment. 

Still, throngh our i)altry stir and strife, 

Glows down the wished ideal, 
And longing moulds in clay what life 

Carves iu the marble real ; 
To let the new life iu, we know 

Desire must ope the portal ; 
Perhaps the longing to be so 

Helps make the soul immortal. 

Longing is God's fresh, heavenward will 

With our poor earthward striving; 
We (juench it, that we may be still 

Content witli merely living; 
But would we learn that heart's full scope 

Which we arc hourly wronging. 
Our lives must climb from hope to hope. 

And realize our longing. 

A1], let us hope that to our praise 

Good God not only reckons 
Tlie moments wheu we tread his ways. 

But wheu the spirit beckons ! 
Tliat some slight good is also wronght. 

Beyond self-satisfaction. 
When we are simply good in thonght, 

Howe'er we fail in action. 



"IN WHOM WE LIVE AND MOVE." 

From " TuE Cathedral." 

O Power, more near my life than life itself 

(Or what seems life to lis in sense immured). 

Even as the roots, shut in the darksome earth, 

.Share in the tree-top's joyance, and conceive 

Of sunshine and wide air and wingiSd things 

By sympathy of nature, so do I 

Have evidence of Thee so far above. 

Yet in and of me! Rather Thou the root 

luvisildy sustaining, hid iu light, 

Not darkness, or iu darkness made by ns. 

If sometimes I must hear good men debate 



Of other witness of Thyself tlian Thou, 
As if there needed any help of ours 
To nnrsc Thy flickering life, that else must cease. 
Blown out, as 'twere a candle, by men's breath. 
My soul shall not be taken iu their snare, 
To change her inward surety for their doubt 
Muffled from sight in formal robes of proof: 
While she can only feel herself throngh Thee, 
I fear not thy withdrawal ; more I fear, 
Seeing, to know Thee uot, hoodwinked with thought 
Of signs and wonders, while, unnoticed, Thou, 
Walking thy garden still, commun'st with meu, 
Missed in the commonplace of miracle. 



SHE CAME AND WENT. 

As a twig trembles, which a bird 

Lights ou to sing, then leaves unbent, 

So is my memory thrilled and stirred ; 
I only kuow she came and went. 

As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven. 
The blue dome's measureless content, 

So my soul held that moment's heaven : 
I only know she came and went. 

As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps 
The orchai'd's full of bloom and scent, 

So clove her May my wintry sleeps ; 
I only know she came and went. 

An angel stood and met my gaze, 

Throngh the low door-way of my tent ; 

The tent is struck, the vision stays ; 
I only know she came and went. 

Oil, wheu the room grows slowly dim, 
And life's last oil is nearly speut, 

One gush of light these eyes will brim, 
Onlv to think she came aud went. 



Cljavlcs l\iuc|Glcji. 

Novelist, poet, and theologian, Kingsley (1819-187.5) 
w.is one of nature's foremost noblemen in act and 
thought. A native of Devonshire, lie studied at King's 
College, London, and Magdalene College, CamlMitlge, 
where lie graduated iu 1843. He entered the Cliurcli, 
and became Rector of Evcrslcy. From 1859 to 18ti'.t be 
was Regius Professor of Modern History at Cambridge. 
In 1873 lie was transrencU to a C:inonry in Westminster. 
Two years before his deatli he travelled and lectured in 
the United States. A volume of liis poems was publish- 



CHARLES KINGSLET. 



765 



od in 1858. An interesting Memoir of liiin by liis wife 
appeared in 1878. His mortal remains were interred in 
Westminster Abbey. 



THE THREE FISHERS. 

Tliree fisliers went sililiug away to the West, 
Away to tlie West as the sun went down ; 
Each thought on the womau who loved him the best, 
And the children stood watching them out of 

the town ; 
For men must work, and women must weep, 
Aud there's little to earn, and many to keep. 
Though the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three wives sat up in the light-house tower, 

.\nd they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down ; 
Tliey looked at the squall, and they looked at the 
shower, [browu. 

Aud the uight-rack came rolling up ragged and 
Hut men must work, and women must weep. 
Though storms be sudden, aud waters deep. 
And the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 

In the morning gleam as the tide went down. 
And the women are weeping and wringing their 
bauds 
For those who will never come home to the town ; 
For men must work, and women must weep. 
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep ; 

And good-bve to the bar and its moaning. 



THE WORLD'S AGE. 

Who will say the world is dying ? 

Who will say our prime is past? 
Sparks from Heaven, within us lying, 

Flash, and will flash till the last. 
Fools ! who fancy Christ mistaken ; 

Mau a tool to buy and sell : 
Earth a failure, God-forsaken, 

Anteroom of Hell. 

Still the race of Hero-spirits 

Pass the lamp from baud to hand : 
Age fnun age the words inherits — 

"Wife, and Child, and Father-land." 
Still the youtliful linnter gathers 

Fiery joy from wold aud wood : 
He will dare as dared his fathers, 

Give him cause as good. 



Wliile a slave bewails his fetters; 

While an orphan pleads iu vain: 
While an infant lisps his letters, 

Heir of all the age's gain ; 
While a lip grows ripe for kissing; 

While a moan from man is wrung; 
Know, by every want ami blessing, 

That the world is young. 



THE SANDS OF DEE. 

"Ob, Mary, go and call the cattle home, 
And call the cattle home. 
And call the cattle home, 
Across the sands of Dee." 
The western wind was wild and dank with foam, 
Aud all alone weut she. 

The western tide crept up along the sand, 
And o'er and o'er the sand, 
And round and round the sand, 
As far as eye could see. 
The rolling mist came down and hid the land : 
Aud never home came she. 

" OU ! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair, 
A tress of golden hair, 
A drowned maiden's hair, 
Above the nets at sea ?" 
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair 
Among the stakes on Dee. 

They rowed her iu across the rolling foam, 
The cruel crawling foam. 
The cruel hungry foam. 
To her grave beside the .sea. 
But still the boatmeu hear her call the cattle 
home. 
Across the sands of Dee. 



A FAREWELL. 

Jly fairest child, I have no song to give you ; 

No lark could pipe to skies so dull aud gray: 
Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you 

For every day : — 

Be good, my dear, aud let who will be clever; 

Do noble things, not dream them, all day long; 
And so make life, death, aud the vast forever 

One grand, sweet song. 



k 



7(i6 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



3osial) (!?ilbcrt f)oUanti. 

AMERICAN. 
Holland was bora in Bclehertown, Mass., 1819. He 
studied and piactised medicine for a time, and ivas for a 
year superintendent of schools in Vicksbur^, Miss. From 
1849 to IStiU he was associate -editor of the Springfield 
(Mass.) Republican. He travelled in Europe in 1870, and 
on his return became editor of Scribner's Monthly. He is 
the author of two popular poems — " Bitter Sweet " and 
"Katrina." As a prose essayist and a novelist he has 
also been successful in winning the public attention. His 
" Marble Prophecy, and other Poems," appeared in 1873. 



GRADATIM. 

Hctiven i.s not readied at a single bound, 
But ^ve build the ladder by which we rise 
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, 

And we mount to its summit round by round. 

I count this thing to bo grandly true : 

That a noble deed is a step toward God — ■ 
Lifting the soul from the commou clod 

To a purer air and a broader view. 

We rise by the things tbat are under our feet; 

By what we have mastered of good aud gain ; 

By the pride deposed and the passiou slain, 
And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet. 

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust, 

Wheu the morning calls us to life and light, 
But our hearts grow weary, aud, ere the uight, 

Onr lives are trailing the sordid dust. 

We hope, wo resolve, we aspire, wo pray. 

And we think that wo mount the air on wings 
Beyond the recall of sensual things, 

While our feet still cling to the heavy clay. 

Wings for the angel, but feet for men! 

We may borrow the wings to find the way — 
We may hope, aud resolve, aud aspire, and jiray : 

But our feet must rise, or we fall again. 

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown 

From the weary earth to the sapphire walls ; 

But the dreams depart, and the vision falls, 
Aud the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone. 

Heaveu is not reached at a single bound ; 
Bnt wo build the ladder by which we rise 
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, 

Aud we mount to its summit, round by round. 



WANTED. 

God, give us men ! A time like this demands 
Strong minds, great hearts, true faith, and ready 

hands. 
Men whom the Inst of office does not kill; 
Men w hom the spoils of office cannot buy ; 
Men who possess opiuions and .a will ; 
Men who have honor ; men who will uot lie ; 
Men who can stand before a demagogue. 
And damn his treacherous flatteries without wink- 
ing! 
Tall men, snu-crowned, who live above the fog 
lu public duty, aud in private thinking: 
For while the rabble, with their thumb- worn creeds, 
Their large professions and their little deeds, — 
Mingle in selfish strife, lo ! Freedom weeps, 
Wrong rules the laud, aud waiting Justice sleeps ! 



Saimu'l Coiuifclloir. 



Longfellow, brother of the eminent poet, Henry W., 
was born in Portland, Me., in 1819. He graduated at 
Harvard College in 1839, and from the Divinity School 
in 1846. He has preached in various pulpits, has made 
several voyages to Europe, and lias his home in Cam- 
bridge. In his hymns and other poetical productions, 
he has given ample proof of superior talent. 



APRIL. 



Again has. come the Spring-time, 

AVith the crocus's goldeu bloom. 
With the smell of the fresh-turned earth-niuuld, 

And the violet's perfume. 

gardener! tell nie tho secret 

Of thy flowers so rare aud sweet ! — 

— "I liave only enriched my garden 
With the black mire from tho street." 



NOVEMBER. 

The dead leaves their rich mosaics, 

Of olive and gold and brown, 
Had laid on the rain-wet pavements, 

Through all the embowered town. 

They were washed by the autumn tempest, 
They were trod by hurrying feet, 



SAMUEL LONGFELLOW.— RICHARD DALIOX WILLIAMS. 



And the maids came out with their besoms 
And swept them into the street, 

To be crushed aud lost forever 

'Neath the wheels, iu the black mire lost,- 
The Summer's precious darlings, 

She nurtured^ut such cost ! 

O words that have fallen from me! 

O golden thoughts and true ! 
Must I see iu the leaves a symbol 

Of the fate which awaiteth you ? 



Uicl)avb Palton lUilliams. 

Williams, a native of Tipperary County, Ireland, was 
born about tlie year 1819, aud educated in the Catholic 
College of Carlow. His poetical vein is peculiar, com- 
bining tenderness with vehemence. For a time he was 
a medical student at Dublin ; but in 1850 he emigrated to 
America, and became Professor of Belles-lettres in the 
Catholic College of Mobile, Ala. 



FROM THE 



LAJIEXT FOR CLARENCE 
SIANGAN." 



Yes, happy friend, the cross was thine ; 

'Tis o'er a sea of tears 
Predestined souls must ever sail, 

To reach their native sjiheres: 
May Christ, the crowned of Calvary, 

Who died upon a tree. 
Bequeath his tearful chalice 

Aud the bitter cross to me ! 

The darkened laud is desolate, — 

A wilderness of graves ; 
Our purest hearts are prison-bound, 

Our exiles on the waves : 
Gaunt Famine stalks the blasted plains — 

The pestilential air 
OVrhangs the gasp of breaking hearts. 

Or the stillness of despair. 

No chains are on thy folded hands. 

No tears bedim thiuo eyes, 
But round thee bloom celestial flowers 

In ever tranquil skies ; 
While o'er our dreams thy mystic songs. 

Faint, sad, aud solemn flow, 
Like light that left the distant stars 

Ten thousand years ago. 



Thou wert a voice of God on earth — 

Of those prophetic souls, 
Who hear the fearful thunder 

Iu the Future's womb that rolls : 
And the warnings of the angels. 

As the midnight hurried past. 
Rushed in upon thy spirit, 

Like a ghost-o'erladen blast. 

If any shade of earthliness 

Bedimmed thy spirit's wings, 
Well cleansed thou art iu Sorrow's 

Ever salutary springs : 
And even bitter sufl'ering, 

Aud still more bitter sin. 
Shall only make a soul like thine 

More beautiful within, 

Tears deck the soul with virtues, 

As soft rains the flowery sod, 
And the inward eyes are purified 

For clearer dreams of God. 
'Tis Sorrow's hand the temple-gates 

Of holiness unbars — 
By day we only see the earth, 

'Tis night reveals the stars. 

Alas! alas! — the Minstrel's fate! — • 

His life is short and drear, 
And if be win a wreath at last, 

'Tis but to shade a bier; 
His harp is fed with wasted life, — 

To tears its numbers flow — 
And strung with chords of broken hearts 

Is Dream-land's splendid woe ! 

But now — a cloud transfigured. 

All luminous, auroral — 
Thou joinest the Trisagion 

Of choired immortals choral ; 
W^hile all the little discords here 

But render more sublime 
The joy-bells of the universe 

From starry chime to chime! 

O Father of the harmonies 

Eternally that roll 
Life, light, and love to trillioned suns. 

Receive the Poet's soul! 
Aud bear him in thy bosom 

From this vale of tears and storms. 
To swell the sphere-hynius thundered 

From the rushing, starry swarms ! 



768 



CYCLOPEDIA OF liBITlSlI AXD AMERICAX POETRT. 



iJolju Campbell Gljaivp. 

Born in Linlitligowsliire, Scotland, in 1819, Sluiii'p was 
educated at the Edinburgli Academy, Glasgow Universi- 
ty, and Baliol College, Oxford. In 1868 he was appoint- 
ed Principal of tlie University of St. Andrews. He has 
published " Kilmalioe, and other Poems" (1864); "Stud- 
ies in Poetry and Philosophy " (1868) ; "Lectures on Cult- 
ure and Religion" (1870); and "The Poetic Interpreta- 
tion of Nature" (1877). 



SONNET: RELIEF. 

Who seeketli finds: what shall he his relief 

Who liath no power to seek, no heart to pray. 

No sense of Goil, hut hears as best he may, 

A lonely, inconunnuicable grief? 

What shall he do ? One only thing he knows, 

That his life flits a frail nueasy spark 

In the great vast of universal dark, 

And that the grave may not be all repose. 

He still, sad soul! lift thou no passionate cry. 

Hut spread the desert of thy being bare 

To the full searching of the All-seeing eye : 

Wait — and through dark misgiving, blank despair, 

God will come down In pity, aud fill the dry 

Dead place with light aud life and vernal air. 



iilljoiiias Dunn Ciiglisl). 



Born in Philadelphia in 1819, English became a mem- 
ber of the medical profession. He has been a frequent 
contributor to periodical literature, and published in 
IS.5.5 a volume of poems, and in 1880 one of spirited 
American ballads, issued by the Messrs. Harper. 



THE OLD JIILL. 

Here from the brow of the hill I look. 

Through a hittice of houghs and leaves. 
On the old gray mill with its gamhrel roof, 

And the nu)ss on its rotting eaves. 
1 hear the clatter that jars its walls. 

And the rnshing water's sound. 
And I see the black floats rise aud fall 

As the wheel goes slowly round. 

1 rode there often when I was young. 
With my grist on the horse before, 

Aud talked with Nelly, the miller's girl, 
As I waited my turn at tlie door. 

And while she tossed her ringlets brown, 
Aud flirted and chatted so free, 



The wheel might stop, or the wheel might go, 
It was all the same to me. 

'Tis twenty years since last I stood 

On the spot where I stand to-day. 
And Nelly is wed, and the miller is dead. 

And the mill aud I are gray. 
Hut both, till we fall into ruin and wreck. 

To our fortune of toil are bound ; 
And the man goes aud the stream flows. 

And the wheel moves slowly round. 



Cllicc anb yija'bc (Tarn. 

AMERICANS. 

The sisters, Alice Gary (1820-1871) and Phoebe Gary 
(lSlM-1871), were born on a farm, eight miles north of 
Cinciunati, O. Alice began writing for newspapers and 
magazines before she was sixteen. In 18.50 a volume of 
poems hy her aud Phoebe appeared, edited by GriswoUl. 
In 1851 the sisters moved to the city of New York, and 
managed, with the strictest economy, to support them- 
selves by their literary efforts. They wrote novels aud 
poems, indicating rare poetic sensibility. Their creed 
was Universalism ; and deep religious feeling character- 
izes tlie writings of both. There is a jubilant tone in 
Alice's last hymn. 



ALICE'S LAST HYMN. 

Earth, with its dark and dreadful ills, 

Recedes aud fades away : 
Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills ; 

Ye gates of death, give way ! 

My soul is full of whispered song ; 

My blindness is my sight ; 
The shadows that I feared so long 

Are all alive with light. 

The while my jiulses faintly beat, 

My faith doth so abound, 
I feel grow firm beneath my feet 

The green, immortal grouiul. 

That faith to me a courage gives 

Low as tlie grave to go ; 
I know that my Redeemer lives — 

That I shall live, I know. 

The iialaee walls I almost see 

Where dwells my Lord aud King. 

O grave ! where is thy victory 1 
O death! wliere is thy sting? 



ALICE AND PH(EBE CABT. 



769 



I'HOU THAT DRAWEST ASIDE THE CURTAIN. 

From "The Lover's Diary." 
Alice Cart. 

Tliou tliat diawest aside the curtaiu, 
Lettiug 111 tbf/njoou's broad beams, 

Give me back the sweet, tb' uncertain — 
Give, oh give me bacli my dreams. 

Take tbe larger ligbt aud grander. 

Piercing all things through and through ; 

Give me back the misty splendor, 
Give me back tbe darling dew. 

Take tbe b.arvest's ripe profusions. 

Golden as tbe evening skies ; 
Give me back my soft delusions, 

Give me back my wondering ej'cs. 

Take the passionless caresses 

All to waveless calm allied ; 
Give me back my heart's sweet guesses, 

Aud my hopes nusatisfiod. 

Thou that mak'st tbe re.al too real, 
Ob, I pray tbee, get tbee benco ! 

Give me back my old ideal. 
Give mo back my ignorance. 



THOU AND I. 
Ph(Ebe Cart. 

Strange, strange for thee aud me, 

Sadly afar ; 
Thou safe beyond, above, 

I 'neatb the star ; 
Tbou where flowers deathless spring, 

I where they fade ; 
Thou in God's paradise, 

I 'raid time's shade. 

Tbou where each g.ale breathes balm, 

I tempest-tossed ; 
Tboii where true joy is found, 

I where 'tis lost : 
Tbou counting ages thine, 

I not the morrow ; 
Tbou learning more of bliss, 

I more of sorrow. 

Thou in eternal jieace, 

I 'mid earth's strife ; 
49 



Tbou where care hath no name, 

I where 'tis life: 
Tbou without need of hope, 

I where 'tis vain ; 
Tliou with wings dropping light, 

I with time's chain. 

Strange, strange for tbee and me, 

Loved, loving ever; 
Tbou by Life's deathless fount, 

I near Death's river; 
Tbou winning Wisdom's love, 

I strength to trust; 
Tbou 'mid the seraphim, 

I in tbe dust. 



NEARER HOME. 
Fhiebe Cart. 

One sweetly solemn thought 

Comes to me o'er and o'er ; 
I'm nearer my home to-day 

Than I ever have been before! 

Nearer my Father's bouse, 

Where tbe many mansions be ; 

Nearer the great white throne, 
Nearer the crystal sea ; 

Nearer that bound of life, 

Where we lay our burdens down ; 
Nearer leaving tbe cross, 

Nearer gaining tbe crown ! 

But lying dimly between. 

Winding down through the night, 
Lies the dark and uncertain stream 

That leads us at length to the light. 

Closer and closer my steps 

Come to the dread abysm ; 
Closer Death to my lips 

Presses the awful cbrisra. 

Father, perfect my trust ! 

Strengthen my feeble faith ! 
Let me feel as I shall when I stand 

On the shores of tbe river of death :- 

Feel as I would were my feet 

Even now slipping over the brink, — 

For it may be I'm nearer home. 
Nearer now than I think! 



CYCLOPJSDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



^nna fllon)att-llitcl)ie. 

AMERICAN. 

Anna Cora Ogden (1830-1870) was born in Bordeaux, 
France, while licr father, Samuel G. Ogden, a New Yorli 
merchant, was residing there. In 1826 the family, a large 
one, returned to New York — two of the ehiklreu having 
been swept overboard and lost on the voyage. Anna 
married James Mowatt in 1837. Owing to his financial 
misfortunes, she weut on the stage, and had considera- 
ble success as an actress. She wrote plays, poems, and 
novels, showing great facility in composition. Mr. Mow- 
att having been dead some years, she married, in 1854, 
Mr. Ritchie, editor of the Richmond (Va.) Enquirer. 
They passed some time in Europe ; hut he returned homo, 
and left her there. She died at Twickenham, on the 
Thames — having endeared herself to many distinguished 
persons by her intellectual gifts, and her activity in all 
good and charitable works. Mar.v Howitt wrote of her: 
"How excellent in character, how energetic, unselfish, 
devoted, is this interesting woman !" She wrote "The 
Autobiograpliy of an Actress," which had a large sale ; 
also "Pelayo,a Poem," published by the Messrs. Harper. 



TO A BELOVED ONE. 

A wish to my lijis never sprung, 
A hope iu my eyes uever shone, 

But ere it was breathed by mj- tongue, 
To grant it thy footstejis have flowu. 

Thy joys they have ever been mine, 
Thy sorrows too often thine own ; 

The sun that ou me still would shine, 
O'er thee threw its shadows alone. 

Life's garland then let us divide, 
Its roses I'd fain see thee wear 

For once — but I know thou wilt chide — 
Ah ! leave me its thorns, love, to bear. 



illvs. vliinc [£ijnclj) 13otta. 

AMERICAN. 

Miss Anne Charlotte Lynch was born about 1830, in 
Hennington, Vt. — the daughter of a gallant Irishman, 
who, having partaken in the rebellion of 1798, was ban- 
ished from his native country. She was educated in 
Albany. A handsomely illustrated volume of her poems 
was published in 1848. She is the author of a valuable 
" Hand-book of Universal Literature," and has contrib- 
uted largely to periodical literature. She was married 
inl8.5.5to VinceuEO Botta(born 1818), Professor of Italian 
Literature in the University of the City of New York, 
and a relative of Charles Botta, who wrote a history of 
the American Revolution. 



LOVE WINS LOVE. 

Go forth iu life, O friend, not seeking love, — 
A mendicant that with imploring eye 
And outstretched Laud asks of the passer-by 
The alms his strong necessities may move : — 
For such poor love, to pity near allied. 
Thy generous spirit may not stoop and wait. — 
A supi)liant whose prayer may lie denied 
Like a spurned beggars at a palace gate : — 
But thy heart's affluence lavish, uncontrolled ; 
The largess of thy love give full and free, 
As monarchs iu their progress scatter gold ; 
And be thy heart like the exhaustlcss sea, 
That must its wealth of cloud and dew bestow. 
Though tributary streams or ebb or How. 



IX THE ADIEONDACKS. 

O clouds and winds and streams, that go your 

way, 
Obedient to fulfil a high behest. 
Unquestioning, without or haste or rest, — 
Your onlj' law to be and to obey, — 
O all ye beings of the earth and air 
That peojde these primeval solitudes. 
Where uever doubt nor discontent intrudes, — 
In your divine accordance let me share ; 
Lift from my soul this burden of unrest, 
Take mo to your companionship ; teach me 
The lesson of your rhythmic lives; to be 
At one with the great All, and iu my breast 
Silence this voice, that asks forever " why, 
And ■whence, and where ?" — unanswerable crv '. 



THE LESSON OF THE BEE. 

The honey-bee that ■wanders all day long 
The field, the woodland, and the garden o'l'r. 
To gather in his fragrant winter store, 
Huinniing in calm content his ciuiet song. 
Seeks not alone the rose's glowing breast, 
The lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips. 
But from all rank and noxious weeds ho sips 
The single drop of sweetness closely pressed 
Within the poi-son chalice. Thus, if wo 
Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet 
In all the varied human flowers we meet 
In the wide garden of humanity. 
And, like the bee, if home the spoil we bear. 
Hived iu our hearts it turns to nectar there. 



MARIAX EFANS CROSS {GEORGE ELIOT).— MATDEIN M. BALLOU. 



n 



illariitn (L'uaiis Cross i(!?corc]ic (fliotj. 

Mrs. Cross, wliose maiden name was Marian C. Evans, 
was boni in Warwiclcsliirc, England, in 1820. Slie united 
herself informally to Georije Henry Lewes, an eminent 
English philosophical writer (1817-1878), who was sepa- 
rated from his wife, buC, _pn account of legal obstacles, 
nut regularly divorced. About two years after tlie death 
of Lewes she married (1880) Mr. Cross, herfinancial agent, 
said to be about twenty years her junior. As Miss Evans 
slie translated Feuerbach and Strauss, both atheistic 
■writers. Under the pseudonyrae of George Eliot, she 
published "Scenes of Clerical Life" (1S58); "Adam 
iicdc" (1859); "The Mill on the Floss" (1860); "Silas 
Marner " (1861) ; " Romola " (1863) ; " Feli.^; Holt " (1866) ; 
".Middlcniarch" (1871); "Daniel Dcronda" (1876). Of 
poetry she has published " The Spanish Gypsy" (1868), 
a drama in blank verse, interspersed with short lyrical 
jiieces; " The Legend of Jubal, and other Poems." Her 
rcputatiou as a novelist far exceeds what she has won by 
her poetry. That lacks spontaneity, and she does not 
reach the art to coueeal art. The following often-quoted 
passage, in which, with an artificial show of enthusiasm, 
she attempts to glorify the aspiration to an immortality 
of mortal inliuence, as if it were a desideratum superior 
to that of immortal life (belief in which she rejects), is 
a proof of the way in which she has made the intellect 
dominate the natural aftections and emotions of the heart 
of humanity : 

"Oh, may I join the choir invisible 
Of those immoital ilead who live again 
In minds made better by their presence; live 
In pulses stirred to generosity, u, 

In deeds of daring rectitnde, in scorn "-C"^^ 

Of miserable aims Ilmt end witli self, 
In tlionghts sublime that pierce tlie night like stars. 
And with their mdd persistence urge men's minds 
To vaster issues. — So to live is heaven ; 
To make undying music in the world, 
Breathing a hcauteons order that controls 
With growing sway the growing life of man. 



That better self shall live till hnman Time 
Shall fold its eyelids, and the hnman sky 
Be gathered like a scroll within the tond>. 
Unread forever. — This is life to conic, — 
Which martyred meu have made more glorious 
For us, who strive to follow. May I reach 
That purest heaven, — be to other sonls. 
The cap of strength in some great agony. 
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, 
Beget the smiles that have no crnelty. 
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, 
And in diffasion evermore intense ! 
So shall I join the choir invisible, 
\\'ho5e music is the gladness of the world." 

The real sentiment of these lines is, that thegood influ- 
ences, which a man may posthumously shed on the hu- 
man generations, form the true, the desirable, the unself- 
ish, and the only real immortality. Were not the mean- 
ing subtly disguised in the gush of a forced enthusiasm, 
tlie passage would hardly have the effect of poetry upon 
the mind that craves reunion with loved ones gone be- 



fore, and has great philosophical, religious, and psycho- 
physiological reasons for its expectations. As a critic 
in Harper's Marjazine aptly remarks: "The philosophy 
is a pitiful and painful one. Were it truth, it still 
would not be poetry; there is in it nothing inspiring: 
no rhythmical attire, no poetic ornament, can redeem it 
from its essential coldness and lifelessness. In depicting 
the known and the present, George Eliot is almost with- 
out a peer. In attempting to soar into the unseen and 
unknown, she fails. To her there is, in truth, uo unseen, 
no unknown." 



DAY IS DYING. 

Fbom " The Spanish Gypsy." 

Day is flying ! Float, O song, 
Down the westward river, 

Kefjuiems chanting to the Day — 
Day, the mighty Giver. 

Pierced by shafts of Time, he bleeds, 

Melted rubies sending 
ThrongU the river and the sky, 



All the long-drawn earthy banks 
Up to clond-hind lifting ; 

Slow between fbera drifts the swan, 
'Twixt two heavens drifting. 

Wings half open, like a flower 
, ^ (^Jnly deeper flushing, 
/ 7 Neck and breast as virgin's pure — 
~^^ Virgin proudly blushing. 



■'^OAi'- 



Day is dying! Float, O swan, 
Down the ruby river; 

Follow, song, in requiem 
To the mighty Giver. 



iHtiturin i\\. Ballou. 

AMERICAN. 

Ballou, the son of Hosea Ballou,a distinguished Uni- 
versalist clergyman, was born in Boston in 1820. He was 
fitted for Harvard College, and passed his examination, 
but did not enter. His tastes led him to an editorial 
career. He became connected with the OUm Branch, a 
flourishing weekly paper, in 18.38. From that time to 
the present, excepting his visits to Europe, he has not 
lost his connection with the Press a single week. He is 
the author of "The Treasury of Thought," "Biography 
of Hosea Ballou," " The History of Cuba," etc. He has 
also exhibited, in his short lyrical pieces, a marked taste 
for poetry. 



772 



CYCLOrj^DIA OF HJtlTISU AND AMEHICJX POETRY. 



FLOWERS. 

Is there uot a soul beyond utterauce, half nymph, half child, 
ill these delicate petals which glow aud breathe about the cen- 
tres of deep color ?—Geoegk Eliot. 

Sweet letters of the angel tongue, 

I've loveil ye long and well, 
And never bavo failed in yonr fragrance sweet 

To find some secret spell, — 
A charm that has bound nie with witching power, 

For mine is the old belief, 
That, midst your sweets and midst your bloom. 

There's a sonl in every leaf! 

Illumined words from God's own hand, 

How fast luy pulses beat, 
As each quick sense in rapture comes, 

Yonr varied sweets to greet ! 
Alone and in silence, I love you best. 

For mine is the old belief, 
Tliat, midst your sweets and midst yonr bloom. 

There's a soul in every leaf! 

Ve are prophets sent to this heedless world. 

The sceptic's heart to teach — 
Aud 'tis well to read yonr lore aright, 

Aud mark the creed ye preach. 
I never could jjass ye careless by, 

For mine is the old belief, 
Tliat, midst your sweets and midst your bloom, 

There's a soul in every leaf! 



lUilliam Coi- Ucunctt. 

Bennett is the son of a watch-miiUer, and w.is born at 
Greenwich, England, in 1820. About 184.5 he began to 
contribute poems to the English periodicals ; but it was 
not till llic publication of liis volume of 1861 that he won 
:i place in literature. His tlieincs are of domestic joys 
aud sorrows, and the beauties of nature; in his treat- 
ment of which he shows true feeling and a cultivated 
taste. He belongs to the school of Hunt and Keats, and 
occasionally reminds us of Herrick aud Wither. Among 
his works are: "War Songs" (1855); "Baby May, and oth- 
er Poems on Infants " (1861) ; "Songs for Sailors " (1873). 



A MAY-DAY SONG. 

Out from cities baste away: 
This is earth's great holiday ; 
Who can labor while the hours 
In with songs are bringing May, 
Through the gaze of buds and flowers, 
Through the golden pomp of day ! 



Haste, oh, baste ; 

'Tis sin to waste 
lu dull work so sweet a time ; 

Joy aud song 

Of right belong 
To the hours of Spring's sweet prime; 
Golden beams aud shadows brown, 
Where the roofs of knotted trees 
Fling a pleasant coolness down. 
Footing it, the young May sees; 
lu their dance, the breezes now 
Dimple e\ery pond you pass ; 
Shades of leaves from every bough 
Leaping, beat the dappled grass ; 
Birds are noisy — bees are humming 
All because the May's a-coming; 
All the tongues of nature shout, 
Out from towns — from cities out ; 
Out from every bn,sy street; 
Out from every darkened court; 
Through the field-paths, let yonr feet 
Liugeriiig go, in pleasant thought; 
Out through dells, the violet's haunting; 
Out where golden rivers rnn ; 
Where the wallllower's gayly flaunting 
In the livery of the sun ; 
Trip it through the shadows hiding 
Down in hollow winding lanes ; 
Where through leaves the sunshine gliding, 
Deep with gold the woodland stains ; 
Where in all her pomp of weeds. 
Nature, asking but the thanks 
Of our pleasure, richly pranks 
Painted heaths aud wayside banks. 
Smooth-mown lawns and green deep meads; 
Leave the noisy bustling town 
For still glade aud breezy down ; 

Haste away 

To meet the May ; 
This is earth's great holiday. 



A THOUGHT. 

"God wills but ill," the doubter said — 
"Lo, time doth evil only bear; 

Give me a sign His love to prove — 
His vaunted goodness to declare." 

The poet paused by where a flower, 
A simple daisy, starred the sod, 

Aud answered, "Proof of love and power- 
Behold — behold a smile of God." 



HENRY HOWARD BROW NELL. 



§cnru tjoiuavD CvoiducH. 

AMERICAN. 

In 18S1 a volume of verse appeared in New Yoi'k, in 
■whicli a higher and bolder sti'ain than we had been ac- 
customed to seemed to he struck. It was modestly en- 
titled "Lyrics of a Dayf or, Newspaper Poetry by a Vol- 
unteer in the United States Service," and was from the 
pen of Henry Howard Brownell (1820-1872). It was not 
his first venture in verse. He had published a volume 
some fifteen years before, giving ample promise of some- 
thing better. He was a native of East Hartford, Conn., 
and a nephew of the well-known Bishop Brownell of 
tliat State. Henry graduated at Trinity College, tanght 
school for awhile, and when the Civil War broke out 
entered the naval service as a volunteer, and took part 
in several of the great sca-flglits in the Southern waters. 
These he has described in two spirited poems of some 
lengtli, entitled severally "The River Fight" and "The 
Bay Fight ;" the latter first published in Harper's Mir/a- 
ztne for December, 1864. They were the outcome of his 
own experiences — of what he had been personally en- 
gaged in — and bear the marks of that earnest sincerity 
and graphic power, which could only come from the un- 
ion of imaginative force with actual recollection. " Some 
of the descriptious," he says, "might seem exaggerated, 
but better authorities than I am say they are not." 
Thomas Bailey Aldrich writes of him: 

*' Little did he crave 
lien's praises. Modestly, with kindly mirth. 

Not sad nor bitter, he accepted fate,— 

Di-niik deep of life, knew books aiut hearts of men. 
Cities and camps, and War's immortal woe ; 

Yet bore through all (such virtue in him sate— 
His spirit is not whiter now than then !) 
A siiniile, loyal nature, pure as snow." 

In the Preface to his Lyrics, Brownell says of them : 
" Penned, for the most part, on occasion, from day to day 
(and often literally eurrcnte calamo), they may well have 
admitted instances of diffuseness, contradiction, or repe- 
tition." 



AT SEA: A FRAGMENT. 

Oil a uigbt like this, how many 

Mnst sit by the hearth, like me, — 
Hearing the stormy weather. 

And thinking of those at sea ! 
Of the hearts chilled throngh with watching. 

The ej'BS that -wearily blink, 
Through the blinding gale and suow-drift, 

For the Lights of Navesiuk ! 

Like a dream, 'tis all around me — 

The gale with its steady boom, 
And the crest of every roller 

Torn into mist and spnme ; — 
The shroud of snow and of spoon-drift 

Driving like mad a-lee — 



And the huge black hulk that wallows 
Deep iu the trough of the sea! 

The creak of cabin and bulk-head — 

The wail of rigging aud mast, — 
The roar of the shrouds, as she rises 

From a deep lee-roll 'to the blast ; — 
The sulleu throb of the engine. 

Whose irou heart never tires, — 
The swarthy faces that redden 

By the glare of his caverned fires! 

The binnacle slowly swaying 

Aud nursing the faithful steel — 
And the grizzled old quartermaster, 

His horny hands on the wheel : — 
I can see it — the little cabin — 

Plaiulj' as if I were there — 
The chart on the old green table. 

The book, aud the empty chair ! 



FROM "THE BAY FIGHT." 

MOBILE B.\y, AUGUST 5, 186i. 

Three days through sapphire seas we sailed. 

The steady Trade blew strong and free, 
The Northern Light his banners paled, 
The Ocean Stream our channels -net. 

We rounded low Canaveral's lee, 
And passed the isles of emerald set 

In blue Bahama's turquoise sea. 

By reef and shoal obscurely mapped, 
And hauiitings of the gray sea-wolf. 

The palmy Western Key lay lapped 
Iu the warm washing of the Gulf. 

But weary to the hearts of all 

The burning glare, the barren reach 
Of S.anta Rosa's withered beach. 

And Pensacola's ruined wall. 

Aud weary was the long patrol. 

The thousand miles of shapeless strand. 

From Brazos to San Bias that roll 
Their drifting dnnes of desert sand. 

Yet, coastwise as we cruised or lay. 
The land-breeze still at nightfall bore, 

By beach aud fortress-guarded bay. 
Sweet odors from the enemy's shore, — 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BlilTlSfl AND AMEIUCAX POETUY. 



Fresh from the forest solitudes, 
Unchallenged of his seutry-liiies — 

Tlie bursting of Lis cjpress buds, 

And the \varm fragrance of his pines. 

Ah, never braver bark and crew, 

Nor bolder flag 'a foe to dare, 
Had left a wake on ocean blue 

Since Lion-heart sailed Trenc-lc-mcr ! 

But little gain by that dark ground 
Was ours, save, sometime, freer breath 

For friend or brother straugcly found, 
"Soaped from the drear domain of death. 

And little venture for the bold, 
Or laurel for our valiant Chief, 
Save some blockaded Britisli thief. 

Full fraught with murder in his hold. 

Caught unawares at ebb or flood — 
Or dull bombardment, day by day. 
With fort and earthwork, far away. 

Low couched in sullen leagues of mud. 

A weary time — but to the strong 
The day at last, as ever, came ; 

And the volcano, laid so long, 

Leaped forth in thunder and in flame! 

" 1I.1U your starboard battery !" 

Kimberly shouted — 
The ship, with her hearts of oak. 
Was going, 'mid roar and smoke, 
Ou to victory ! 

None of us doubted. 

No, not our dying — 

Farragnt's flag was flying! 

Gaines growled low on our left, 
Morgan roared on our right — 

Before us, gloomy and fell, 

AVith breath like the fume of hell, 

Lay the Dragon of iron shell, 
Driven at last to the fight ! 

Ha, old ship! do they thrill. 

The bra\o two hundred scars 

Yon got in the Eiver-wars ? 
That were leeched with clamorous skill 

(Surgery savage and hard). 
Splinted with bolt and beam, 
I'robed in scarfing aud scam, 



Rudely lintcd and tarred 
With oakum and boiling pitch. 
And sutnred with splice and hitch. 

At the Brooklyn Navy-yard ! 

Our lofty spars were down, 
To bide the battle's frown, 
(Wont of old renown) — 
But every ship was dressed 
In her bravest and her best, 

As if for u July day ; 
Sixty flags aud three. 

As we floated up the bay — 
Every peak and mast-head flew 
The brave Eed, White, and Blue — 

AVe were eighteen ships that day. 

With hawsers strong and taut. 
The weaker lashed to port, 

Ou we sailed, two by two — 
That if either a bolt should feel 
Crash through caldron or wheel. 
Fin of bronze or sinew of steel. 

Her mate might bear her through. 

Forging boldly ahead. 
The great flag-ship led, 

Grandest of sights ! 
On her lofty niizzeu flew 
Oiir Leader's dauntless Blue, 

That had waved o'er twenty fights — 
So we went, with the first of the tide. 

Slowly, 'mid the roar 

Of the rebel guns ashore, 
Aud the thunder of each full broadside. 

Ah, how poor the prate 
Of statute aud State, 

We once held. with these fellows — 
Here, ou the flood's i)ale-green, 

Hark how he bellows, 

Each bluft' old 8ea-lawycr ! 
Talk to them, Dahlgren, 

Parrott and Sawyer ! 

Ou, in the whirling shade 

Of the cannon's sulphury breath, 
We drew to the liue of death 

That our devilish foe had laid — 

Meshed in a horrible net, 
Aud baited villanous well. 

Eight in our path were set 
Three hundred traps of hell ! 



HENr.T HOWARD BEOWNELL. 



And there, O sight forlorn ! 
There, while the cauuou 

Hurtled and thuudered — 
(Ah, what ill raveu 
Flapped o'er the ship that morn!) — 
Caught by the uiider-death, 
lu the drawing of a breath, 
Dowu went dauntless Craven, 
He and his hundred ! 

A moment we saw her turret, 

A little heel she gave, 
And a thin white spray went o'er her 

Like the crest of a breaking wave — 
In that great iron coffin, 

The channel for their grave, 

The fort their monument 
(Seen afar in the offing). 
Ten fathom deep lie Craven 

And the bravest of our brave. 

Then, in that deadly track, 
A little the ships held back. 

Closing up in their stations — 
There are minutes that fix the fate 

Of battles and of nations 

(Christening the generations) — 
When valor were all too late. 

If a moment's doubt be harbored — 
From the main-top, bold and brief. 
Came the word of our grand old Chief — 
" Go on !" — 'twas all he said : 

Our helm was put to starboard. 
And the Haifford jiassed ahead. 

Ahead lay the Tennessee, 

On our starboard bow he lay. 
With his mail-clad consorts three, 

(The rest had run up the Bay) — 
There he was belching steam from his bow. 
And the steam from his throat's abyss 
Was n Dragon's maddened hiss — 

In sooth a most cursed craft ! — 
In a sullen ring, at bay. 
By the Middle Ground they lay. 

Raking us fore and aft. 

Trust me our berth was hot. 

Ah, wickedly well they shot — 
How their death-bolts howled and stung! 

And the water-batteries played 

With their deadly cannonade 
Till the air around us rung ; 



So the battle raged and roared — 
Ah, had you been aboard 

To have seen the tight we made ! 



TPIE BURIAL OF THE DANE. 

Blue Gulf all around us, 

Bine sky overhead, — 
Muster all on the quarter. 

We must bury the dead ! 

It is but a Danish sailor. 

Rugged of front and form; 
A common scni of the forecastle. 

Grizzled with sun and storm. 

His name, and the strand he hailed from, 
We know — and there's nothing more ! 

But perhaps his mother is waiting 
On the lonely Island of Fohr. 

Still, as he lay there dying, 

Reason drifting awreck, 
" 'Tis my watch," he would mutter, 

"I must go upon deck!" 

Ay, on deck — by the foremast ! — 
But watch and lookout are done; 

The Union-Jack laid o'er him. 
How quiet he lies in the sun ! 

Slow the ponderous engine, 

Stay the hurrying shaft ! 
Let the roll of the ocean 

Cradle our giant craft — 
Gather around the grating, 

Carry your messmate aft ! 

St.aud in order, and listen 

To the holiest page of prayer ! 

Let every foot be quiet, 
Every head be bare — 

The soft trade-wind is lifting 
A hundred locks of hair. 

Our captain reads the service, 
(A little spray on his cheeks). 

The grand old words of burial, 

And the trust a true heart seeks — ■ 

" We therefore commit his body 
To the deep " — and, as he speaks, 



776 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Ijauuehed from the weatlier railiug, 
Swift as the eye cau mark, 

The ghastly, shotted hammock 
Plunges, away from the shark, 

Down, a thousand fathoms, 
Down into the dark ! 

A thousand suninicrs and winters 
The stormy Gulf shall roll 

High o'er his canvas cotEn, — 
But, silence to doubt and dole ! 

There's a quiet harbor somewhere 
For the poor a-weary soul. 

Free the fettered engine. 

Speed the tireless shiCft ! 
Loose to'gallant and top-sail, 

The breeze is fair abaft ! 
Blue sea all around ns, 

Blue sky bright o'erhead — 
Every man to his duty ! 

We have buried our dead. 



1S5S. 



Ijcnru Uootcs i?acl\5on. 

AMERICAN. 

(ion. Jackson, a native of Athens, Ga., was born in the 
year 1820. He was educated in Edijehill Seminary, Prince- 
ton, N. J., and at Tale College, wliere he graduated in 
1839. A lawyer by profession, he resides in Savannali. 
He distinguished himself in the Mexican War, and also 
in the war for Southern separation from the Union. He 
was United States Minister at Vienna from 1853 to 18.58. 
He is the author of" Tallulah, and otlier Poems" (18.58), 
full of evidences of genuine emotion, finding fit utterance 
in lyrical expression. 



MY FATHER. 

As die the embers on the hearth. 

And o'er the floor the shadows fall, 
And creeps the chirping cricket forth. 

And ticks the death-watch in the wall, 
I see a form iu yonder chair, 

That grows beneath the waning light; 
There are the wan, sad features — there 

The pallid brow, and locks of white! 

My father! when they laid thee down, 
And heaped the clay upmi thy breast, 

And left thee sleeping all alone 
Upon thy narrow conch of rest, 

I know imt why I could not weep, 
Tlio soothing drops refused to roll ; 



Aud oh ! that grief is wild and deep 
Which settles tearless on the soul ! 

But when I saw thy vacant chair, 

Thine idle hat upon the wall. 
Thy book — the pencilled passage where 

Thine eye had rested last of all — 
The tree beneath whose friendly shade 

Thy trembling feet had wandered forth — 
The very prints those feet bad made, 

When last they feebly trod the earth ; 

And thought, while countless ages fled. 

Thy vacant seat would vacant stand ; 
Unworn thy hat, thy book unread, 

Eftaced thy footsteps from the sand ; 
And widowed iu this cheerless world 

The heart that g.ave its love to thee — 
Torn, like the vino whose tendrils curled 

More closely round the falling tree ! — 

Then, father, then for her and thee 

Gushed madly forth the scorching tears ; 
And oft, and long, and bitterly. 

Those tears have gushed in later years ; 
For as the world grows cold around, 

Aud things their real hue take ou, 
'Tis sad to learn that love is found 

With thee, above the stars, alone! 



THE LIVE-O.iK. 

With his gnarled old arms, and his iron form, 

Majestic in tlie wood, 
From age to age, iu the sun and storm. 

The live-oak long hath stood ; 
With his stately air, that grave old tree. 

Ho stands like a hooded monk, 
With the gray moss waving solemnly 

From bis shaggy limbs and trunk. 

And the generations come and go. 

And still he stands upright. 
And he sternly looks on the wood below. 

As conscious of his might. 
But a mourner sad is the hoary tree, 

A mourner sad and lone. 
And is clothed in funeral drapery 

For the long since dead aud gone. 

For the Indian hunter beneath his shade 
Has lested from the chase ; 



HEXEY BOOTES JACKSON.— FREDERICK LOCKER. 



And he here lias wooed bis dusky maid — 

The dark-eyed of her race ; 
And the tree is red with the gushing gore 

As the wild deer panting dies : 
Bnt the maid is gone, and the chase is o'er, 

And the old oak hoarsely sighs. 

Ill former days, when the battle's din 

Was loud amid the land. 
In his friendly shadow, few and tliin, 

Have gathered Freedom's band ; 
And the stern old oak, how proud was he 

To shelter hearts so brave ! 
But they all are gone — the bold and free — 

And he moans above their grave. 

And the ag^d oak, with liis locks of gray. 

Is ripe for the sacrifice; 
For the worm and decay, no lingering prey. 

Shall he tower towaixl the skies ! 
He falls, he falls, to become our guard, 

The bulwark of the free. 
And his bosom of steel is proudly bared 

To brave tlio raging sea ! 

When the battle comes, and the cannon's roar 

Booms o'er the shnddering deep. 
Then nobly he'll bear the bold Iiearts o'er 

The waves, with bounding leap. 
Oil! may those hearts be as him and true, 

When the war-clouds gather duu, 
As the glorious oak that proudly grew 

Beneath our Southern sun. 



MY WIFE AND CHILD. 

The tattoo beats, the lights are gone, 
The camp around in slumber lies ; 

The night with solemn pace moves on. 
The shadows thicken o'er the skies ; 

But sleep my weary eyes hath flown, 
And sad, uneasy thoughts arise. 

I think of thee, oh ! dearest one, 

Who.se love mine early life hath ble.ssed- 

Of thee and him — our baby son — 
Who slumbers on thy gentle breast ; 

God of the tender, frail, and lone. 
Oh ! guard the little sleeper's rest ! 

And hover gently, hover near 

To her, whose watchful eye is wet — 



The mother-wife ; the doubly dear — 
In whose young heart have freshly met 

Two streams of love so deep and clear. 
And cheer her drooping spirit yet. 

Now, as she kneels before Thy throne. 
Oh ! teach her, Ruler of the skies, 

That while, by Thy behe.st alone. 
Earth's mightiest powers fall or rise. 

No tear is wept to Thee unknown, 
No hair is lost, no sparrow dies ! 

That Thou canst stay the ruthless hand 
Of dark disease, aud soothe its ijain ; 

That only by Thy stern command 
The battle's lost, the soldier's slain ; 

That from the distant sea or laud 

TIiou briug'st the wanderer home again. 

Aud when upon her pillow lone 

Her tear-wet cheek is sadly pressed, 

May happier visions beam upon 

The brightening currents of her breast, 

Nor frowning look, nor angry toue. 
Disturb the Sabbath of her rest. 

Wlierever fote those forms may throw, 
Loved with a passion almost wild ; 

By day, by night, in joy, or woe. 

By fears oppressed, or hopes beguiled. 

From every danger, every foe, 

O God ! protect my wife and child I 



JTrcbcrick £ocl\cr. 

Locker, born in 1831, has publislied "London Lyrics" 
(1857), a volume of vera de societe, which has passed 
through several editions. He lias also edited a book of 
drawing-room poetry, called " Lyra Elegantiarum." His 
effusions at times seem to be colored somewhat by his 
reminiscences of Praed aud Holmes; but he not unfie- 
queutly dashes into a style of his own. He assigns to 
Holmes the first place among living writers of i'<?r.f ije .w- 
cuite. Locker m.iy be read with pleasure, for his gayety 
is always sweet aud genial. 



ST. GEORGE'S, HANOVER SQUARE. 

She passed up the aisle on the arm of her sire, 
A delicate lady in bridal attire, 

Fair emblem of virgin simplicity; 
Half London was there, and, my word, there were 
few 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEUICAN POETRY. 



That stood by the altar, or hid iu a pew, 
Bat envied Lord Nigel's felicity. 

() beautiful Biide! So meek iu thy spleudor, 
So frank iu thy love and its trusting surrender, 

Departing you leave us tlie town dim ! 
May happiness -wiug to thy bosom, unsought, 
And may Nigel, esteeming his bliss as he ought. 

Prove worthy thy worship, — confound him ! 



THE UNREALIZED IDEAL. 

My only love is always near : 

In country or iu town 
I see her twiukliug feet, I hear 

The whisper of her gown. 

Slie foots it ever fair and youug ; 

Her locks are tied iu haste, 
And one is o'er her shoulder flung 

And hangs below her waist. 

She ran before me iu the meads ; 

And down this world-worn track 
She leads me on ; but ^hile sbe leads 

She never gazes back. 

And yet her voice is iu my dreams, 
To witch me more and more; 

That wooing voice — ah me! it seems 
Less near me than of yore. 

Lightly I sped when hope was high, 
And youth beguiled the chase; 

I follow, follow still, for I 
Shall never see her face! 



fjoi'occ Binncji Sargent. 



Sargent was bora in Quincy, Mass., in 1S31. Hi? father 
was Lucius Manlius Sargent (1T8G-1S67), wlio publislicd a 
volume of poems in liis youth, and iu his latter days was 
a writer of essays, full of wit, in the style of Moulaiguc. 
Horace graduated at Harvard College in 1843, being first 
in his class. He was admitted to the Bar in lS-t.5. He 
recruited the First Massachusetts Cavalry iu 1801, iu tlic 
war for the Union ; became colonel, and was breveted 
brigadier-general March 21st, 1864; bu.t was discharged 
from service September 39tli, 1864, for disability from 
wounds iu action. The line poem we quote was written 
in his tent on a saddle-box, the night after a sharp fight- 
ing rcconnoissance. His younger brother, Lucius Man- 



lius, Jr., who also had poetical and artistic tastes, entered 
the army as a surgeon, became captain of cavalry, was 
obliged by a wound in the lungs to go home on a fur- 
lough ; after a brief respite, rejoined his regiment as 
lieutenant-colonel, and was killed iu action by a shell, 
December 9th, 18(>4, near Belltield, Va., while leading a 
gallant charge against the enemy. 



AFTER " TAPS." 

Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp! 

As I lay with my blanket on, 
By the dim fire-light, in the moonlit night, 

When the skirmishing fight was done. 

The measured beat of the sentry's feet, 
With the jingling scabbard's ring! 

Tramp ! tramp ! iu my meadow-camp 
By the Shenandoah's spring! 

The moonlight seems to shed cold beams 

Ou a row of pale grave-stoues : 
Give the bugle breath, and that image of Death 

Will tly from the reveille's tones. 

By each tented roof, a charger's hoof 

Makes the frosty hill-side ring: 
Give the bugle breath, and a spirit of Death 

To each horse's girth will .spring. 

Tranni ! tramp ! tramp I tramp ! 

The sentry before my tent, 
Guards iu gloom lus chief, for whom 

Its shelter to-uight is lent. 

I am not there. On the hill-side bare 

I think of the gliost within ; 
Of the brave who died at my sword-haud side, 

To-day, 'mid the horrible din 

Of shot and shell and the infantry yell, 
As we charged with the sabre drawn. 

To my heart I said, "Who shall be the dead 
In my tent at another dawn?" 

I thought of a blo.s.somiug almond-tree. 

The stateliest tree that I know; 
Of a golden bowl ; of a parted soul ; 

And a lamp that is buruiug low. 

Oh, thoughts that kill! I thought of the hill 

In the far-off Jura chain ; 
Of the two, the three, o'er the wide salt sea, 

Whoso hearts would break with pain; 



HOKACE BINNEY SARGENT.—AMELIA B. WELBT.— CORNELIUS G. FENNER. 



■719 



Of my pride ami joy — my eldest boy ; 

Of my (liuliiig, the second — in years ; 
Of Willie, wliose face with its pure, mild grace, 

Melts memory into tears ; 

Of their mother, my bride, hy the Alpine lake's side, 

And the angel asleep in her arms ; 
Love, Beauty, and Truth, which she. brought to my 
youth. 

In that sweet April day of her charms. 

" Halt ! Who comes then' ?" The cold miduight air 
And the challenging word chills me through : 

The ghost of a fear wliispcrs, close to my car, 
'• Is peril, love, coming to you ?" 

The hoarse answer, " Reliei"," makes the shade of 
a grief 

Die away, with the step on the sod. 
A kiss melts in air, while a tear and a prayer 

C'ontide my beloved to God. 

Tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! 

Willi a solenni peudulum-swiug I 
Though / slumber all night, the fire burns bright, 

And my seutiuels' scabbards ring. 



'■ Boot and saddle !" is sounding. Our pulses are 
bounding. 

'•To hor.se!"' And I touch with my heel 
Black Gray in the flanks, and ride down the ranks, 

With my heart, like my sabre, of steel. 



Amelia 5. lUclbji. 



AMERICAN. 

Mrs. Welby (1821-1.S.53) was bora .at St. Michael's, Md. 
Her maiden name was Coppuck. Her father removed to 
Louisville, Ky., in 1835, where, in 1838, she was married 
to Mr. Welby, a merchant of tliat city. She began to 
write for the Louisinlle Journal imder the signature of 
" Amelia." Poe, not always an unbiassed judge, said of 
her: " As for ou r ?jOf tes.ws ( .lu absurd but necessary word), 
few of them approach her." A volume other poems was 
published in Boston in 1844, and went thiough four edi- 
tions. Another appeared in New Tork in 1850. 



TWILIGHT AT SEA :— A FRAGMENT. 

The twilight hours, like birds flew by, 

As lightly and as free ; 
Ten thousand stars were in the sky. 

Ten thousand on the sea ; 



For every wave, with dimpled face. 
That leaped upon the air. 

Had caught a star in its embrace. 
And held it trembling there. 



THE GOLDEN RINGLET. 

Here is a little golden tre.ss 

Of soft, uubraided hair, 
The all that's left of loveliness 

That once Avas thought so fair; 
And yet, though time hath dimmed its sheen, 

Though all beside hath fled, 
I hold it here, a link between 

My spirit and the dead. 

Yes! from this shining ringlet still 

A mournful memory springs. 
That melts my heart, and sheds a thrill 

Through all its trembling strings. 
I think of her, the loved, the wept. 

Upon whose forehead fair. 
For eighteen years, like sunshine, slept 

This golden curl of hair. 

O sunny tress! the joyons brow 

Where thou didst lightly wave, 
With all thy sister-tresses now 

Lies cold within the grave: 
That cheek is of its bloom bereft ; 

That eye no more is gay ; 
Of all her beauties thou art left, 

A solitary ray. 



(Honultus (Pcorgc JTenntr. 



A modest little volume of eighty-seven pages, entitled 
" Poems of Many Moods," appeared in Boston in 1846, 
published by Little &, Brown. It was from the pen of 
Fenner, of whom we know little except that he was born 
in Providence in 1823, and died in 1847 in Cincinnati, 
where be had been settled as a Unitarian minister. His 
"Gulf- Weed" shows that young as he was he had in 
liim the elements of the true poet. 



W^INNIPISEOGEE LAKE. 

The blue waves gently kiss the strand, 
And flow along the pebbly shore. 

Then rippling leave the verdant laud, 

And seek the lake's calm breast once more. 



780 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH JXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



No white sail gleams upon the wave, 
Nor iiiotiou hath it, save its own 

Bright flow of waters, and no sound 
Save its own gentle moan. 

And deep and pure the summer blue 

Reflected in its bosom lies, — 
And mirrored there intensely true 

The thousand-tinted foliage dyes! 
Far towering stretch the pine-trees round, 

And from those leafy seas so dim 
I hear the wind's mysterious sound. 

Like faint heard angel's hymn. 

Nature, kind mother! from this scene 

Of holy and serenest calm. 
May the sad soul a lesson glean, 

A soothing tone 'mid life's alarm: — 
To bid each stormy passion rest. 

And lie in lake-like, calm repose. 
With sunshine sleeping on my breast, 

Till death-shades round me close. 



GULF-WEED. 

A wc.ary weed, tossed to and fro, 

Drearily drenched in the ocean brine, 
Soaring high and sinking low, 

Lashed along without will of mine; 
Sport of the spoom of the surging sea, 

Flung on the foam afar and auear; 
Maik my manifold mystery, — 

Growth and grace in their place appear. 

I bear round berries, gray and red. 

Rootless and rover though I be ; 
My spangled leaves, when nicely spread, 

Arboresco as a trunkless tree ; 
Corals curious coat me o'er, 

White and hard in apt array ; 
'Mid the wild waves' rude uproar, 

Gracefully grow I, night and day. 

Hearts there are on the sounding shore, 

Something whispers soft to me. 
Restless and roaming for evermore, 

Like this weary weed of the sea ; 
Bear they yet on each beating breast 

The etern.al type of the wondrous whole ; 
Growth unfolding amid unre.st, 

Grace informing with silent soul. 



(Ll)oiuas Cucljiaiuxn luab. 



Read (1833-1872) was a native of Chester, Pa. His art- 
vantages of early education were limited. When four- 
teen, he went to Cincinnati, and became a pupil of the 
sculptor, CIcvenger; but soon turned his attention to 
painting, in which he was financially' successful. The 
poetical clement was strong in liis nature, as some of his 
shorter pieces show. He publislied three long poems, 
"The New Pastoral," "The House by the Sea," and 
"The Wagoner of tlie Allcghanies." lu 1850, and again 
in 1853, he visited Italy. The last few years of his life 
were spent in Rome. Returning to New York, he died 
tliere after a short illness. Among his ballads "Sheri- 
dan's Ride" has been quite popular; but his "Drift- 
ing" (published 1859) is far the most memorable of bis 
poems. 

DRIFTING. 

My soul to-day 

Is far away. 
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay ; 

My wingt^d boat, 

A bird afloat. 
Swims round the purjde peaks remote : — 

Round purple peaks 

It sails, and seeks 
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, 

AVhere high rocks throw. 

Through deei>s below, 
A iluplicated golden glow. 

Far, vague, and dim. 

The mountains swim; 
While on Vesuvin.s' misty brim, 

With outstretched hands. 

The gray smoke stands 
O'erlooking the Tolcanic lauds. 

Here Ischia smiles 

O'er liquid miles ; 
And yonder, bluest of the isles, 

Calm Capri waits, 

Her sapphire gates 
Beguiling to her bright estates. 

I heed not, if 

My rippling skiff 
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff ;^ 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Uuder the walls of Paradise. 



THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 



781 



Under the walls 

Where swells and falls 
The Bay's deep breast at intervals, 

At peace I lie, 

Blown softly by, 
A cloud upon this liquid sky. 

The day, so mild, 

Is Heaven's own child. 
With Earth and Ocean reconciled ; — 

The airs I feel 

Around me steal 
Are niunuuring to the murmuring keel. 

Over the rail 

My hand I trail 
Within the shadow of the sail ; — 

A joy intense. 

The cooling sense 
Glides down my drowsy indolence. 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Where Summer sings and never dies, — 

O'erveiled with vines. 

She glows and shines 
Among her future oil and wines. 

Her children, hid 

The clift's amid. 
Are gambolling w ith the gambolling kid ; 

Or down the walls, 

With tipsy calls, 
Laugh on the rocks like water-falls. 

The fisher's child. 

With tresses wild. 
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, 

With glowing lips 

Sings as she skips. 
Or gazes at the far-oii' ships. 

You deep bark goes 

Where Traffic blows, 
From lauds of sun to lands of snows; — 

This happier one. 

Its course is run 
From lauds of snow to lauds of sun. 

O hajipy ship. 
To rise and dip, 
With the blue crystal at your lip ! 



O happy crew. 
My heart with you 
Sails, and sails, and sings auew ! 

No more, no more 

The worldly shore 
Upbraids me with its loud uproar ! 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise ! 



SHERIDAN'S RIDE. 

Up from the South at break of day. 

Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay. 

The alfrighted air with a shudder bore. 

Like a hciald in haste to the chieftain's door, 

The terrible grumble and rumble and roar, 

Telling the battle was on once more, 

And Sheridan twenty miles away ! 

And wider still those billows of war 

Thundered along the horizon's bar, 

And louder yet into Wiuchester rolled 

The roar of that red sea uncontrolled. 

Making the blood of the listener cold 

As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray. 

And Sheridan twenty miles away ! 

Bnt there is a road from Winchester town, 

A good broad highway leading down ; 

And there through the flush of the morning light, 

A steed, as black as the steeds of night, 

Was seen to pass as with eagle flight — 

As if he kuew the terrible need, 

He stretched away with his utmost speed ; 

Hill rose and fell — but his heart was gay. 

With Sheridan fifteen miles away ! 

Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south. 
The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth, 
Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and fiister. 
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster; 
The heart of the steed and the heart of the master 
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, 
Impatient to be where the battle-field calls ; 
Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, 
With Sheridan only ten miles aw.ay ! 

Under his spurning feet the ro.ad 
Like au arrowy Alpine river flowed, 



782 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AilEHICAX FOE TUT. 



Ami the landscape sped away bebiml 

Like an ocean flying before the -wiud ; 

And the steed, like a hark fed with furnace ire, 

Swept on, with his wild eyes full of fire. 

But lo ! he is nearing his heart's desire — 

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, 

With Sheridan only hve miles away! 

The first that the General saw were the gronps 
Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops; — 
What was done — what to do — a glance told him both : 
Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, 
He dashed down the line 'mid a storm of huzzas. 
And the wave of retreat checked its course there, 

because 
The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 
With foam and with dust the black charger was 

gray : 
By the flash of his eye, and his red nostrils' play. 
He seemed to the whole great army to say : 
" I have brought you Sheridan all the way 
From Winchester down to save the day!" 

Hurrah, hurrah, for Sheridan ! 
Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man ! 
And when their statues are placed on high. 
Under the dome of the Union sky. 
The American .soldiers' Temple of Fame, — 
There with the glorious General's name 
Be it said in letters both bold and bright : 
•' Here is the steed that saved the day 
By carrying Sheridan into the fight, 
From Winchester — twenty miles away !" 
1804. 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 

Within the sober realm of leafless trees 
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air ; 

Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease, 
When all the fields arc lying brown and bare. 

The gray barns, looking from their hazy hills 
O'er the dim waters, widening in the vales. 

Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, 
On the dull thunder of alternate Hails. 

All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued, 
The hills seemed farther, and the streams sang 
low ; 

As in a dream, the distant woodman hewed 
His winter log with many a muflled blow. 



The embattled forests, erewhile, armed in gold, 
Their banners bright with every martial hue, 

Now stood, like some sad beaten host of old 
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. 

On slumberous wings the vnlture tried his flight ; 

The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's com- 
plaint ; 
And like a star, slow drowning in the light. 

The village church vane seemed to i)ale and faint. 

The sentinel cock npon the hill-side crew — 
Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before — 

Silent till some replying warder blew 

His alien horn, and then was heard no more. 

Where, erst, the jay within the elm's tall crest 
Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged 
young; 

And where the oriole hung her swaying nest. 
By every light wind like a censer swung; 

Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves, 
The busy swallows circling ever near, 

Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, 
An early harvest, and a i)leuteoHS year : — 

Where every bird which charmed the vernal fe.ast, 
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, 

To warn the reapers of the rosy east ; — 
All now was songless, empty, and forlorn. 

Alone, from out the stubble, jiiped the quail. 

And croaked the crow through all the dreamy 
gloom ; 
Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale. 

Made echo to the distant cottage-loom. 

There was no budj no bloom upon the bowers; 

The spiders wove their thiu shrouds night by 
night ; 
The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, 

Sailed slowly by — passed noiseless out of siglit. 

Amid all this — iu this most cheerless air. 

And where the woodbine shed upon the porch 

Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stootl there. 
Firing the floor with his inverted torch; — 

Amid .all this, the centre of the scene, 

The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread. 

Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mieii, 
Sat like a Fate, and watched the flyiug thread. 



THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.— MATTHEW ARNOLD. 



Slie luul known sorrow. Ho bad iivalkeil with her, 
Oft snppeil, and broke ^\■itb her the ashen crust;' 

And, in the dead leaves, still she heard the stir 
Of his black mantle trailing iu the dnst. 

Wliilc yet her cheek was bright with snmnier bloom, 
Her country snmmojied, and she gave her all. 

And twice, war bowed to her bis sable plume — 
Ke-gave the swords, to rust upou the wall. 

Kcrgave the swords — but not the Land that drew. 
And struck for liberty the dying blow ; 

Nor him who, to his sire and country true, 
Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe. 

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on. 
Like the low murmurs of a hive at uoon ; 

Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone, 
Breatlied through her lips a sad and tremulous 
tune. 

At last the thread was snapped — her bead was 
bowed — 

Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene ; 
And loving ueiglibors smoothed her careful shroud. 

While Death and Winter closed the Autumn scene. 



lUattl)cu) ;^riiolii. 



Born at Laleh.Tm, in EngUmd, 1833, Arnold was tbc 
I'lilest son of the celebrated Dr. Arnold of Rugby School. 
He has published several volumes of poems, and a trag- 
edy, entitled " Merope." As a theological writer he has 
also won distinction. His poetry, though not of the ob- 
vious and popular kind, is evidently the work of a pro- 
found thinker, a scholar, and a true poet. In 1857 he was 
elected Professor of Poetry at Oxford. 



SELF-DEPENDENCE. 

Weary of myself, and sick of a.sking 
What I am, and what I ought to be. 

At the vessel's prow I stand, which bears me 
Forward, forward o'er the starlit sea. 

.\nd a look of passionate desire 

O'er the sea, and to the stars I send, — 

" Ye who from my childhood up have calmed me ! 
Calm me, ah ! compose me, to the end !" 

"Ab! once more," I cried, "ye stars! ye waters! 
Ou my heart your mighty charm renew; 



Still, still let me, as I g.aze upou you. 
Feel my soul becomiug vast like you." 

From the intense, clear. star-.sown vault of heaven, 

O'er the lit sea's unquiet way, 
Iu the rustling uigbt-air came the answer, — 

" WouUl'st thou be as these are ? Live as they. 

" Unaft'righted by the silence round them, 
Uudistracted by the sights they see. 

These demand not that the things without them 
Yield them love, amusement, sympatliy. 

"And with joy the stars perform their .shining. 
And the sea its long, moon-silvered roll ; 

For alone they live, nor piue with noting 
All the fever of some differing soul. 

" Bounded by themselves, and unob,servant 
In what state God's other works may be, 

Iu their own tasks all their powers pouring, 
These attain the mighty life you see." 

O air-born voice ! long since severely clear. 
A cry like thine iu my own heart I hear : 
"Resolve to be thyself; and know that he 
Who finds himself Icses his misery." 



A WISH.. 

I ask not that my bed of death 

From bands of greedy heirs be free ; 

For these besiege the latest breath 
Of fortune's favored sons, not me. 

I ask not each kind soul to keep 

Tearless, when of my death ho hears ; 

Let those who will, if any, weep! 

There are worse plagues ou earth than tears. 

I ask but that my death may find 

The freedom to my life denied ; 
Ask but the folly of mankind. 

Then, then at last, to quit my side. 

Spare me the whispering, crowded room. 
The friends who come, aud gape, and go ; 

The ceremonious air of gloom : — • 

All that makes death a hideous show ! 

Nor bring to see me cease to live, 
Some doctor full of phrase and fame, 



784 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH ASU AMERICAN POETRY. 



To sliake his sapient bead, and give 
Tbe ill be cauuot cure a name. 

Nor fetcb to take the accustomed toll 
Of the poor sinner bound for death, 

His brother doctor of tbe soul, 
To canvass -with ofSJcial breath 

The future and its viewless things — 

That undiscovered mystery 
Which one who feels death's wiuuowiug wings 

Must needs read clearer, sure, than be ! 

Bring none of these! but let me be. 

While all around in silence lies, 
llovcd to the window near, and see 

Ouce more before my dying eyes, 

Bathed in the sacred dews of morn, 
The wide, ailrial landscape spread — • 

The world which was ere I was born, 
The world which lasts when I am dead. 

Which never was the friend of one, 
Nor promised love it could not give, 

But lit for all its generous sun. 
And lived itself, aud made us live. 

There let me gaze, till I become 
In soul with what I gaze on wed! 

To feel the universe ray home ; 
To have before my mind — instead 

Of the sick-room, the mortal strife, 

The tuEmoil for a little breath — 
The pure eternal course of life. 

Not human combatiugs with death. 

Thus feeling, gazing, let me grow 
Compo.scd, refreshed, ennobled, clear ; 

Then willing let my spirit go 

To work or wait elsewhere or here ! 



DR. ARNOLD. 

O strong soul, by wh.at shore 
Tarrie.st Ihou now ? For that force. 
Surely, has not been left in vain : 
Somewhere, surely, afar, 
In the sounding labor-bouse vast, 
Of being, is practised tliat strength. 
Zealous, beneficent, firm ! 



Yes, in some far-shining sphere, 

Conscious or not of the jiast, 

Still thou performest the word 

Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live, 

Prompt, unwearied, as here! 

Still thou upraisest with zeal 

The humble good from the ground. 

Sternly repressest tbe bad, 
Still, like a trumpet dost rouse 
Those who with half-ojjen eyes 
Tread tbe border-laud dim 
'Twixt vice and virtue ; reviv'st, 
Suceorest — this was thy work. 
This was thy life upon earth. 



AUSTERITY OF POETRY. 

That son of Italy who tried to blow, 
Ere Dante came, tbe trump of sacred song, 
In bis light youth, amid a festal throng. 
Sat with bis bride to see a imblic show. 

Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow 
Youth like a star ; and what to youth belong — 
Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation strong. 
A proji gave way — crash fell a platform! Lo! 

'Mid struggling suftVrers, hurt to death, she lay! 
Shuddering, they drew her garments off — and found 
A robe of sackcloth next tbe smooth, white skin. 

Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay. 
Radiant, adorned outside; a hidden ground 
Of thought and of austerity within. 



(Kljotnas £aK-c fjavris. 

Harris was born at Fenny-Stratford, England, May 15, 
1823, and brouirht to America when oidy five years old. 
The career of Harris is a study for the psychologist. 
Impulsive and impressionable, he became at an early age 
a Universalist preacher. In 1850 he was one of the lead- 
ers in a movement for a communist settlement at Moun- 
tain Cove, Fayette County, Virginia. It was not a suc- 
cess. He lectured for a time in opposition to Christian- 
ity, but this phase of bis doctrinal belief was transient : 
be claimed a new development, became zealously Chris- 
tian, and assumej a theosopliic authority. He taught 
tliat in many mediums the possession is of a demoniac, 
rather than of an angelic origin; and he admitted that 
he bad at times been under the influence of these " sub- 
jective devils," from whom be was now happily free. 
Believing that his inspiration was at length purely divine, 



THOMAS LAKE HARRIS.— BOBERT LEIGHTOX. 



785 



he biicame somewhat dictatorial in his tone. There is 
no evideuce that he has uot Ijeen conseicnticrus and sin- 
cere in all his changes. As a writer he is forcible and 
eloquent. After preaching in London (1859, '60), he re- 
turned to the United States, and organized a new society. 
William Howitt sajs of him : " Ho arrives at his conclu- 
sions liy flashes of intuition." In what appeared to be 
a state of trance, he dictated his poems, a volume at a 
time, or as fast as his amanuensis — generally his publish- 
er— could write. The cliief of these productions are: 
"The Epic of the Starry Heavens" (New York, 1^54; 
fourth edition, 18.55); "Tlic Lyric of the Morning Land" 
(1851) ;"Tlie Lyric of the Golden Age" (1856); "Regina, 
a Song of Many Days " (London, 18.59). Tlie amazing 
celerity with wliieh these remarkable poems, all show- 
ing extraordinary literary facility and buists of true 
poetry, were written is attested by Mr. S. B. Brittan 
and others. Among tlie distinguished converts who 
followed Harris was Mr. Lawrence Oliphaut, an English 
author of note. In 1880 Harris was tlie chief of a so- 
ciety, called "Tlie Brotherhood of the New Life," estab- 
lished at Fountain Grove, Santa Rosa, Cal. Ho says of 
his poems: "They are not mine; they are the work of 
mighty poets in tlieir glory above." In this extraor- 
dinary assertion he was doubtless sincere. 



THE SPIRIT-BORN.'- 

Niglit overtook me ere my race was run, 

And mind, which is the cliariot of the soul, 
AVliose wheels revolve in radiance like the sun, 

And utter glorious music as they roll 
To the eternal goal, 
Willi sudden shock stood still. I heard the boom 

Of thunders : mauy cataracts seemed to pour 
From the invisible monutaius ; through the gloom 

Flowed the great waters ; then I knew no more 
But this, that thought was o'er. 

As one who, drowning, feels his angni.sh cease. 

And clasps his doom, a pale but gentle bride, 
And gives his soul to slumber aud sweet peace, 

Yet thrills when living shapes the waves divide, 
Aud movetli with the tide, 
So, sinking deep beneath the nnknown sea 

Of intellectual sleep, I rested there ; 
I knew I was uot dead, though soon to be, 

Cut still alive to love, to loving care, 
To sunshine and to iirayer. 

And Life and Death and Immortality, 
Eacli of my being held a separate part ; 



' Harris claims to have uttered this under the coutrol of the 
spirit of Robert Sotubey, who, it will be remembered, died iu- 
paue. There is botli method aud beauty iu the " m.Tducss "— 
if such it be. 

50 



Life there, as sap within an o'erblown tree ; 
Death there, as frost, witli intennitting smart ; 
But iu the secret heart 
The sense of immortality, the breath 

Of being iudestructible, the trust 
In Christ, of final triumph over death, 
Aud spiritual blossoming from dust. 
And heaven with all the just. 

Tlie soul, like some sweet flower-bud yet nnblowii. 

Lay tranced iu beauty in its silent cell; 
The s[iirit slept, but dreamed of worlds unknown, 

As dreams the chrysalis within its shell 
Ere summer breathes her spell. 
But slumber grew more deep till morning broke. 

The Sabbath morning of the holy skies; 
An angel touched my eyelids, and I woke ; 

A voice of tenderest love .said, " Spirit, rise," — 
I lifted up mine eyes, 

And lo ! I was in Paradise. The beams 

Of morning shone o'er landscapes green and gold. 
O'er trees with star-like clusters, o'er the streams 

Of crystal, and o'er many a tented fold. 
A patriarch — as of old 
Melchi.sedeo might have approached a gnest — 

Drew near me, as in reverent awe I bent. 
And bade mo welcome to the Land of Rest, 

And led me upward, wonderiug, but content. 
Into his milk-white tent. 



Uobcrt £cigl)tou. 



A man of genius and true poetical tastes, Leighton 
(1832-1869) was a native of Dundee. He engaged in 
mercantile pursuits in Liverpool. In 18.55 he put forth 
a volume entitled " Rhymes and Poems," which was re- 
printed in 1861. Anotlier volume of poems from bis pen, 
published in 1869, was received with much favor. 



YE THREE VOICES. 

Ye gla.s.se was at my lippe. 
Clear spirit sparkling was ; 

I was about to sippe. 

When a voice came from ye glasse ; 
"And wonld'st thou have a rosie nose, 

A blotchM face and vacaut eye, 
A shakey frame that feeblie goes, 

A form and feature alle awry, — 
A bodie racked with rhenmic paiue, 

A burnt-up stomach, fevered braine, 



-86 



ctclopj!:dia of British and American poetry. 



A mniUlie miiid tbat cannot tbinke ? 
Tlieu ih'iuke, driuke, driuke." 

Tbns spoke yo voice and fledde, 

Nor any more did say ; 
Bnt I tbougUt ou wbat it saide, 

And I tbrew ye glasse away. 

Ye iiipe was in my moutb, 

Ye first clonde o'er me broke ; 
I was to blow anotber, 

Wbou a voice came from ye smoke. 

Come, tbis must be a boaxe ! 

Tbeii I'll suiiffe if I may not smoke; 
But a voice came from ye boxe ! 

And tbns tbese voices spoke : 

"And wonld'st tbon bave a swimraie bedde, 

A smokie breatb and blackened tootli ? 
And wonld'st tbou bave tby fresbness fade, 

And wrinkle up tby leafe of youtlie I 
Wonld'st bave tby voice to lose its tone, 
Tby bcavenly note a bagpipe's drone ? 
If tbou wonld'st tby bealtb's cbauuels cboke, 

Tbeu smoke, smoke, smoke ; 
Ye pipes of thy sweet music stuffe, 

Tbeu sunife, suntfe, sunffe !" 

Tbns spoke, and fledde tbey both ; — 

Glasse! pipe! boxe! in a day. 
To lose tbem w as I loatb ; 

Yet I tbrew tliem alle away. 

Ob ! would we be alle bealtbe, alle ligbtnesse, 
Alle youtbe, alle sweetness, fresbness, brigbtness, 
Seeing through every tbinge 
With miuds like ye crystal spriuge ; 
Ob ! would we be just right enonglie — 
Not driuke — not smoke — not snnti'e. 

Then would our forwarde course 

To the right be as uatnrall 
As it is, withouteu force. 

For stones ilowuwardo to falle. 



BOOKS. 



I cannot think the glorious world of mind, 
Emb;dmcd iu books, which I can oidy see 
lu patches, though I read my moments blind, 
Is to be lost to me. 



I have a thought, tbat as wo live elsewhere, 
So will those dear creations of the brain ; 
Tbat what I lose unread, I'll find, and there 
Take up my joy again. 

Ob, tbeu the bliss of blisses, to be freed 

From all the wants by which the world is driven ; 
With liberty and endless time to read 
The libraries of Heaveu ! 



Pan'iLi :^tuiooi) lHasson. 

AMERICAN. 

Wasson was bora at West Brookfield, Me., May 14th, 
1S2.3. He entered Bowdoin College, but left before the 
close of Lis sophomore year. Afterward he studied law, 
but, declining the practice, turned bis attention to theol- 
ogy. His writings bave appeared chiefly iu the Atlantic 
Monthly, North American Review, and Christian Examiner. 
For twelve years he has been a student of the moral and 
political sciences ; and it is understood that he has ou 
hand, nearly complete, an elaborate work on the funda- 
mental principles of political society. An independent 
thiuker, well versed in tlie highest philosophy, Wasson 
has also given evidences of high genius as a poet; while 
lie has controverted the materialism of the age with a 
skill at once logical and sdentifle. His residence (1880) 
was West Mcdford, Mass. 



MINISTERING ANGELS TO THE IMPRISONED 
SOUL. 

From an Unpcblisiied Poem. 

The bread of life we bring, immortal Truth, — 
The wiue of life, pure joy of Love, we bear ; 

Eat, famished heart, regain thy godlike youth. 
Drink, arid soul, and tby lost hopes repair! 

Yet luminous a>theTs hold the bills of heaveu. 
Yet breathe its meadows unexhausted balm. 

Yet, shining 'mid the groves at morn and even, 
The wise with wise bave speech in regal calm. 

O unforgotten, bow couldst tbou forget ? 

O claimed of heaven, claim tby birth divine. 
O heir to all things, why iu misery yet ? 

Tut forth tby palm, the very stars are thine! 

Ill each, in thee, would fain Existence flower. 

We come to quicken all tby death to bloom. 
Make live in thee all grace, all peace, all power: 

Fliug wide the heart-gates ! give tby brothers 
room! 



DAVID ATTTOOD WASSON. — WILLIAM CALDWELL ROSCOE. 



7f-7 



ALL'S WELL. 

Sweet-voiced Hope, thy fme discourse 
Foretold not half life's good to uie ; 
Thy painter, Fancy, hath uot force 
To show liow s-iveet it is to he ! 

Thy witching dream 

And pictured scheme 
To match the fact still Tvant the power ; 

Thy promise brave 

From birth to grave 
Life's boon may beggar in an hour. 

Ask and receive, — 'tis sweetly said ; 

Yet what to plead for know I uot ; 
For Wish is worsted, Hope o'ersped, 

And aye to thanks returns my thought. 

If I would pray, 

I've naught to say 
But this, that God may be God still ; 

For Him to live 

Is still to give, 
And sweeter than my wish his will. 

wealth of life beyond all bound ! 
Eternity each moment given ! 

What plummet may the Present sound I 
Who promises a future heaven ? 

Or glad, or grieved, 

Oppressed, relieved, 
lu blackest night, or brightest day. 

Still pours the flood 

Of golden good. 
And more than heartful fills me aye. 

My wealth is common ; I jiossess 

No petty proviuce, but the whole ; 
What's mine alone is mine far less 
Than treasure shared by every soul. 

Talk uot of store, 

Millions or more, — 
Of values which the purse may hold, — 

But this divine ! 

I own the mine 
Whose grains outweigh a planet's gold. 

1 have a stake in every star. 

In every beam that fills the day ; 
All hearts of men niy coffers are, 
My ores arterial tides convey ; 
Tlie fields, the skies, 
And sweet replies 



Of thought to thought are my gold-dus't — 

The oaks, the brooks. 

And speaking looks 
Of lover's faith and friendship's trust. 

Life's youngest tides joy-brimming flow 

For him who lives above all years. 
Who all-immortal makes the Now, 
And is not ta'en in Time's arrears : 

His life's a hymn 

The seraphim 
Might hark to hear or help to sing. 

And to his soul 

The boundless whole 
Its bounty all doth daily bring. 

"All mine is thine," the sky-soul saith ; 

" The wealth I am, must thou become : 
Richer and richer, breath by breath, — 
Immortal gain, immortal room !" 

And since all his 

Mine also is. 
Life's gift outruns my fancies far, 

And drowns the dream 

In larger stream. 
As morning drinks the morning-star. 



lUilliam Caliiiiicll nosroe. 

Roscoe was horn in England in 1823, and died in 1S.d9. 
He was the autlior of " Violenzia," a tragedy published 
anonymously in 1S51. His vohime of "Poems and Es- 
saj-s, etlitecl, witli a Memoir, by liis brother-in-law, Ricli- 
ard Holt Huttou," was publislied in 1800. 



TO A FEIEND. 

Sad soul, whom God, resuming what he gave, 
Medicines with bitter anguish of the tomb, 
Cease to oppress the portals of the grave. 
And strain thy aching sight across the gloom. 
The surged Atlantic's winter-beaten wave 
Shall sooner pierce the purpose of the wind 
Tliau thy storm-tossed and heavy-swelling miuil 
Grasp the full import of bis means to save. 
Through the dark night lie still; God's faithful 

grace 
Lies hid, like morning, nnderneatU the sea. 
Let thy slow hours roll, like these weary stars, 
Down to the level ocean patieutly ; 
Till His loved hand shall touch the eastern bars, 
And His full glory shine upon thy face. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH JXD AMERICAX POETRY. 



(Caroline ^tljcrton iUascn. 

AMERICAN. 
Mrs. Mason was born in Mavblchead, Mass., in 1833. 
Slie was a daughter of Dr. Calvin Brij^gs of that town. 
She married Charles Mason, Esq., a lawyer of Fitehburg, 
Mass. In 1852 she jiublislied a volume of her verses, en- 
titled " Utterance : a Collection of Home-Poems." They 
are of sui^erior merit, showing a genuine vein of poetic 
sentiment, with a command of appropriate language, rich 
in its simplieity. 

NOT YET. 

Not yet : — along the iiurpling sky 

We see the dawning ray, 
But leagues of cloudy distance lie 

Between us aiul the day. 

Not yet : — the aloe waits serene 

Its i^romised advent hour, — 
A patient century of green 

To one full jierfect flower. 

Not yet : — no harvest soug is sung 

In the sweet ear of spring, 
Nor hear we, while the hlade is young. 

The reaper's sickle swing. 

Not yet : — before the crown, the cross ; 

The struggle ere the prize ; 
Before the gain the fearful loss, 

And death ere Paradise. 



BEAUTY FOE ASHES. 

I dare not echo those who say 
That life is but a troubled way, 
A barren waste devoid of charms, 
And ripe with dangers and alarms ; 

A cross to take up and to bear ; 
A vapor chilly with despair ; 
A desert where no roses blow, 
Nor any healing waters How. 

Is life a cross? O burden blessed 
To those of God's dear love possessed ! 
Let me on him but lay it down, 
And lo ! my cross becomes my crown. 

Is it a desert vast and dim ? 
On every side beholding him, 
The barren wilderness doth bloom 
And sweeten with a sweet perfume. 



Is it a vapor chill with deafh f 
I'll breathe it with a trusting breath : 
'Tis health to me ! 'Tis sweet and rare 
As Araby's best spices are. 

Oh, ouly he who lets his smart 
Grow cankered in a thankless heart. 
Cares scout with cai'piug discontent 
His thousand blessings daily sent. 

And ho who has and would increase 
Within his soul God's perfect jieace, 
Because the Lord is made his song, 
May well go singing all day long. 



AN OCTOBER WOOD HYMN. 

My soul has grown too great to-day 

To utter all it would. 
Oh ! these preventing bonds of clay ! 
When will my spirit learn to say, 

Unfettered, all it should ! 

I'm out in the free wood once more, 
With whispering boughs o"crliead ; 

Strange inflncnces ronnd me steal, 

And yet, what dcepliest I feel 
Must ever be unsaid. 

These glowing, glowing autumn hours! 

These wilderiug, gorgeous days ! 
This dainty show of gorgeous flowers. 
As though with dusty, golden showers 

The air were all ablaze ! 

This living, shining, burni.slied wood, 

Tricked with a thousand dyes! 
Its strong ribs^ laced with crimson sheen, 
And decked with gold and glittering green 
Like kingly tapestries I 

This tangled roof of braided light 

Above mo richly flung I 
These glimpses of the sky's soft blue ! 
This quiveriug sunshine melting through! 

The wide earth, glory -hung! 

How shall I utter all I would ? 

Alas ! my struggling soul — 
It strives to grasp these glorious things 
As strives a bird on broken wings 

To struggle to its goal. 



JOHN RANDOLPH TnOJIPSON. 



789 



iJolju Uaniiolpl) Qlljompson. 

AMERICAN. 
Thompson (1S3S-1873), a native of Eiclimond, was edu- 
cated at the University of Virginia. He studied law, and 
was admitted to the Bar in 1845 ; but forsook it for the 
more cougeuial pursuit of literature. He contributed 
largely to the Suidhern, Likranj Messenger, which he ed- 
ited from 1847 to 1801. During the Civil War he went 
to England, where he contributed to Blackwood's Maga- 
zine and other jjeriodicals. He was afterward engaged 
on the editorial staff of the New York Evening Post. 



MUSIC IN CAMP. 

Two armies covered bill and plain 

Where Eappaliaunock's waters 
Run deeiily crimsoned with the stain 

Of battle's recent slaughters. 

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents 

lu meads of heavenly azure, 
And each dread gun of the elements 

Slept lu its hid embrasure. 

The breeze so softly blew, it made 

No forest leaf to qniver, 
And the smoke of the random cannonade 

Rolled slowly from the river. 

And now where circling hills looked down, 

With cannon grindy planted, 
O'er listless camp and silent town 

The golden sunset slanted, — 

When ou the fervid air there came 
A strain, now rich, now tender : 

The music seemed itself aflame 
With day's departing .splendor. 

A Federal band, which eve and morn 
Played measures brave and nimble, 

Had just struck up with flute and horn, 
And lively clash of cymbal. 

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks, 

Till, margined by its pebbles. 
One -wooded shore was blue with "Yanks," 

And one was gray with " Rebels." 

Then all was still ; and then the baud. 
With movement light and tricksy. 

Made stream and foi-est, hill and strand. 
Reverberate with "Dixie." 



The conscious stream, with burnished glow, 

Went i)roudly o'er its pebbles. 
But thrilled throughout its deepest flow 

With yelling of the Rebels. 

Again a pause, and then again 

The trumpet pealed sonorous, 
And "Yandle Doodle "was the strain 

To which the shore gave chorus. 

The l.Tughing ripple shoreward flew 

To kiss the shining pebbles : 
Loud shrieked the swarming " Boys in Blue " 

Defiance to the Rebels. 

And yet once more the hngle sang 

Above the stormy riot ; 
No shout upon the evening rang. 

There reigned a holy quiet. 

The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood 
Poured o'er the glistening pebbles ; 

All silent now the Yankees stood, 
All silent stood the Rebels. 

No unresponsive soul had heard 
That plaintive note's appealing, 

So deeply "Home, Sweet Home" had stirred 
The hidden founts of feeliug. 

Of blue or gray, the soldier sees, 

As by the wand of fairy, 
The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees. 

The cabin by the prairie. 

Or cold or warm his native skies 
Bend in their beauty o'er him ; 

Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes. 
His loved ones stand before him. 

As fades the iris after rain 

In April's tearful weather, 
The vision vanished, as the strain 

And daylight died together. 

But memory, waked by music's art, 
Expressed in simplest numbers, 

Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart, 
Made light the Rebel's slumbers. 

And fair the form of Music shines. 

That bright, celestial creature. 
Who still 'mid war's embattled lines 

Gave this cue touch of nature. 



/'JO 



CYCLOPJ^DIA UF DRlTlSn AXD AML'IIICJX I'OETUY. 



(Uoocutrn yatinorc. 

Coventry Kearsey Diglitou Patmove was born in Wood- 
ford, England, in 1823. He publislied a volume of poems 
in 1844; and between 1854 and 1863, " Tlie Angel in the 
House," issued in four parts; "The Betrothal," "The 
Espousal," " Faithful Forever," and " The Victories of 
Love." He occupied a position in the literary depart- 
ment of the British Museum. 



FROM "FAITHFUL FOREVER." 

All I am sure of Heaven is this ; 
Hone'er the mode, I shall not miss 
One true delight rvliich I have known : — 
Not on the changeful earth alone 
Shall loyalty remain unmoved 
Toward everything I ever loved. 

So Heaven's voice calls, like Eacliel's voice 
To Jacob in the field, Rejoice ! 
Serve ou some seven more sordid years, 
Too short for weariness or tears ; * 

Serve ou ; then, O beloved, well-tried, 
Take me forever for thy bride ! 



THE TOYS. 

My little son, who looked from thonghtful eyes. 
And moved and spoke iu quiet growu-up ■wise. 
Having my law the seventh time disobeyed, 
I struck him, and dismissed, 
With hard words and unkisscd, — 
His mother, who was i^atient, being dead. 
Then, fearing lest bis grief should hinder sleep, 
I visited his bed ; 
But found him slumbering deep, 
With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet 
From his late sobbing wet ; 
And I, with moan. 

Kissing away his tears, left others of my own ; 
For on a table drawn beside his head 
He had put, within his reach, 
A box of counters, and a red-veined stone, 
A piece of glass abraded by the beach, 
And six or seven shells, 
A bottle with bluebells, 

And two French copper coins ranged there with care- 
ful art, 
To comfort his sad heart. 
So, when that night I prayed 
To God, I wept and said : 

Ah! ■n'hcu at last we lie with tranc(^d breath. 
Not vexing Thee in death. 



And thou rememberest of what toys 

Wo made our joys. 

How weakly understood 

Thy great commanded good, — 

Then, fatherly, not less 

Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, 

Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 

'• I will be sorry for their childLshucss." 



illrs. Saral) lam £ippiurott. 



Tlic maiden name of Mrs. Lippincott was Clarke, and 
slie gained her literary reputation under tlie pen-name 
of Grace Greenwood. She was born in 1823 in Pomfrey, 
Onondaga County, N. T., and in 1853 married Mr. Lip- 
pincott of Philadelphia. She has published a volume of 
poetry and several volumes in prose ; and is known as a 
graceful, vivacious writer. Latterly she has resided iu 
Colorado. 



THE POET OF TO-DAY. 

More than the soul of ancient song is given 
To thee, O poet of to-day ! — thy dower 

Comes from a higher than Olympian heaven. 
In holier beauty and iu larger power. 

To thee Humanity, her woes revealing, 

Would all her griefs and ancieut wrongs rehear,se ; 

Would make thy song the voice of her appealing. 
And sob her mighty sorrows through thy verse. 

While in her season of great darkness sharing. 
Hail thou the coming of each promise-star 

Which climbs the miduight of her long despairing. 
And watch for morning o'er the hills afar. 

Wherever Truth her holy warfare wages. 

Or Freedom pines, there let thy voice bo heard. 

Sound like a prophet-waruiug down the ages 
The human utterance of God's living word! 

But bring not thou the battle's stormy chorus, 
The tramp of armies, and the roar of fight. 

Not war's hot smoke to taint the sweet morn o'er us. 
Nor blaze of pillage, reddening tip the night. 

Oh, let thy lays prolong that augel-siuging, 
Girdling with music the Redeemer's star, 

And breathe God's peace, to earth glad tidings bring- 
ing 
From the near heavens, of old so dim and far! 



GEORGE HESRY BOKEn.—TROilAS WEXinORTH HIGGIXSOX. 



791 



(!?corgc Ijcurj) Cok'cr. 

AMERICAN. 

Bokei-, born iu Philadelphia in 1833, was graduated at 
Princeton CoUetce, N. J., in 1842. He travelled in Eu- 
rope, and, returning home, published iu 1847 his first 
volume of poems. Iif 1848 he produced "Calaynos, a 
Tragedy " — played with success in the United States and 
in England. He wrote other plays, showing tine dra- 
matic talent; and in ISTO published his "Plays and 
Poems," in two volumes. In 1871 he was sent United 
States Minister to Constantinople by President Grant ; 
a post which he resigned in 1877. 



DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. 

IN' MEMORY OF GENER.\L PHILIP KE.\P.NEY, KILLED 
SEPTEMBER 1, 1862. 

Close bis eyes ; his work is done ! 

What to him is friend or foeman, 
Rise of nioou, or set of sun, 

Hand of niau, or kiss of woman ? 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he caunot know : 
Lay him low ! 

As mail may, he fought his fight, 

Proved his truth by his endeavor ; 
Let him sleep iu solemn night, 
Sleep forever and forever ; 

Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ; 
What cares he ? he caunot know : 
Lay him low ! 

Fold hira in his conutry's stars, 

Roll the drum and fire the volley ! 
What to him are all our wars, 
What hut deatli-bemocking folly ? 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
Iu the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

Leave him to God's watching eye. 

Trust him to the hand that made him. 
Mortal love weejis idly by : 

God alone has power to aid him. 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 



QTIjomaG lllcntiuovtl) f)igginson. 

AMERICAN. 

Boru in Cambridge, Mass., in 1833, lliggiuson wasgrad- 
nated at the College iu 1841. He studied theology, and 
was settled as pastor in Newburyport in 1847, aud in 
Worcester from 1853 to 1858. When the Civil War broke 
out he gave up preaching, and was appointed colonel of 
tlie first black regiment raised in South Carolina. Hav- 
ing been wounded, he was discharged for disability, Octo- 
ber, 1864. He has since resided at Newport, R. I., or at 
Cambridge. He is the author of "Out- door Papers" 
(18G3); "jMalbone, an Oldport Romance" (1869); "Army 
Life in a Black Regiment" (1870); "Atlantic Essays" 
(1871); "Harvard Memorial Biographies ;" "History of 
the United States for Schools," etc. His prose style is 
fresh, graceful, and compact; and his poem "Decora- 
tion" establishes his claim as a poet. The poem, enti- 
tled "Gifts," which we append, is from the pen of his 
wife, Mary Thacher Higginson, daughter of Peter and 
Margaret (Potter) Thacher of West Newton, Mass. 



" I WILL ARISE, AND GO TO MY FATHER." 

To thine eternal arms, O God, 

Take us, thine erriug children, iu ; 
From dAngerous p;tths too boldly trod. 

From waudering thoughts and dreams of sin. 

Those arms were round our childish ways, 
A guard through helpless years to be ; 

Oh, leave not our maturer days, — 
We still are helpless without thee ! 

We trusted hope aud pride and strength ; 

Onr strength proved false, our pride was vain ; 
Onr dreams have faded all at length, — 

We come to thee, O Lord, again ! 

A guide to trembling steps yet be ! 

Give us of thine eternal powers! 
So shall our paths all lead to thee. 

And life smile on, like childhood's hours. 



GIFTS. 



A flawless pearl, snatched from an ocean cave 

Remote from light or air, 
And by llie mad caress of stormy wave 

Made but more pure aud fair; 

A diamond, wrested from earth's hidden zone, 

To whose recesses deep 
It clung, and bravely flashed a light that shone 

Where dusky shadows creep ; 



792 



CICLOl'JLDIA OF BIllTISH AXD JAIEBWAX rOETRY. 



A sapiiliiie, in whose lieavt the teuder rays 

Of siimiuer skies liavc met; 
A I'uby, gloiTiug witli the ardent blazo 

Of suns that never set : — 

These priceless jewels shone, one happy day, 

On my bewildered sight : 
" We bring; from earth, sea, sky," they seemed to say, 

'' Love's richness and delight." 

'■For me?" I trembling cried. "Tliou nced'st not 
dread," 

Sang heavenly voices sweet ; 
And unseen hands placed on my lowly bead 

This crown, for angels meet. 



DECOKATIOX. 

" Jlituibiis date lilia iJleuis." 

'Mid the flower-wreathed tombs I stand. 
Bearing lilies in my hand. 
Comrades ! iu what soldier-gravo 
Sleeps the bravest of the bravo ? 

Is it lie who sank to rest 
With his colors ronnd his breast? 
Friendship makes his tomb a shrine, 
Garlands veil it; ask not mine. 

One low grave, yon trees beneath, 
Bears no roses, wears no wreath ; 
Yet no heart more high and warni 
Ever dared the battle-storm. 

Never gleamed a pronder eye 

In the front of victory ; 

Never foot had firmer tread 

On the field where hope lay dead. 

Than are hid within this tom\), 
Wliere the nutended grasses bloom ; 
And no stone, with feigned distress, 
Jlocks the sacred loneliness. 

Youth and beauty, dauntless will, 
Dreams that life could ne'er fnllil. 
Here lie buried, — here in jieace 
Wrongs and woes have found release. 

Turning from my comrades' eyes, 
Kneeling w'hcre a woman lies, 
I strew lilies on the grave 
Of the bravest of the brave. 



THE REED IMMORTAL.' 

Reed gf the stagnant waters ! 

Far in the Eastern lands 
Rearing thy peaceful daughters 

In sight of the storied sands ; 
Armies and fleets defying 

Have swept by that quiet silot, 
But thine is the life undying, 

Theirs is the tale forgot. 

The legions of Alexander 

Are scattered and gone and fled ; 
Ami the Qneen, who ruled connnauder 

Over Antony, is dead ; 
Tlie marching armies of Cyrus 

Have vanished from earth again ; 
And only the frail papyrus 

Still reigns o'er the sous of men. 

I'apyrns ! O reed immortal ! 

Survivor of all renown ! 
Thon heed'st not the solemn portnl 

Where heroes and kings go down. 
Tlie monarchs of generations 

Have died into dust away : 
O reed that ontlivest nations, 

Be our symbid of strength to-day ! 



Holicrt (Uolljier. 

Born at Kcighley, Yorkshire, Euglaud, in 1823, Collyer 
left school at seven to learn his father's trade — that of a 
blacksmith. He worked at the anvil till 1850, when lie 
emigrated to America. He followed the blacksmith's 
trade at SUoemakertown,Pa., till 1859, wlien he went to 
Chicago. He had been a Wesleyan and local preacher 
in England, and continued to preach in the United States 
some nine ye.irs, whcti he was silenced for heresy. But 
his talents were too conspicuous to be repressed. He 
became pastor of a Unitarian Church in Chicago, and 
soon rose to be one of the most popular preachers in 
the country. In 1879 he was invited to take charge of a 
church in New York, and removed to that city. He is 
the author of" Nature and Life," "A Man in Earnest," 
and other esteemed prose works. His poem, " Saxon 
Grit," shows his literary versatility. It was read at the 
New England dinner, December 22cl, 1879, and in intro- 
ducing it, after a brief speech, he said : "As I found my 
thought going off iu a sort of swing, and taking the shape 
of an old b;dlatl, I concluded to drop into poetry, though 
it ' comes more expensive,' as Mr. Wegg says." 



• Pliny tells us that the Egyptians regarded the pai)yrus as a 
symbol of immortality. 



BOBEUT COLLYER.— GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. 



79S 



SAXON GRIT. 

Worn wiUi tho battle, by Stamford town, 

Figlithig- the Novmaii, by Hastings Bay, 
Harold, tlio Saxon's, Sim went down, 

While the acorus were falling one antnsin day, 
Then tho Nonuau saici,."! am lord of the land: 

By tenor of coiuiuest here I sit ; 
I will rnle you now with the iron liand ;" 

But he had not thought of the Saxon grit. 

lie took the land, and he took the men. 

And burnt the homesteads from Trent to Tyne, 
Made the freetneu serfs by a stroke of tho pen, 

Kat n[) the corn and drank the wine. 
And said to tho maiden, i)ure an<l fair, 

'• Von shall be my leman, as is most lit. 
Your Saxon churl may rot in his lair;" 

But he had not measured the Saxon grit. 

To the merry green-wood went bold Robin Hood, 

With his strong-hearted yeomanry riite for tho 
Driving the arrow into the marrow [li'ay, 

Of all the jirond Normans who came iu his way ; 
Scorning the letter, fearless and free, 

Winning by valor, or foiling by wit, 
Dear to our Saxon folk ever is he. 

This merry old rogue with the Saxon grit. 

And Kett the tanner whipped out his knife. 

And Watt the smith his hammer brought down. 
Vox- ruth of the maid he loved better than life, 

And by breaking a head, made a hole in the Crown. 
From the Saxou heait. rose a mighty roar, 

"Our life shall not be by tho King's permit; 
We will tight for the right, we want no more ;" 

Tlicn the N(U-uum found out the Saxon grit. 

For slow and sure as the oaks had grown 

From the acorns falling that autnnui d.iy, 
So the Saxon manhood in thorpe and town 

To a nobler stature grew alway; 
Winning by inches, holding by clinches. 

Standing by law and the human right, 
JIany times failing, never once quailing, 

So the new day came out of the night. 

* Jt 7T i* * 

Tlieu rising afar in the Western sea, 

A new world Btood in the morn of tho day, 

Ready to welcome the brave and free. 

Who could wrench out the heart and march away 

Fnun the narrow, contracted, dear old land. 
Where the poor are held by a cruel bit, 



I To ampler spaces for heart and hand — 

And here was a chance for the Saxon grit. 

Steadily steering, eagerly peering, 

Trusting iu God your fathers came. 
Pilgrims aud strangers, fronting all dangers. 

Cool-headed Saxons, with hearts allame. 
Bound by the letter, but free from the fetter, 

And biding their freedom iu Holy Writ, 
They gave Deuteronomy hints in economy, 

iVnd made a new Moses of Saxon grit. 

They whittled and waded through forest and fen, 

Fearless as ever of what might befall ; 
Pouring out life for the nurture of men ; 

In faith that by manhood tho world wins all. 
Inventing baked beans and no end of machines ; 

Great with the rilie and great with the axe — 
Sending their notions over tho oceans. 

To till empty stomachs and straighten bent backs. 

Swift to t.ako chances that end in the dollar, 

Yet open of hand when the dollar is made, 
Maintaining the meetin', exalting tho scholar. 

But a little too anxious about a good trade ; 
This is young Jonathan, son of old John, 

Positive, peaceable, firm in the right, 
Saxon men all of us, may we be one. 

Steady for freedom, aud strong iu her might. 

Then, slow and sure, as the oaks have grown 

From the acorns that fell on that autunui day, 
So this new manhood in city and town. 

To a nobler stature will grow alway ; 
Winning by inches, holding by clinches, 

Slow to contention, and slower to quit, 
Now and then failing, never once quailing, 

Let us thank God for tho Saxon grit. 



(Pcorgc lUilliam (L'uvtiG. 

AMERICAN. 

Born in Providence, R. I., February 24tli, 18'24, Curtis 
received his early education at Mr. Weld's scliool, Ja- 
maica Plain, Mass. In ISiS he joined tlie Brook Farm 
Association, in West Roxbury, where he passed a year 
and a half. In 1840 he went to Europe, passing four 
years iu study and travel, and extending his tour to 
Egypt and Syria. On his return home he published 
"Nile Notes of a Howatlji." He was connected with 
Putnam's Monilibjjov wliieh he wrote largely and well; 
Init having taken a pecuniary interest in the publication, 
he sank his priv.ate fortune in saving the creditors from 
loss. He became a public lecturer iu 1853, aud was high- 



794 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



ly successful. In all the Pi-esidential campaigus since 
1856 he has been prominent as a politician, far above all 
tlie arts by which ijoliticians usually thrive. There is 
no public man more trusted by the best citizens. For 
some years Mr. Curtis has controlled certain departments 
in Harper's Weekly and Harper's Magazine ; to which his 
fi-esh and vigorous style always imparts interest. 



EGYPTIAN SERENADE. 

Sing again tbe soug you sung, 
When we Tvere together young — 
When there ^vere but you and I 
Unileriicath the summer slcy. 

Sing the soug, and o'er aud o'er, 
TliougU I kuow that nevermore 
Will it seem the soug you suug 
When we were together youug. 



PEAKL SEED. 

Songs are sung in uiy mind 

As pearls are formed iu the sea; 

Each thought with thy name entwined 
Becomes a sweet soug iu lue. 

Dimly those pale pearls shine. 

Hidden under the sea, — 
Vague are those songs of mine, 

So deeply they lie iu me. 



EBB AND FLOW. 

I walked beside the evening sea, 
Aud dreamed a dream that could not be ; 
The waves that plunged along the shore, 
Said only — " Dreamer, dream uo more !" 

But still the legions charged the beach. 
Loud rang their battle-cry, like speech ; 
Rut changed was the imperial strain ; 
It uuirmured — " Dreamer, dream again !" 

I homeward turned from out the gloom, — 
That Kouud I heard not in my room ; 
But suddenly a sound that stirred 
Within my very breast, I heard. 

It was my heart, that like a sea 

Within my breast beat ceaselessly: 

But like the waves along the shore. 

It said— "Dream ou !" aud "Dream uo morel" 



MAJOR AND MINOR. 

A bird sang sweet aud strong 
In the top of the highest tree ; 

He saug — " I pour out my soul iu soug 
For the summer th.at soon shall be." 

But deep in the shady wood 
Another bird sang — " I pour 

My soul on the solemn solitude 

For the springs that returu uo more." 



MUSIC I' THE AIR. 

Oh listen to the howling sea. 

That beats on the remorseless shore ; 

Oh listeu, for that sound shall be 

Wheu our wild hearts shall beat uo more. 

Oh listeu well, and listeu loug ! 

For, sitting folded close to me, 
You could not hear a sweeter soug 

Thau that hoarse murmur of the sea. 



Siibncji (Tljompson Dobcll. 

Dobell (lS:iH874) was a native of Craubrook, Eng- 
land. His earliest poetical productions appeared under 
the pseudonyme of "Sydney Yendys." His dramatic 
poem, "The Roman," was published in 1S50; "Balder, 
Part the First," in 18.5.5. In ISTl he published a spirited 
political lyric, entitled " England's Day." Miss Bronte, 
author of "Jane Eyre," was one of his friends .and corre- 
spondeuts. Yendys is Sydney spelled backward. 



HOW'S MY BOY? 

"Uo, sailor of the sea! 

How's my boy — my boy ?" 

" What's your boy's name, good wife, 

And iu what ship sailed he f ' 

"My boy John — 

Ho that went to sea — 

What care I for the ship, sailor? 

My boy's my boy to me. 

Y^ou come back from sea, 

Aud not know my John ? 

I might as well have asked some landsman 

Yonder down in the town. 

There's uot an ass iu all the parish 

But lie knows my John. 

How's my boy — my boy ? 



SYDKET THOMPSON DODELL.— ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY. 



795 



And unless you let me know, 

I'll sweai- you are no sailor, 

Blue jacket or no — 

Brass buttons or no, sailor, 

Anchor and crown or no ! — 

Sure liis ship vii^a the Jolly Briton—" 

" Speak low, woman, speak low !" 

" And why should I speak low, sailor. 
About my own boy John ? 
If I was loud as I am proud, 
I'd sing him over the town! 
Why should I speak low, sailor ?" 

"That good ship went down!" 

"How's my boy — my boy? 

What care I for the ship, sailor? — 

I was never aboard her ! 

Be she afloat or be she aground, 

Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound 

Her owners can afford her ! 

I say, how's nij' John ?" — 

" Every man on hoard went down, 
Every man aboard her !" 

" How's my boy — my boy ? 
What care I for the men, sailor ? 
I'm not their mother — 
How's my boy — my boy ? 
Tell me of him and no other ! 
How's my boy — my boy ?" 



AMERICA. 

Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us ! Oh ye 
Who north or south, on east or western land, 
Native to noble sounds, say truth fur truth. 
Freedom for freedom, love for love, and God 
For God ; oh ye who in eternal youth 
Speak with a living and creative flood 
Tliis universal English, and do stand 
Its breathing book ; live worth}' of that grand 
Heroic utterance — parted, yet a whole, 
Far, yet unsevered, — children bravo and free 
Of tho great mother-tongue, and ye shall be 
Lords of an empire wide as Sliakspeare's soul, 
Sublime as Milton's immemorial theme. 
And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as Spenser'; 
dream. 



aiicliiic P. iH. lUljituca. 

AMERICAN. 

Adeline Dutton Train was born in Boston in 1S34, and 
married in 1843 to Seth D. Whitney. Her residence 
(1880) was Milton, Mass. Slie is known chiefly for her 
spirited, novels, the last of which, " Odd or Even," ap- 
peared in 1880. Of poetry she has published " Footsteps 
on the Seas" (1857) and "Pansies." Her novels, pure, 
bright, and hcaltliy in sentiment and action, are much 
prized botli by young and old. 



BEHIND THE MASK. 

It was an old, distorted face, — 

An uncouth visage, rough and wild ; 

Yet from behind, with laughing grace. 
Peeped tho fresh beauty of a child. 

And so contrasting, fair and bright. 

It made me of my fancy ask 
If half earth's wrinkled griraness might 

Be but the baby in the mask. 

Behind gray hairs and furrowed brow 
And withered look that life puts on. 

Each, as ho wears it, comes to know 
How the child hides, and is not gone. 

For, while the inexorable years 

To saddened features fit their mould, 

Beneath the work of time and tears 

Waits something that will not grow old ! 

And pain and petulance and care, 
And wasted hope and sinful stain 

Shape the strange guise the soul doth wear. 
Till her young life look forth again. 

Tlie beauty of his boyhood's smile, — 
What human fixitli could find it now 

In yonder man of grief and guile, — 
A very Cain, with branded brow ? 

Yet, overlaid and liidden, still 

It lingers, — of his life a part ; 
As tho scathed pine upon the hill 

Holds the young iibres at its heart. 

And, haply, round the Eternal Throne, 
Heaven's pitying angels shall not ask 

For tliat last look tho world hath known, — 
But for the face behind tho mask ! 



^ 



796 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH JXD JMEBICAN POETRT. 



Cljarlcs (!?OLifrcij Cclanb. 



Lcland was bora in Philadelpliia in 1834, and graduated 
at Princeton College in 1S45. After passing tliree years 
in Enropc, he returned home and studied law, but soon 
gave it up for literature. He translated many of Heine's 
pieces from the German, and wrote the Hans Breitman 
ballads, which had an extraordinary success. In 1869 he 
revisited Europe, and passed several years in travel, re- 
siding most of the time in England. 



JUNE OWN. 

And oh tbe lougiug, burning eyes ! 

And oh tbe gleaming hair 
Wliicli waves around me uigbt and day, 

O'er chamber, ball, and stair! 

And oh the step,balf dreamt, half beard! 

Aud oil tbe Langbter low! 
And memories of merriment 

Wliieb faded long ago. 

Ob, art tbou Sylpb, — or truly Self, — 

Or citlier, at tby cboice ? 
Ob,spea!v in breeze or beating heart, 

Bnt let me bear thy voice! 

" Ob, some do call me Langliter, love ; 

And some do call me Sin :"' — 
"And tbey might call tliee what they will, 

So I tby love may win." 

"And some do call mo Wantonness, 

And some do call me Play :" — 
" Ob, tbey might call thee wlmt tbey w ()nl<l 

If tlu)U wert mine ahvaj'!"' 

" And some do call nie Sorrow, love. 

And some do call me Tears, 
And some there be who name me Hope, 

And some that name me Fears. 

"And some do call mo Gentle Heart, 

And some Forgotfnlness :" — 
"And if tbou com'st as one or all, 

Tbou coniest but to blo.ss !'' 

"And some do call me Life, sweetheart, 

Aud some do call me Death ; 
Anil he to whom the two are one, 

Has wou my heart aud faith." 



She twined her white arms round his neck :- 

Tbe tears fell down like raiu : 
"And if I live, or if I die, 

We'll never part again." 



Jramis (Lurncr IJtilgraric. 

Palgrave, born 1824, was educated at Oxford. He has 
published "Idyls aud Songs'' (18.54); "The Passionate 
Pilgrim, or Eros and Anteros " (1858), which appeared 
under the nom de plume of Henry T. Thurston ; " Essays 
on Art" (1866); "Hymns" (1S6T); "Lyrical Poems" 
(1871). He has .also edited " The Golden Treasury of the 
best Songs and Lyrical Poems in the English Language;" 
a tasteful and judicious collection. 



FAITH AND SIGHT: 

IN THE LATTER DATS. 
" I piffi : Bcquar." 

Tbou say'st, "Take up thy cross, 

O Man, and follow me :'' 
The uigbt is black, the feet are slack. 

Yet wo would follow thee. 

But, O dear Lord, wo cry. 

That we thy face could see ! 
Thy bles8(Sd face one moment's space — 

Then might we follow thee! 

Dim tracts of time divide 

Those golden days from me ; 
Tby voice coraes strange o'er years of change ; 

How can I follow tbeo? 

Comes faint and far tby voice 

From vales of Galilee ; 
Thy vision failes in ancieut shades ; » 

How should we follow thee? 

Unchanging law binds all, 

Aud Natnre all we .see : 
Tbou art a star, far off, (oo far. 

Too far to follow tlu^e! 

— Ah, sense-b(uind heart aud blind ! 

Is naught bnt w bat we see ? 
Can time undo what once was true ? 

Can we not follow thee ? 

Is what we trace of law 
The whole of God's decree ? 



I'TiJXCIS T. PALGIIAVE.— WILLIAM ALEXANDER.— GEORGE MACDOXALD. 



797 



Does our brief span grasp Nature's plan, 
And bid not I'ollow tlice ? 

O heavy cross — of faith 

lu what we cannot see ! 
As once of yore thyself restore, 

And help to follow thee ! 

If not as once thou cam'st 

In true liumanity, 
Come yet as guest withiu the breast 

That burns to follow thee. 

Withiu our heart of hearts 

In nearest nearness be : 
Set up thy throne ■within thiue own: — 

Go, Lord : ■ne follow thee. 



TO A CHILD. 

If by any device or knowledge 

The rose-bud its beauty could know, 

It would stay a rose-bud forever, 
Nor iuto its fulness grow. 

And if thou could'st know thy own sweetness, 

O little one, perfect and sweet, 
Thou would'st be a child forever. 
Completer while incomplete. 



lllilliam ^ki'anbcr. 



William Alexander, D.D., Bishop of Derry and Raplioc, 
has ijublished a theological prize essay, a volume of po- 
ems, several lectures and sermons, papers on the Irish 
Cliurch, and numerous fugitive works. He was born in 
1824, and is the husband of Mrs. Cecil Frances Alexander, 
author of "The Burial of Moses," and other poems. 



WAVES AND LEAVES. 

Waves, waves, waves ! 
Graceful arches, lit with night's pale gold. 
Boom like thunder through the mountains rolled. 
Hiss .and make their music manifold, 

Sing and work for God along the strand. 

Leaves, leaves, leaves ! 
Beautified liy Autumn's scorching breath. 
Ivory skeletons carven fair by death. 
Float and drift at a sublime command. 



Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts ! 
Kolling wave-like on the mind's strange shore. 
Rustling leaf-like through it evermore. 

Oh that they might follow God's good Hand ! 



JACOB'S LADDER. 

Ah, many a time we look on starlit nights 
Up to the sky, as Jacob did of old. 

Look longing up to the eternal lights. 
To spell their lines iu gold. 

But never more, as to the Hebrew lioy, 
Each on bis way the angels walk abroad ; 

And never more we bear, with awful joy. 
The audible voice of God. 

Yet, to pure eyes the ladder still is set, 
Aiul angel visitants still come aiul go; 

Many bright messengers are moving yet 
From the dark world below. 

Thoughts, that are red-crossed Faith's outspreadiiig 
wings,— [tryst,— 

Prayers of the Church, are keeping time and 
Heart-wishes, making bee-like muruiuriugs, 

Tlieir flower the Eucharist. 

Spirits elect, through suffering rendered meet 
For those high mansions ; from the nnrsery door, 

Bright babes that climb up with their clay-cold feet, 
Unto the golden door. 

These are the messengers, forever wending 

From earth to heaveu, that faith alone may scan ; 

These are the angels of our God, ascending 
Upon the Son of Man. 



©corgc Ulaciionaltt. 



.'\iacdonald, the author of numerous imaginative works, 
w.is born at Huutly, Scotland, in 1834, and educated at 
Aberdeen. For a while he was minister of a Congrega- 
tional Church, but gave up preaching on account of the 
state of his healtli. He has published a volume of po- 
ems and some theological works. He lectured in the 
United States iu 1874. 



BABY. 



Where did you come from, baby dear ? 
Out of the everywhere iuto here. 



798 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH JXD AMEIIICAN POETRY. 



Where did you get those eyes so blue ? 
Out of the sky as I came through. 

What makes the light iu them sparkle and s^nu ? 
Some of the starry spikes left iu. 

Where did you get that little tear ? 
I fouud it waiting when I got here. 

What makes your forehead so smooth and high ". 
A soft hand stroked it as I went by. 

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose ? 
I saw something better than any one knows. 

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss ? 
Tliree angels gave mo at once a kiss. 

Where did you get this pearly ear ? 
God spoke, and it came out to hear. 

Where did you get those arms aud hands ? 
Love made itself into bonds and bands. 

Feet, whence did yon come, you darling things ? 
From the same box as the cherubs' wiugs. 

How did they all just come to be you ? 
God thought about me, aud so I grew. 

But bow did you come to hs, yon dear? 
God tliought about yoii, and so I am here. 



"LOKU, I BELIEVE; HELP THOU MINE 
UNBELIEF." 

Come to mo, come to me, O my God ; 

Como to me everywhere ! 
Let the trees mean thee, and the grassy sod, 

And tlie water aud the air. 

For thou art so far that I often doubt, 

As on every side I stare. 
Searching within, aud looking without. 

If thou art anywhere. 

How did men find thee iu days of old ? 

How did they grow so sure ? 
They fought in thy name, they were glad and 
bold. 

They suffered, and kept themselves pure. 



But now they say — neither above the sphere. 

Nor down iu the heart of mau, 
But only in fancy, ambition, or fear, 

The thought of thee began. 

If only that perfect tale were true 
Which with touch of sunny gold, 

Of the ancient many makes one anew, 
And simplicity manifold! 

But he. said that they who did his word, 

Tlie truth of it should kuow : 
I will try to do it — if he be Lord, 

Perhaps the old spring will flow ; 

Perhaps the old spirit-wind will blow 
That he promised to their prayer; 

And doing thy will, I yet .shall kuow 
Thee, Father, everywhere ! 



lllilliam 0ibson. 

AMERICAN. 

A commaiuler in the United States Navy, Gibson lias 
contributed some remarkable poems (1870-1S78) to Uar- 
per's Magazine and other periodicals. He was born in 
Baltimore, Md., May 25th, 182.5. A volume of his poems 
was published in 1853 by James Monroe & Co., Boston ; 
and another aud more important collection was to ap- 
jiear iu ISSO. 



FROM THE " HYMN TO FREYA." 

Her thick hair is golden ; 
Her white robe is floating on air; 

And, though unbeholden, 
We know that her body is fair, 

For a rosy effulgence 
Reveals the w^arm limbs as they move 

Iu rapturous indulgence 
Of grace — the sweet Goddess of Love. 

Like dew-drops ethereal. 
Jewels her white neck adorn ; 

But alone her imperial 
Eyes make the dawning of nioru. 

Oh! sweeter than singing 
She whispers — the birds burst to song, 

And golden bells ringing. 
The charm of her presence prolong. 

The groves where she passes 
Hang heavy with blossoms and fruit ; 



WILLIAM GIBSON. — WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER. 



799 



In rich meadow-grasses 
Spring flowers at tbe touch of her foot. 

She loves best the roses — 
A rose branch for sceptre she takes ; 

Ami where'er she reposes 

Droop willows o'er crystalline lakes. 

I- 
# # * * 

She is all that is fairest 
In the world and the welkin on high, — 

The grace that is rarest, 
The glow that is homely and uigh ; 

She is Freedom and Dnty, 
Frank Morn and the Veiling of Light, 

The Passion of Beauty, 
The Fragrance and Voices of Night. 

Divinest, supreniest, 
Crowued Queen of the Quick and the Dead ; 

She is more than thou dreamestj 
O sonl of desire and of dread ! 

She is Spring-time and Gladness, 
And rapture all glory above ; 

She is Longing and Sadness; 
She is Birth — she is Death — she is Love ! 



lUilliam ailni Sutler. 

AMERICAN. 

Butler was born in Albany in 1825. His father was 
tlie estimable and genial Benjamin F. Butler, a member 
of the Cabinet of Presidents Jackson and Van Buren. 
"William completed his education at tbe University of 
tbe City of New York, and then passed a year or two in 
European travel. He lias made some fine translations 
from the German of Uhland; is the author of "Out-of- 
the-way Places in Europe," and has shown, in a scries of 
biographical and critical sketches of tbe Old Masters, 
that he is an excellent judge in art. His "Nothing to 
Wear" shows that lie is both a humorist and a poet. It 
is amusing without coarseness, and rises, at its close, 
into a strain of pathos as easy and unforced as it is 
beautiful and apt. 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 

AN EPISODE OF CITY LIFE. 

Miss Flora M'Flimsey, of Madison Square, 

Has nnido three separate journeys to Paris, 
And her father assures me, each time she was there, 

That she and her friend Mrs. Harris 
(Not tbe lady whose name is so famous in history, 
Bat plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery) 
Spent six consecutive week.-] without stopping. 
In one continuous round of shopping ; 



Shopping alone, and shopping together, 
At all hours of tbe day, and in all sorts of weather ; 
For all mauner of things that a woman can put 
On the crown of her head or tbe sole of her foot, 
Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist. 
Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced, 
Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow. 
In front or behind, above or below : 
For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls; 
Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls; 
Dresses to sit in, and stand in, ami walk in; 
Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in ; 
Dresses in which to do nothing at all ; 
Dresses for winter, spring, summer, and fall ; 
All of them different in color and pattern. 
Silk, muslin, and lace, crape, velvet, and satin. 
Brocade and broadcloth, and other material, 
Quite as expensive and much more ethereal ; 
In short, for all things that could ever be thought of. 
Or milliner, modiste, or tradesman be bought of. 

From ten-thousaud-francs robes to twenty-sous 
frills ; 
In all quarters of Paris, and to every store. 
While M'Flimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore. 

They footed tbe streets, and be footed the bills. 

Tbe last trip, their goods shipped by the steamer 

Arago 
Formed, M'Flimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo. 
Not to mention a quantity kept from tbe rest. 
Sufficient to fill the largest-sized chest. 
Which did not appear on the ship's manifest, 
But for which the liidies themselves manifested 
Such particular interest, that they invested 
Their own proper persons in layers and rows 
Of muslins, embroideries, worked uuder-clothes. 
Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as 

those ; 
Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian 

beauties. 
Gave good-bye to the ship, and go-hy to the duties. 
Her relations at home all marvelled, no doubt. 
Miss Flora bad grown so enormously stout 
For an actual belle aud a possible bride; 
But tbe miracle ceased when she turned inside out. 
And the truth came to light, and the dry goods 

beside, [try, 

Which, in spite of Collector and Custom-house sen- 
Had entered the port without auy entry. 

And yet, though scarce three months have passed 

since the day [^ay, 

This merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broad- 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAX I'OETItY. 



This same Miss M'Flirasey, of Madison Square, 
The last time vro met, was iu utter despair, 
Because she liad notbiug whatever to wear ! 

Nothing to weak! Now, as this is a true ditty, 
I do not assert — this, you know, is between us — 

That slie's iu a state of absolute uudity, 

Like Powers' Greek Slave, or the Medici Venus ; 

But I do mean to say, I have heard her declare, 
When, at the same moment, she had ou a dress 
Which cost five hundred dollars, and not a cent less, 
Aud jewelry wortb ten times more, I shonld guess, 

That she bad not a thing iu tbe wide world to wear ! 

I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora's 
Two hundred and tifty or sixty adorers, 
I bad just been selected as be who sbould throw all 
Tbe rest iu the shade, by the gracious bestowal 
On myself, after twenty or thirty rejections, 
Of those fossil remains which slie called her " affec- 
tions," [art, 
Aud that rather decayed, but well-known work of 
Which Miss Flora iiersisted iu styling " her heart." 
So we were engaged. Our troth bad beeu plighted. 
Not by moonbeam or starbcam, by fountain or grove. 
But iu a front parlor, nu)st brilliantly lighted. 
Beneath the gas-fixtures wo w'bisperecl our love. 
Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs. 
Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eye.s, 
Or blushes, or transpoi-t-s, or such silly actions. 
It was one of tbe quietest business tr.ansactious, 
With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any. 
And a very large diamond imported by Tiffany. 
Ou her virginal lips while I printed a kiss. 
She exclaimed, as a sort of parenthesis. 
And by way of jiuttiug mo quite at my ease, 
" You know, I'm to polka as much as I please, 
Aud flirt wheu I like — now stop, don't you speak — 
And you must not come here more than twice in the 

week, 
Or talk to me either at party or ball. 
But always bo ready to come when I call ;■ 
So don't pro.se to me about duty and stuif. 
If we don't break this off, there will be time enough 
For that sort of thing ; but the bargain must be 
That, as long as I choose, I am perfectly free. 
For this is a sort of engagement, you see. 
Which is biiuliug on you, but not binding on me." 

Well, having thus wooed Miss M'Flimsey and gained 
her, [lu-r. 

With the silks, crinolines, aud hoops that coutaiued 
I Lad, as I thought, a contingent remaiuder 



At least iu tbe property, and the best right 
To appear as its escort by day aud by uight : 
And it being the week of the Stuckup's grand 
ball— 

Their cards had been out a fortnight or so, 

Aud set all the Avenue on the tiptoe — 
I considered it only my duty to call, 

Aud see if Miss Flora intended to go. 
I found her — as ladies are apt to be found, 
When tbe time intervening between the first sound 
Of tbe bell aud tbe visitor's entry is shorter 
Than usual — I found — 1 won't say — I caught her — 
Intent on the pier-gl.ass, undoubtedly meaning 
To see if perhaps it didn't need cleaning. 
She turnwl as I entered — " Why, Harry, you sinner, 
I thought that you went to the Fla.sbers' to dinner!" 
"So I did," I replied, "but the dinner is swal- 
lowed. 

And digested, I trust, for 'tis now nine and more. 
So being relieved from that duty, I followed . 

Inclination, which led me, you see, to yonr door. 
And now will your ladyship so condescend 
As just to inform mo if you intend 
Your beauty, aud graces, aud presence to lend 
(All which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow) 
To the STiCKrrs, whose party, yon know, is to- 
morrow ?" 

Tbe fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air, 

And answered quite promptly, " Wliy, Hariy, mon 

chet; 
I sbould like .above all things to go with you there; 
But really and truly — I've nothing to wear." 

"Nothing to wear! go just as you are; 

Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far, 

I engage, the most bright and particular star 

On the Stuckup horizon" — I stopped, for her eye. 
Notwithstanding t^iis delicate onset of flattery. 
Opened on me at once a most terrible battery 

Of scorn and amazement. She nnide no reply. 
But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose 

(That pure Grecian feature), as much as to say, 
" How absurd that any sane man sbould suiiposo 
That a lady would go to a ball iu the clothes. 

No matter how fine, that she wears every day !" 

So I ventured again — " Wear yonr crimson brocade" 
(Secoud turn up of uo.se) — "That's too dark by a 

shade." 
"Your blue silk " — "That's too be.avy ;" "Your 

pink"— "That's too light." 
"Wear tullo over satin" — "I cau't endure white." 



41 



WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER. 



801 



\ 



"Yoiii- rose-colored, then, the best of the batch" — 

" I haven't a thread of point-lace to match." 

'• Vonr brown moire aniique" — " Yes, and look like 

a Quaker ;" 
"The iiearl-colored " — "I wonld, bnt that plagney 

dress-maker 
Has had it a week" — "Then that exquisite lilac, 
In \Thicli you Tvonld melt the heart of a Shylock." 
(Here the nose took aj^ain the same elevation) 
"I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation." 
" Why not ? It's my fancy, there's nothing could 

strike it 
As more commc il faiit — " "Yes, bnt dear me, that 

lean 
Soplironia Stncknp has got one jnst like it. 
And I won't appear dressed like a chit of sixteen.". 
"Then that splendid pnrple, that sweet Mazarine; 
That superb j'oint d'aiguiUe, that imperial green. 
That zephyr-like tarleton, that rich grenadine" — 
"Xot one of all which is fit to be seen," 
Said the lady, becoming excited and fln.shed. 
"Then wear," I exclaimed, in si tone which quite 

crushed 
Opposition, " that gorgeous toilette which yon 

sported 
In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation. 
When you quite turned the head of the head of 

the nation ; 
And by all tlie grand court were so very much 

courted." 
The end of the nose was portentously tipped up. 
And botli the bright eyes shot forth indignation, 
As she burst upon mo with the tierce exclamation, 
" I have worn it three times at the least calculation, 
And that and the most of my dresses are ripped 

up !" 
Here / ripped out something, perhaps rather rash. 
Quite innocent, though ; but, to use an expression 
More striking than classic, it "settled my hash," 
And proved very soon the last act of our session. 
" Fiddlesticks, is it, Sir ? I wonder the ceiling 
Doesn't fall down and crush yon — oh, you men have 

no feeling. 
Yon seltisli, unnatural, illiberal creatures, 
Wlio set yourselves up as patterns and preachers. 
Your silly pretence — why, what a mere guess it is! 
Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities? 
I have told you and shown you I've nothing to 

wear. 
And it's perfectly plain yon not only don't care, 
Bnt you do not believe me " (here the nose went 

still higher). 
'■ I suppose if you dared you would call me a liar. 
51 



Our engagement is ended, Sir — yes, on the spot ; 
You're a brute, and a monster, and — I don't know 

what." 
I mildly suggested the words — Hottentot, 
Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, and thief. 
As gentle expletives which might give relief; 
lint this ouly jiroved as spark to the powder. 
And the storm I had raised came faster and louder, 
It blew and it rained, thundered, lightened, and 

hailed 
Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite 

failed 
To express the abusive, and then its arrears 
Were brought up all at once by a torrent of tears. 
And my last faint, despairing attempt at an obs- 
Krvation was lost in a tempest of .sob.s. 

Well, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat, too. 
Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo, 
111 lieu of expressing the feelings which lay 
Quite too deep for words, as W^ordsworth would say : 
Then, without going through the form of a bow. 
Found myself in the entry — I hardly know how — 
On door -step and sidewalk, past lamp -post and 

square. 
At home and up-stairs, in my own ea.sy chair; 

Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze. 
And said to myself, as I lit my cigar, 
Supposing a man had the wealth of the Czar 

Of the Russias to boot, for the rest of his days. 
On the whole, do you think he Avould have much to 

spare 
If he married a woman with nothing to wear? 

Since that night, taking pains that it should not be 

bruited 
Abroad in society, I've instituted 
A course of inquiry, extensive and thorough, 
On this vital subject, and find, to vay horror. 
That the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising. 

But that there exists the greatest distress 
In our female eomninnity, solely arising 

From this unsupplied destitution of dress, 
Whose unfortunate victims are tilling the air 
With the pitiful wail of "Nothing to wear." 
Researches in some of the "Upper Ten" districts 
Reveal the most painful and startling statistics. 
Of which let me mention only a few : 
In one single house on the Fiftli Avenue, 
Three young lailies were found, all below twenty- 
two. 
Who have been three whole weeks without anything 
now 



802 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



lu tbe wfiy of flounced silks, ami, thus left in tUe 

lurch, 
Are unablo to go to ball, concert, or church, 
lu auother large niansiou near the same place 
Was fonnd a deplorable, beart-reuding case 
Of entire destitntion of Brussels point-lace. 
In a neighboring block there was found, in three 

calls, 
Total want, long continued, of camels'-liair shawls; 
And a s\iffering family, whose case exhibits 
The most pressing need of real ermine tippets; 
One deserving young lady almost unable 
To survive for the want of a new Russian sable; 
Another contiued to the house, when it's windier 
Than usual, because her shawl Isn't India. 
Still another, whose tortures have beeu most terrific 
Ever since the sad loss of the steamer Pacific, 
In which were ingulfed, uot friend or relation, 
(For whose fate she perhaps might have found con- 
solation. 
Or borne it, at least, with serene resignation), 
liut the choicest assortment of French sleeves and 

collars 
Ever sent out from Paris, worth thousands of dol- 
lars. 
And all «s to style most recherche and rare. 
The want of which leaves her with uothiug to 

wear. 
And renders hei- life so drear and dyspeptic 
That she's quite a recluse, and almost a sceptic, 
For slbc touehingly says that this sort of grief 
Cannot find in Religion the slightest relief. 
And Philosophy has uot a maxim to spare 
For the victims of such overwhelming despair. 
But the saddest by far of all these sad features 
Is the cruelty practised upon the poor creatures 
By husbands and fathers, real Bluebeards and Ti- 

mous, 
Who resist the most touching appeals made for dia- 
monds 
By their wives and their danghtere, and leave them 

for days 
Unsnpplied with new jewelry, fans or bouquets. 
Even laugh at their miseries whenever they have a 

chance, 
And deride their demands as useless extravagance ; 
One case of a bride was brought to my view, 
Too sad for belief, bnt, alas! 'twas too trne. 
Whoso husband refused, as savage as Charon, 
To permit her to take more than teu trunks to Sha- 
ron. 
The consequence was, that when she got there. 
At the end of three weeks she had uothiug to wear, 



And when she proposed to finish the season 
At Newport, the monster refused out and out. 
For his infamous conduct alleging no reason, 
Excexit that the waters were good for his gout ; 
Such treatment as this was too shocking, of course, 
Aud proceedings are now going ou for divorce. 

Bnt why harrow the feelings by lifting the curtain 
From these scenes of woe? Enough, it is certain. 
Has here been disclosed to stir up the pity 
Of every benevolent heart in the city, 
And spur up Humanity into a canter 
To rush and relieve these sad cases iustanter. 
Won't somebody, moved by this touching descrip- 
tion, 
.Come forward to-morrow and head a subscription ? 
Won't some kind philanthropist, seeing that aid is 
So needed at once by these indigent ladies, 
Take charge of the matter ? or won't Petki! Coopf.k 
The corner-stone lay of some splendid super- 
structure, like that which to-day links his name 
In the Union unending of honor and fame ; 
And found a new charity just for the care 
Of these unhappy women with nothing to wear. 
Which, in view of the cash which would daily be 

claimed. 
The Laying-out Hospital well might be named? 
Won't Stewart, or some of our dry-goods importers, 
Take a contract for clothing our wives and our 

ilanghtcrs ? 
Or, to furnish the cash to supply these distresses, 
And life's jiathway strew with shawls, cuUars, ami 

dresses, 
Ere the want of them makes it much rougher and 

thornier, 
Won't some one discover a new California ? 

O ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day 
Please trundle y<H!r hoops jnst out of Broadway, 
From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion ami pride. 
And the temples of Trade which tower ou each side. 
To the alleys aud lanes, where Misfortune .lud Guilt 
Their children have gathered, their city have built ; 
Where Hunger aud Vice, like twin beasts of prey. 
Have hunted their victims to gloom aud despair : 
Raise (lie rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidcred 

skirt. 
Pick your delicate way through the dampness aud 

dirt, [stair 

Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety 

To the garret, where wretches, the young and the 

old, [cold. 

Half-starved and half-naked, lie crouched from the 



WILLIAM ALLEX BUTLER.— RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 



ho;; 



See those skeleton limbs, those frost-hitteu feet, 
All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street; 
Then home to yonr wardrobes, and say, if you dare. 
Spoiled thildren of fashion, you've nothing to wear! 

And oh, if perchance there should be a sphere 
Where all is made right which so puzzles us here; 
Where the glare and the glitter and tinsel of time 
Fade and die in the light of that region sublime ; 
Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense. 
Unscreened bj' its trappings, and shows, and pre- 
tence. 
Must be clothed for the life and the service above 
With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love, — 
daughters of earth ! foolish virgins, beware ! 
Lest in that upper realm you have nothing to wear! 



Hitljavb Cjcuvn Gtobiiavi). 

AMERICAN. 

Stodclard, born in Ilhighani, Mass., in 1835, removed 
when quite young to New York. He engaged early in 
literai'j jnu'suits; published a volume of poems in 1843; 
another in 1S49; "Songs of Summer," in 1856; "The 
King's Bell," in 1863; "The Book of the East," iu 
1871; "Later Poems" (1871-1880). In the last-named 
year an elegant edition of his colleetcd poems, with a flue 
portrait, was published by Charles Seribner's Sous, New 
York. Stoddard has done much literary work for pub- 
lishers as author, editor, and compiler. For some time he 
held a place in the Custom-house. His wife (Elizabeth 
Drew Barstow,boru 1833), a native of Mattapoisett, Mass., 
has also'achieved success in authorsliiij, having produced 
several novels and contributed largely to magazines. One 
of lier poems is subjoined. In his short lyrical pieces 
Stoddard e.vliibits mucli of the grace, tenderness, and del- 
icacy of expression that charm us in Herrick, Tennyson, 
and the German Heine. He is one of the born poets, 
having manifested when a child extreme sensitiveness 
to the influences of external nature and to all that is 
beautiful in art. A series of short poems on the death 
of his little boy are remarkable for the deep aud true 
pathos they embody. 



SOXGS UNSUNG. 

Let no poot, great or small. 
Say that he will sing a siuig; 

For song cometh, if at all, 
Not because we woo it long, 

But because it suits its will, 

Tired at last of being still. 

Every song that has been sung 
Was before it took a voice ; 



Waiting since the world was young 

For the poet of its choice. 
Oh, if any waiting be, 
May they come to-day to me ! 

I am ready to repeat 

Whatsoever they impart ; 
Sorrows sent by them are sweet — 

They know how to heal the heart: 
Ay, and iu the lightest strain 
Something serious doth remain. 

What are my white hairs, forsooth, 
Aud the wrinkles on my brow ? 

I have still the soul of youth — 
Try me, merry JMuses, now. 

I can still with nnmbers tJeet 

Fill the world with dancing feet. 

No, I am no longer young ; 

Old am I this many a year; 
But my songs will yet be sung, 

Though 1 shall not live to hear. 
Oh, my sou, that is to be. 
Sing my songs, and think of lue ! 



FROM THE PROEM TO COLLECTED POEMS. 

These songs of mine, the best that I have sung. 

Are not my best, for caged within the lines 

Are thousands better (if they would but sing!). 

Silent amid the clamors of their mates : 

I know they are imperfect, none so well, — 

Echoes at first, no doubt, of older songs, 

(Not kuowiugly canght, but echoes all the same,) 

Fancies where facts were wanting, or hard facts 

Which only fancies made endurable ; 

I grant, beforehand, all the faults they have, 

Too deeply rooted to be plucked up now, 

And leave them to their fate ; content to know 

That they sustained me in my dreariest days. 

That they consoled me in my darkest nights, 

Aud to believe, now I have done with them, 

I may do well enough to win at last 

The Laurel I have missed so many years. 



now ARE SONGS BEGOT AND BRED ? 

How are songs begot and bred ? 
How do golden measures flow ? 



S04 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



From the heart, or from tlie bead ? 
Happy Poet ! let me know. 

Tell nie first how folded Howcrs 
Bud and bloom in vernal bowers; 
How the sonth wind shapes its tuue- 
The harper he of June ! 

None may answer, none may know ; 
Winds and flowers come and go, 
And the self-same canons hind 
Natnre and the Poet's mind. 



THE COUNTRY LIFE. 

Not what we would, but what we UMist, 

Makes up the sum of living ; 
Heaven is both more and less than just 

In taking and in giving. 
Swords cleave to hands that songht the plough. 
And laurels miss the soldier's brow. 

Jle, whom the city holds, whose feet 

Have worn its stony highways. 
Familiar with its loneliest street — 

Its ways were never my ways. 
My cradle was beside the .sea. 
And there, I hope, my grave will be. 

Old hnmostead ! In that old, gray town, 

Thy vane is seaward blowing. 
The slip of ganlen stretches down 

To where the tide is flowing: 
Bflow tlicy lie, their sails all furled, 
Tlio ships that go about the world. 

Dearer tliat little country house, 

Inland, with pines beside it ; 
Some peach-trec), with nnfinitful boughs, 

A well, with weeds to hide it : 
No flowers, or only such as rise 
Self-sown, poor things, which all despise. 

Dear country home ! Can I forget 

The least of thy sweet trifles? 
The window-vines that clamber yet. 

Whose bloom the bee still rifles ? 
The roadside blackberries, growing ripe, 
And in the woods the Indian Pipe ? 

Hapiiy the man who tills his field, 
Content with rustic labor; 



Earth does to him her fulness yield. 

Hap what may to his neighbor. 
Well days, sound nights, oh, can there be 
A life more rational and free ? 

Dear country life of child and nuiu ! 

For both the best, the strongest. 
That with the earliest race began, 

And hast outlived the longest: 
Their cities perished long ago ; 
Who the first farmers were we know. 

Perhaps our Babels too will fall ; 

If so, no lamentations. 
For Mother Earth will shelter all, 

And feed the unboru nations; 
Yes, and the swords that menace now 
Will then be beaten to the plough. 



ON THE CAMPAGNA. 

JIrs. W. H. STODD.\nD. 

stop on the Appian Way, 
In the Roman Canipagiia, — 

Stop at my tomb. 
The tomb of Cecilia Metella ! 

To-day as you see it 
Ahirie saw it ages ago. 
When he, with his pale-visaged Goths, 
Sat at the gates of Rome, 
Reading his Runic shield. 
Odin, thy curse reiiuiins. 

Beneath these batllcmcufs 
My hones were stirred with Roman pride. 
Though centuries before my Romans died: 
Now my bones ajc dust : the Goths are dust, 
The river-bed is dry where sleeps the king ; 

My tomb remains. 
When Rome commanded the earth 

Great were the Metelli : 

I was Metellus' wife; 

I loved him, — and I died. 
Then with slow patience built he this memorial : 

Each century marks his love. 

Pass by on the Appian Way 

The tomb of Cecilia Metella. 
Wild shepherds alone seek its shelter, 
Wild buffaloes tramp at its base : 
Deep in its desolation. 
Deep as the shadow of Rome ! 



THOMAS D'AKCT McGEE.— ADELAIDE AXXE PROCTER. 



805 



Qll)oinas i3':Hvcij iUcC!3cc. 



^McGee (bom iulSrio) was a native olCarlingford, County 
toiitli, Ii-dand ; tlie son of a member of the Coast Guard 
Service. In 184r3 Tlioinas eniiR-rated to America, and was 
connected for awliile witli The Pilot. He returned to 
Ireland to be associated, first witli the Dublin Freanan's 
Journal, and then with The Nation. In 1S18 lie returned 
to America, and started the New York Xation; it was not 
a success, and lie commenced The American Celt in Bos- 
ton. Selling out his interest in that paper, he accepted 
an invitation to remove to Montreal, where he was elect- 
ed to the Canadian Parliament. Here he opposed the 
Fenian movement, and, incurring the hatred of the most 
radical of his countrymen, was assassinated April 7th, 
1S68. His jjoems are unequal in merit, many of them 
showins; a great lack of artistic care. A collection of 
them was published in New York in 1889. 



CATHAL'S FAREWELL TO THE RYE. 

Cathal Crov-dcrg (the refl-haiidcil) O'Connor, being banished 
from Counanght, was found reaping rye iu a field in Leinster, 
when news was brought that called him to assert his rights, 
(.'aihal threw down the sickle, saying, "Farewell, sickle ; now 
for the sword !" The sayiug grew to be proverbial iu Ireland. 

Sliiniiig sickle! lie thou there; 

Another harvest neeihs my haml, 
Another sickle I must bear 

Back to the fields of my own land. 
Farewell, sickle! welcome, sword! 

A crop waves red on Connnught's plain, 
Of bearded men and banners gay, 

But we will beat them down like rain, 
And sweep them like the storm away. 
Farewell, sickle ! welcome, sword ! 

Peaceful sickle ! lie thou there. 

Deep buried iu the vaiifiuished rye; 

Jlay thi.s that iu thy stead I bear, 
Above as thick a reaping lie! 

Farewell, sickle! welcome, sword ! 

Welcome, sword ! out from your sheath, 
And look upon the glowing sun ! 

Sliarp shearer of the field of death, 
Y'our time of rust aud rest is doue. 
Welcome, welcome, trusty sword ! 

Welcome, sword ! uo more repose 
For Cathal-Crov-derg or for thee, 

Until we walk o'er Erin's foes, 
Or they walk over you aud me, 

51}' lightning, banner-eleaviiig sword! 



Welcome, sword ! thou magic waiul, 

Which raises kings aud casts them down ; 

Thou sceptre to the fearless hand, 

Thou fetter-key for limbs long bound, — 
W'elcomo, wonder-workiug sword ! 

Welcome, sword ! no more with love 
Will Cathal look ou laud or main, 

Till with thine aid, my sword ! I prove 
What race shall reap aud king shall reigu. 
Farewell, sickle! w-elcome sword! 

Shining sickle! lie thou there; 

Another harvest needs my hand, 
Another sickle I must bear 

Back to the fields of my own laud. 
Farewell, sickle! wcleoiue, sword! 



-^iicliaik ^nnc IJrocter. 

Miss Procter (1S35-1S64) was that "golden- tressed 
Adelaide," of whom her father, while writing under the 
pseudonyme of Barry Cornwall, used to slug. N. P. 
Willis described her while a child as "a beautiful girl of 
eight or nine years, delicate, gentle, and pensive, as if she 
was born on the lip of Castaly, and knew she was a poet's 
daughter." In 1858 she published "Legends and Lyr- 
ics," a book of verse. Many of her earliest poems ap- 
peared in Charles Dickens's weekly magazine. Household 
^Yord.■i. They breathe an earnest religious seutiment, 
and have a character of their own which distinguishes 
them from all mere imitations. Miss Procter became a 
Roman Catholic in the latter part of her short life. An 
American edition of her poems has met with a good sale. 
One of her critics says : "It is full of a thoughtful seri- 
ousness, a grave tenderness, a faucy temperate but not 
frigid, with touches of the true artist." 



MINISTERING ANGELS. 

Angels of light, spread your bright wings and keep 

Near me at moru ; 
Nor iu the starry eve, nor midnight deep, 

Leave me forlorn. 

From all dark spirits of uidioly power 

Guard my weak heart. 
Circle around me iu each perilous hour, 

And take my part. 

From all forebodiug thoughts aud dangerous fears 

Keep me secure ; 
Teach me to hope, aud through the bitterest tears 

Still to endure. 



80G 



CTCLOPJ^DIA OF DUiriSH AXD A:dEIiICAy POETRY. 



If lonely in the roail so fair anil wide 

My feet slionlil stray, 
Tlicu through a longher, safer pathway guide 

5Ie (lay by tlay. 

.Slior.lil my heart faint at its nueqnal strife, 

Oh, still be near — 
■Sliailciw the perilons sweetness of this life 

With holy fear. 

Then leave me not alone in this bleak world. 

Where'er I roam ; 
And at the end, with your bright wings unfurled, 

Oh, take me home ! 



THE LOST CHORD. 

Seated one day at the organ, 
I was weary aud ill at ease, 

And. my fingers ■wandered idly 
Over the noisy keys. 

I know not what I was playing. 
Or what I was dreaming of theu. 

But I struck one chord of music 
Like the sound of a great Amen ! 

It flooded the crimson twilight, 
Like the close of an angel's psalm, 

And it Jay on my fevered spirit 
With a touch of iutiuite calm. 

It quieted pain aud sorrow, 
Like love ovcreoniing strife; 

It seemed the harmonious echo 
From our discordant life. 

It linked all perjilexed meanings 

Into one perfect peace, 
Aud trembled away into- silence 

As if it were loath to ceasi>. 

I have sought, but I seek it vainly, 
That one lost chord divine. 

That came from the soul of the organ. 
And eutered into mine. 

It may be that Death's bright angel 
Will speak in that chord again ; 

It m.ay be that only in heaven 
I shall hear that grand Amen I 



STRIVE, WAIT, AND PEAY. 

Strive ; j'et I do not promise. 

The prize you dream of to-day. 
Will not fade when you think to grasp it, 

And melt in your hand away ; 
But another aud holier treasure. 

You would now perchance disdain. 
Will come when your toil is over, 

And pay you for all your pain. 

Wait; yet I do not tell yon. 

The hour you long for now, 
Will not come with its radiance vanished, 

And a shadow npou its brow ; 
Yet far through the misty future, 

With a crown of starry light, 
An hour of joy you know not 

Is winging her silent flight. 

Pray ; though the gift you ask for 

May never comfort your fears, 
May never repay your pleading. 

Yet pray, aud with hopeful tears; 
An answer, uot that you long for, 

But diviner, will come one day ; 
Your eyes are too dim to see it. 

Yet strive, aud wait, and jiray. 



JJaiiarb (J^anlor. 



James B,\vard Taylor, as he was christened (1835-1878), 
was a native of Keimel Square, Chester County, Pa. His 
active career began with au apprenticeship in a printing- 
ofBce of his native place. Wlicu nineteen years old he 
set out for Europe, and travelled aloot for two years. 
His first book, " Views Afoot," had a profitable sale. 
He subsequently travelled in California, Central Africa, 
India, Cliiiia, Japan, Sweden, Denmark, Lapland, Greece, 
aud Russia, and embodied his experieuecs in many books 
of travel. He was couTieeted editorially with the New 
York Tribune. He published tlirce novels, made a brill- 
iant translation of Goethe's "Faust," and was the au- 
thor of several volumes of poems, containing some lyrics 
of a high order. Married to a German lady, he became 
an accomplished German scholar, and uuderloolv a life 
of Goethe, for preparing wliicli his opportunities were 
ample. Under the Tresidency of Mr. Hayes he was made 
Minister to Berlin in 1878, but died in that city in tlie 
flusli of his schemes of literary labor and of diplomatic 
culture. He was a man greatly beloved by numerous 
friends, and has left a literary record that is likely to 
make his name Ions familiar. A complete edition of liis 
poems appeared in Bostou in 1880. 



BAXAIiD TAYLOR. 



STORM-SONG. 

The eloiuls are sciuldiug across the moon ; 

A uiisty light is on the sea; 
The wind in the shrouds has a. wintry tune, 

And the foam is flying free. 

Brothers, a night of terror and gloom 

Speaks in the cloud and gathering roar; 

Thank God, ho has given us broad sea-room, 
A thousand miles from shore! 

Down with the hatches on those who sleep! 

The wild and whistling deck have we ; 
Good watch, my brothers, to-night we'll keep, 

While the tempest is on the sea ! 

Though the rigging shriek in his terrible grip. 
And the naked spars be snapped away, 

Lashed to the helm, we'll drive our ship 
Straight through the whelming spray 1 

Hark, how the surges o'erleap the deck! 

Hark, how the pitiless tempest raves ! 
Ah, daylight will look upon many a wreck, 

Drifting over the desert waves! 

Yet courage, brothers ! we trust the wave, 
With God above us, our star and chart ; 

So, whether to harbor or ocean-grave, 
Be it still with a cheery heart! 



A CRIMEAN EPISODE. 

" Give us a song," the soldier cried. 

The outer trenches guarding. 
When the heated guns of the camp allied 

Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Kedan, in silent scoflF, 
Lay grim and threatening under. 

Anil the tawny mound of Malakoff 
No longer belched its thunder. 

"Give us a song," the Guardsmen say, 
" We storm the forts to-morrow ; 

Sing while we may, another day 
Will bring enough of sorrow." 

Tlioy lay along the battery's side. 
Below the smoking cannon ; 



Brave hearts from Severn and tlie Clyde, 
And from the banks of Shannon ! 

They sang of love, and not of fame, 
Forgot was Britain's glory — 

Each heart recalled a ditferent name. 
But all sang Annie Laurie ! 

Voice after voice caught up the song. 

Until its tender passion 
Rose like an anthem rich and strong, 

Their battle-eve confession. 

Beyond the darkening ocean, burned 

The bloody sunset embers ; 
And the Crimean valley learned 

How English love remembers. 

And once again the tires of hell 
Rained ou the Russian quarters — 

With scream of shot, and burst of shell, 
And bellowing of the mortars ! 

And Irish Norah's eyes Avere dim. 

For a singer dumb and gory, 
And English Mary mourns for him 

Who sang of Annie Laurie. 

Ah! soldiers, to your honored rest 
Your love and glory bearing, — • 

The bravest are the loveliest. 
The loving are the daring! 



THE FIGHT OF PASO DEL MAR. 

Gnsty and raw was the morning, 

A fog hung over the seas, 
And its gr.ay skirts rolling iidand. 

Were torn by the mountain trees; 
No sound was heard but the dashing 

Of waves ou the sandy bar, 
Wheu Pablo of San Diego 

Rode down to the Paso del Mar. 

The pescador, out in his shallop. 

Gathering his h.arvest so wide. 
Sees the dim bulk of the headland 

Loom over the waste of the tide ; 
He sees, like a white thve.ad, the pathway 

Wind round on the terrible wall. 
Where the faint moving speck of the rider 

Seems hovering close to its fall. 



V 



806 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BItlTISU AND AMERICAN FOETBT. 



Stont Pablo of San Diego 

Eo(U' down fnJiii tlie liills Ijehiud; 
With tlio bells on liis gray mule tinkliag, 

He sang tlirongh tlie fog and \Yiud. 
Under his thiek, misted eyebrows 

Twinkled his eye like a star, 
And fiercer he sang as the sea-winds 

Drove cold on the Paso del Mar. 

Now Rernal, the herdsman of C'hino, 

Had travelled the shore since dawn, 
Leaving the ranches behind him, — 

Good reason had he to be gone ! 
The blood was still red on his dagger. 

The fnry was hot in his brain. 
And the chill, driving scud of the breakers 

Beat thick on his forehead in vain. 

With his iioneho wi-apped gloomily round him. 

He mounted the dizzying road. 
And the chasms and steeps of the headland 

Were slippery and wet as he trode : 
Wild swept the wind of the ocean, 

Rolling the fog from afar. 
When near him a mule-bell came tinkling, 

Jlidway on the Paso del JIar. 

" Back 1"' shouted Bernal, full fiercely. 

And " Back !"' .shouted Pablo, in wrath, 
As his mule luilted, startled and shrinking, 

On the perilous line of the path. 
Tlie roar of devouring surges 

Came up from the breakers' lio.trse war; 
And " Back, or you perish !" cried Bernal, 

" I turn not on Paso del Mar !" 

The gray mule stood tirni as the headland : 

Ho clutched at the jingling rein, 
When Pablo rose up in his saddle 

And smote till ho dropped it again. 
A wild oath of passion swore Bernal, 

And brandished his dagger, still red, 
While fiercely stout Pablo leaned forward. 

And fought o'er bis trusty mule's head. 

They fought till the black wall below them 

Shone red through the misty blast; 
Stout Pablo, then struck, leaning farther, 

Th(^ broad breast of Bernal at last. 
.\nd, frenzied with pain, the swart herdsman 

Closed on liiui with terrible strength, 
And jerked him, despite of his struggles, 

Down from the saddle at length, 



They graj)pled with desperate madness, 

On the slippery edge of the wall; 
They swayed on the brink, and together 

Reeled out to the rush of the fall. 
A cry of the wildest death-anguish 

Rang faint through the mist afar, 
And the riderless mulo went homeward 

From the fight of the Paso del Mar. 



iUrs. 5ulia (C. Dorr. 

AMERICAN. 

Julia Caroline Ripley, llie daughter of a gentleman for 
some time President of tlie Rutland County (Vt.) Bank, 
was born in Charleston, S. C, in 182i5. Her father re- 
moved to New York, and she had a Nortlicrn education. 
In 1847 she nian-ied Seneca M. Dorr, of Chatham, N. Y,. 
and they removed to Rutland. She has had litciary 
tastes from cliildliood, aud is tlie author of some half- 
dozen successful novels. Her first volume of poems 
appeared in 1872; and in 1879 it was followed by "Friar 
Anselmo, aud other Poems." She shows a truly original 
vein in these productions, which seem always prompted 
liy genuine feeling and a natural lyrical euclowincnt. A 
happy wife and mother, her best work lias been given 
to oilier than literary pursuits. 



QUIETNESS. 

I would bo qniet, Lord, nor tease, nor fret ; 
Not one small need of mine wilt Thou forgot. 
I am not wise to know what most I need ; 
I dare not cry too loud lest Thou shouldst heed, — 

Lest Thou at length shouldst say, " Child, have thy 

will ; 
As thou hast chosen, lo! thy cup I fill!" 
What I most crave, perchance Thou wilt withludd, 
.\s we fioin hands unmeet keep pearls or gold ; 

As we, when childish bauds would play with fire, 
Withliold the burning goal of their desire. 
Vet choose Thou for me — Thou who knowest best ; 
This one short prayer of mine holds all the rest ! 



HEIRSHIP. 

Little store of wealth have I, 
Not a rood of land I own ; 

Nor a mansion fair and high, 
Built of towers of fretted stone. 

Stocks nor bonds, nor title-deeds. 
Flocks nor herds have I to show ; 



MHS. JULIA C. DORS. 



?oa 



When I lido, no Arab steeds 

Toss I'm- me their manes of snow. 

I luive neither pearls nor gold, 

Massive plate, nor jewels rare ; 
Broidered silks of worth iiutold, 

Nor rich robes a queen might wear. 
In my garden's narrow bound 

Flaunt no costly tropic blooms, 
Ladening all the air around 

With a weight of rare perfumes. 

Yet to an immense estate 

Am I heir by gr.ace of God, — 
Richer, grander than doth wait 

Any earthly monarch's nod. 
Heir of all the Ages, I — 

Heir of all that they have wrought, 
All their stores of emprise high, 

All their wealth of precious thought. 

Every giddeu deed of theirs 

Sheds its Instrc on my way ; 
All their labors, all their prayers. 

Sanctify this i)resent day ! 
Heir of all that they have earned 

By their iiassion and their tears, — 
Heir of all that they have learned 

Throngh the wearj', toiling years! 

Heir of all tlie faith sublime 

On whose wings they soared to heaven ; 
Heir of every hope that Time 

To Earth's fainting sons hath given ! 
Aspirations pure aud high, — 

Strength to daro aud to endure, — 
Heir of all the Ages, I — 

Lo ! I am no longer poor! 



TO-DAY: A SONNET. 

What dost thou bring to me, O fair To-day, 
That comest o'er the mountains with swift feet ? 
All the joung birds make haste thy steps to greet; 
And all the dewy roses of the May 
Turn red and white with joy. The breezes play 
On their soft harps a welcome low and sweet ; 
All nature hails thee, glad thy face to meet, 
And owns thj' presence in a brighter ray. 
But my poor soul distrusts thee ! One as fair 
As thou art, O To-day, drew near to me. 
Serene and smiling, yot she bade me wear 



The sudden sackcloth of a great despair! 
O, pitiless! that through the wandering air 
Sent no kind warning of the ill to be! 



SOMEWHERE. 

How can I cease to pray for thee ? Somewhere 
In God's great universe thou art to-day. 

Can he not reach thee with his tender care ? 
Can he not hear me when for thee I pray ? 

What matters it to him who holds within 
The hollow of his hand all worlds, all space. 

That thou art done with earthly pain aud sin ? 
Somewhere within his ken thou hast a place, 

Somewhere thou livest and hast need of Iiim ; 

Somewhere thy soul sees higher heights to climb; 
And somewhere still there may be valleys dim 

That thou must pass to reach the hills sublime. 

Then all the more because thou canst not hear. 
Poor human words of blessing will I pray. 

O true, brave heart ! God bless thee, wheresoe'er 
In his great universe thon art to-dav. 



TWENTY-ONE. 

Growu to man's stature ! O my little child ! 

My bird that .sought the skies so long ago ! 
My fair, sweet blossom, pure and nndefiled, 

How have the years flown since we laid thee low I 

What have they beeu to thee? If thou werfc here 
Standiug beside thy brothers, tall aud fair, 

With bearded lip, and dark eyes shining clear, 
And glints of suninier sunshine in thy hair, 

I should look np into thy face and say, 

Wavering, perhaps, between a tear aud smile, 

" O my sweet sou, thou art a man to-day !'' — 
And thou wouldst stoop to kiss my lips the while. 

But — up in Heaven — how is it with thee, dear? 

Art thou a man — to nnin's full stature grown ? 
Dost thou count time as wo do, year by year? 

And what of all earth's changes hast thou known ? 

Thou Iiadst not learned to love me. Didst thou take 
Any small germ of love to heaven with thee. 

That thou hast watched aud nurtured for my sake. 
Waiting till I its perfect flower may see ? 



-^10 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH ASD AMEUICAX POETRY. 



What is it to liave lived iu Leaven alwajs ? 

To have no memory of paiu or sin ? 
Ne'er to have known iu all tbe ealm, bright days 

The jar and fret of earth's discordant diu ? 

Thy brothers — they are mortal — they nnist tread 
Ofttimes in I'ongli, hard ways, with bleeding feet ; 

Must tight witli dragons, mnst bewail their dead. 
And tierce Apollyon face to face must meet. 

I, who would give my very life for theirs, 

I cannot save them from earth's i>alu or loss ; 

I cannot shield them from its griefs or cares ; 
Each human heart must bear alone its cross! 

Was God, then, kinder nnto thee than them, 
O thou whose little life was but a span ? 

Ah, think it not! In all his diadem 

No star shines brighter than the kiugly man, 

Wlio nobly earns whatever crown he wears, 
Who grandly conquers, or as grandly dies ; 

And the white banner of his manhood bears. 
Through all the years uplifted to tbe skies ! 

What lofty pagans shall the victor greet ! 

What crown resplendent for his brow be fit'. 
O child, if earthly life be bitter-sweet. 

Hast thon not something missed iu missing it ? 



Stcpljcii Collins j^ostcr. 

AMERICAN, 

Foster (182C-1S64), known cliiefly for his musicil com- 
positions, was a native of Pittsburgh, Pa. At an cirly age 
he had become a skilful performer on the flute, flageo- 
let, and piano-forte. His voice was clear, and well un- 
der control. When a boy of sixteen he produced his 
song "Oh, Susanna," which was sung by a travelling 
minstrel troupe, was published by Peters of Cincinnati, 
and largely sold. Foster was accustomed to attend Meth- 
odist eanip-mcetings, both white and black, and thus got 
many a hint for his wonderfully po]iular "folk-songs," 
founded many of them on extemporized, unwritten ne- 
gro melodies. Of his "Old Folks at Home," 200,000 
copies were sold ; of " My Old Kentucky Home," 150,000 ; 
of "Ellen Bayne," 12.5,000; and of several others, the 
sale was enormous. Foster was a poet, as his songs at- 
test, the words of nearly every one of them being of his 
own composition. Though he enriched others, he laid 
up little for himself. Unhappily, he was intemperate. 
His death was occasioned by a severe fall at a Bowery 
hotel, in New York. At Pittsburgh, his native city, inter- 
esting ceremonies were held iu his honor ; and a large 
concourse gathered to do homage to his memory. 



OLD FOLKS AT HOME. 

'Way down upon de Swanuee Eibber, 

Far, far away, — 
Dare's whar my heart is turning cbber, — • 

Dare's whar de old folks stay. 
All up and down de whole creation, 

Sadly I roam ; 
Still longing for de old plantation. 
And for de old folks at home. 
All de world am sad and dreary, 

Eb'rywhere I roam ; 
Oh, darkeys, how ray lieart grows weary, 
Far from de old folks at home! 

All round de little farm I wandered. 

When I was young ; 
Deu many happy days I squandered, 

Many de songs I sung. 
Wlicn I was playing with my brudder, 

Ilapiiy was I ; 
Oh, take me to my kind old mudder ! 

Dare let me live ami die! 

All do world am sad and dreary, etc. 

One little lint among de rnshes, — 

One dat I love, — • 
Still sadlj' to my memory rushes. 

No luatter where I rove. 
When will I see de bees a-bumming. 

All round de comb f 
When will I hear de banjo tummiug 

Down in my good old home f 

All de world am sad and dreary, etc. 



(Hoatcs Kiuncii. 

• AMERICAN. 

Kinney was born dii Crooked Lake, near Penn Yan, 
Yates County, N. Y., in 1826. He went West while a boy, 
taught school, edited newspapers, and finally practised 
law. Besides writing for the magazines, he has publish- 
ed "Kecuka: an American Legend, and other Poems" 
(100 pages, 185-1). He made his mark as a poet by his 
"Rain on the Roof;" but has given evidence of original 
power in other productions. 



FRO>I THE "MOTHER OF GLORY." 

Celebrity by some great accident, 
Some single opportunity, is like 
Aladdin's palace in the wizard tale. 
Vanished wheu envy steals the charm away. 



COATi:S KIA'XEr.—ME.S. CRAIK {DIXAH MARIA MULOLii.,. 



811 



lint TLoiiglit iip-pyramids itself to fame 

I5y "misbauilrv of opportunities, 

(irade after grade eoiistrnetiiig to that lieight, 

Which, seen above the far liorizoii, seems 

To peak among the stars. Go mummify 

Thy name within that architectural pile 

Which others' intellect has builded ; none — 

For all tlie hieroglyphs of glory — none 

Save but the builder's name, shall sound along 

The everlasting ages. Heart and brain 

Of thine must resolutely yoke themselves 

To slow-paced years of toil, else all the trumps 

Of hero-heraldry that ever twanged. 

Gathered in one mad blare above the graves. 

Shall not avail to resurrect thy name 

To the salvation of remembrance then, 

When once the letters of it have slunk back 

Into the alphabet from otf thy tomb. [crumbles 

Ay, thou must tliiuk, think! Marble frets and 

Back into nndistinguishable dust 

At last, and epitaphs grooved into brass , 

Yield iiiecemeal to the hungry elements ; 

But truths that drop plumb to the depths of time 

Anchor the name forever : — thou must think 

Such truths, and speak, or write, or act them forth — 

TUysclf must do this — or the centuries 

Shall take thee, as the maelstrom gulps a wreck, 

To the dread bottom of oblivion. — Think! 

A bibulous memory sponging up the thoughts 

Of dead men, is not thought; it holds no sway, 

Where genius is : not freighted argosies, 

But thunder-throated guns of battle-ships 

C'cimniaiul tlio high seas. Destiny is not 

About tliee, but within ; thyself must make 

Tliyself : the agonizing throes of Thought, 

These bring forth glorj', bring forth destiny. 



RAIN ON THE ROOF. 

When the humid shadows hover 

Over all the starry spheres, 
And the melancholy darkness 

Gently weeps in rainy tears, 
What a joy to press the pillow 

Of a cottage-chamber bed, 
And to listen to the patter 

Of the soft rain overhead ! 

Every tinkle on the shingles 
Has au echo in the heart ; 

And a thousand dreamy fancies 
Into busy being start ; 



And a thousand recollections 

Weave their bright hues into woof. 

As I listen to the patter 
Of the rain upon the roof. 

Now iu fancy comes my mother 

As she nsed to, years agoue. 
To survey her darling dreamers, 

Ere she left them till the dawn ; 
Oh ! I see her bending o'er me. 

As I list to this refrain. 
Which is played upon tlie shingles 

By the patter of the rain. 

Then my little seraph sister. 

With her wings and waving hair. 
And her bright-eyed cherub brother — 

A serene, angelic pair ! — 
Glide around my wakeful pillow. 

With their praise or mild re])roof, 
As I listen to the mnruuir 

Of the soft rain on the roof. 

And another comes to thrill me 

With her eyes' delicious blue ; 
And forget I, gazing on her. 

That her heart was all untrue : 
I remember but to love her 

With a rapture kin to pain. 
And my heart's quick pnl.ses vibrate 

To the patter of the rain. 

There is naught iu Art's bravuras 

That can work with such a spell 
In the spirit's pure, deep fountains. 

Whence the holy passions well, 
As that melody of Nature. 

That subdued, subduing strain 
Which is played upon the shingles 

By the patter of the rain. 



fllrs. Craik [Dinalj iWauci inuloclf). 

Miss Mulock (1826-....) became Jlrs. Craik in 1.S6.5, 
after she had gained considerable literary distinction un- 
der her maiden name. She has written a series of admi- 
rable novels, and her short lyrical pieces are remarkable 
for a union of tenderness and force, beauty and feelnii;-. 
She was born at Stoke-upon-Trent, Statfordshirc, and lier 
first novel, "The Ogilvies," appeared iu 1S49; ''Jolin 
Halifax," the most popular of her fictions, in 18.57. She 
is also the author of "Studies from Life" (1860) and 
"Sermons out of Church" (1875). 



•512 



rCLOF^DIA OF BUITlsn AM) AMElllCAX POETRY. 



TO A \\' INTER WIND. 

Lnud wind, strong \viiul,sweepiMg o'er the mountains, 

Fresh wind, tree wind, blowing from tlie sea. 
Pour I'ortli tliy vials like streams from airy foiiutaiiis, 
Draughts of life to me! 

Clear wind, cold wind, like a Northern giant. 

Stars brightly threading thy cloud-driven hair, 
Thrilling the blank night with a voice defiant, 
Lo I I meet thee there ! 

Wild w ind, bold wind, like a strong-armed angel, 
C'lasi) uie round — kiss uie with thy kisses divine, 
Breathe in my dull heart thy secret sweet evangel — 
Mine, and only mine ! 

Fierce wind, mad wind, howling through the nations, 
Knew'st thou how leapeth that heart as thou go- 
est by, [tienoe, 

Ah ! thou woiddst jianse awhile in a sudden pa- 
Like a human sigh. 

Sharp wind, keen wind, cutting as word arrows. 

Empty thy (piivevful 1 pass on I what is't to thee 
Though in some mortal eyes life's whole bright cir- 
cle narrows 

To one misery ? 

Loud wind, strong w ind, stay thou in the moun- 
tains ! 
Fresh wind, free wind, trouble not the sea! 
Or lay thy deathly hand upon my heart's warm 
fountains. 

That I liear not thee ! 



TOO LATE. 

Could yo come hack to me, Douglas, Douglas, 

In the old likeness that I knew, 
I would he so faithful, so loving, Douglas, 

Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

Never a scornful word should grieve ye, 
I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do : 

Sweet as yonr smile on me shou* ever, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

Oil! to call hack the days that are not! 

ily eyes were blinded, your words were few : 
Do you know the truth now up in heaven, 

Douglas, Doughi.s, tender and true ? 



I never was worthy of you, Douglas ; 

Not half worthy the like of yon ; 
Now all men beside seem to me like shadows — 

I love you, Douglas, tender and true. 

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, 
Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew, 

As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 



PHILIP, MY KING. 

"Who be^rs iipou bis biiby brow the roiuul and top of sov- 
ereisutj-." 

Look at me with thy large brown eyes, 

Philip, my King ! 
For round thee the jiurple shadow lies 
Of babyhood's regal dignities. 
Lay on my neck thy tiny hand. 

With love's invisible sceptre laden ; 
l,am thine Esther, to command, 

Till thou shalt tind thy queeu-haudmaiden, 
Philip, my King ! 

Oh, the day when thou goest a-wooing, 

Philip, my King ! 
When those beautiful lips are suing. 
And, some gentle heart's bars undoing, 
Thon dost enter, love-crowned, and there 

Sittest .all glorified! — Rule kindly, 
Temlerly, over thy kingdom fair, 

For we that love, ah ! wo love so blindly, 
Philip, my King. 

I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, 

Philip, my King ; 
Ay, there lies the spirit, all sleeping now. 
That may vise like a giant, and make nun bow 
As to one God-throned amidst his peers. 

My Saul, than thy brethren higher and fairer. 
Let me behold thee in coming years! 
Yet thy head needclh a circlet rarer, 
Philip, my King ! 

A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day, 

Philip, my King, 
Thon too must tread, .as we tread, a way 
Thorny, and bitter, and cold, and gray : 
Rebels within thee, and foes without 

Will snatch at thy crown. I5nt go on, gloriou'j 
Martyr, yet monarch! till angels shout. 

As thou sittest at the feet of God victorious. 
'•Philip, tho King!" 



WALTER MITCHELL. 



lllaltcr lUittljcll. 



Mitchell was born at Nantucket, Jlass., January 22d, 
IS'26. He was graduated at Harvard Collcije in the class 
1111846 ; entered the ministry of the Protestant Episcopal 
Church in 1858; was settled at Stamford, Conu., in the 
same year; and in 1880 was Rector of Trinity Church, 
Rutland, Vt. He is the author of'Brj'an Maurice," a 
novel, published by Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia ; also 
of a poem delivered before the Plii Beta Kappa Society 
of Harvard, in 1875. His '• Tacking Ship " is remarkable 
for the nautical accuracy of the description. It is as 
true to life as any part of the "Shipwreck" of Fal- 
coner, while it surpasses that once famous poem in 
graphic power and freedom of style. 



TACKING SHIP OFF SHORE. 

I. 

The weather Icecli of the top-sail shivers, 

The bowlines strain and the lee-shronds slacken, 
The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, 
And the waves with the comiug squall - cloutl 
blacken. 

II. 

Open one point on the weather bow 

Is the light-lionse tall on Fire Island head ; 

There's a shade of doubt on the captain's brow, 
And the i)ilot watches the heaving lead. 

lU. 

I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye 
To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze, 

Till the muttered order of " Full and by!" 
Is snddeuly changed to "Full fou stays!" 



Tlie .ship bends lower before the breeze. 

As her broadside fair to the blast she lays ; 

Aud she swifter springs to tlie rising seas, 
As the pilot calls, " Stand by I'OR stays !" 



It is silence all, as each iu bis place. 

With the gathered coils iu his hardened bauds, 
By tack aud bowline, by sheet and brace. 

Waiting the watchword impatient stands. 



And the light on Fire Island head draws near, 
As, trnmpet-winged, the pilot's shout 

From bis post on the bowsprit's heel I bear. 
With the welcome call of " Ready ! About !" 



No time to spare! it is touch and go, [do\vx!" 
And the captain growls, "Down heL5I ! Hard 

As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw, 

While heaven grows black with the storm-cloud's 

frown. 

VIII. 

High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray. 
As wo meet the shock of the i)lnnging sea; 

And my shoulder stiff to the wheel I lay. 

As I answer, " Ay, ay, Sik ! H-a-a-I!-d a-lee !" 



With the swerving leap of a startled steed 
The ship flies fast in the eye of the w iud, 

The dangerous shoals ou the lee recede. 

And the headland white we have left behind. 



The top-sails flutter, the jibs collapse. 

And belly aud tug at the groaning cleats; 

The spanker slats, aud the main-sail flaps, 

Aud thunders the order, "Tacks and sheets!" 



'Jlid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the crew, 
Hisses the rain of the rnshing squall; 

The sails are aback from clew to clew, 

Aud now is the moment for "Main-sail, haul!" 



Aud the heavy yards like a baby's toy 
By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung; 

She holds her way, and I look with joy 

For the first white spray o'er the bulwarks flung. 



"Let go and haul!" 'Tis the last command, 
And the head-sails fill to the blast once more 

Astern and to leeward lies the land, 

With its breakers white ou the shingly shore. 



What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall f 
I steady the helm for the open sea ; 

The first mate clamors, "Belay there, all!" 
And the captain's breath once more comes free. 



And so off shore let the good ship fly ; 

Little care I how the gusts may blow, 
In my fo'castle bunk iu a jacket dry, — 

Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below. 



>l-i 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BUITISH ASD AMEItlCAX POETRT. 



llUlliain tjaiiKS Cijtlc. 



Ly tie (1S20-1863) was a native of Cincinnati, O. After 
a scliolastic education, he studied law in the office of his 
uncle, E. S. Haines. On the breaking out of the Mexi- 
can War he caujiht the military spirit, and served as 
captain with distinction. In 1861 he became colonel of 
the 10th Oliio Volunteers, and took part in the battle 
of Rich Mountain. He led a brigade at Carnifax Ferry, 
where he was wounded. He next commanded the 17th 
Brigade under jMitcliell, and was again wounded at Per- 
ryville, where he was made prisoner. In 186.3 he was ap- 
pointed Brigadier-general of Volunteers, and served un- 
der Roseerans, until killed at Chiekamauga, Sept., 1863. 



ANTONY TO CLEOPATRA. 

"I am dyinj, Egypt, dyiiij^!"*— SiiAiisPEARE. 

I ,'ini (lyin.g, Egyi)t, dying! 

Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast; 
And the dark, Plutonian shadows 

Gather ou the evening blast. 
Let thine arm, O Queen, support me, 

Ilnsh tliy sobs and bow thine ear ; 
Listen to the great lieart-secrets, 

Thou, and thou alone, must hear. 

Though my scarred and veteran legions 

Bear their eagles high no more, 
Th(uigli my wrecked and scattered galleys 

Strew dark Actinm's fatal shore; 
Though no glittering guards surround me, 

Prompt to do their master's will, — 
I nnist perish like a Roman, — 

Die the great Triumvir still. 

Let not CiEsar's servile minions 

Mock the lion thus laid low; 
'Twas no foemau's hand that felled him, 

■Twas his own that struck the blow : — 
His wlio, pillowed on thy bosom, 

Turned aside from glory's ray — 
His who, drunk with thy caresses, 

Madly threw a world away. 

Should the base pleb<'ian rabble. 

Dare assail my fame at Rome, 
Where the noble spouse, Octavia, 

Weeps within her widowed home, — 
Seek her ; say the gods bear witness, — 

Altars, augurs, circling wings, — 
That her Ijlood, with mine commingled, 

Yet shall mount the throne of kings. 



And for thee, star-eyed Egyptian, 

Glorious sorceress of the Nile, 
Light my path through Stygian darkness 

With the splendor of thy smile. 
Give to Csesar thrones and kingdoms, 

Let his brow the laurel twine ; 
I can scorn all meaner triumphs, • 

Triumphing in love like thine. 

I am dying, Egypt, dying ! 

Hark ! the insulting foeman's cry ; 
They are coming — quick, my falchion ! 

Let me front them ere I die. 
Ah ! no more amid the battle 

Shall !}iy soul exulting swell ; 
Isis and Osiris guard thee — 

CleoiJatra ! Rome ! farewell ! 



€nn) Cavrom. 



Miss Larcom, who made a name by her simple ballad 
of" Hannah binding Shoes," was born at Beverly Farms, 
Mass., in 1826. She has edited various publications, has 
done some good work for the magazines, is the author 
of a volume of poems, and the compiler of "Breathings 
of the Better Life." At one time she was a factory op- 
erative at Lowell. 



HANNAH BINDING SHOES. 

Poor lone Hannah, 
Sitting at the window binding slices. 

Faded, wrinkled, 
Sitting, stitching, in a mournful nnise. 
Bright-eyed beauty once was she. 
When the bloom was ou the tree ; 
Spring and winter, 
Hannah's at the window binding shoes. 

Not a neighbor 
Passing nod or answer will refuse 

To her whisper, 
" Is there from the tishers any news t" 
Oh, her heart's adrift with one 
Ou an endless voyage gone ! 
Night and morning, 
Hannah's at the window binding shoes. 

Fair young Hannah, 
Ben, the sunburnt lisber, gayly woos ; 

Hale and clever, 
For a willing heart and hand he sues. 



LUCY LARCOil.— ROBERT BARRY COFFIX. 



.-ir. 



\ 



Miiy-dny skies are all aglow, 
Aud the waves are laugbiug so ! 
For her weildiiig 
Hamiah leaves her ■wiinlow and her shoes. 

May is passing ; 
Slid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos. 

Hauiuih shudders, 
For the mild south-wester mischief brews. 
Round the rocks of Marblehead, 
Outward bound, a sehoouer sped; 
Silent, lonesome, 
Hannah's at the wiudow binding .shoes. 

'Tis November ; 
Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews. 

From Newfoundland 
Not a sail returning will she lose, 
Whispering hoarsely: "Fi.shermen, 
Have yon, have you heard of Beu f" 
Old with watching, 
Hannah's at the window binding shoes. 

Twenty winters 
Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views. 

Twenty seasons ! 
Never one has brought her any news. 
Still her dim eyes silently 
Chase the white sails o'er the sea: 
Hopeless, faithful, 
Hannah's at the window binding shoes. 



llobcrt Barn) (Coffin. 



Coffin was born at Hudson, New York, in 1826. His 
gicat-gnintlfathcr was one of the original thirteen pro- 
prietors of the island of Nantucket. Robert received a 
^■ood classical education ; and, after some experience as a 
clerk and a bookseller, formed a literary connection with 
Morris & Willis of the Home Jmirnal (18.58). In 1863 lie 
accepted a position in the N. Y. Custom-house. Sev- 
eral volumes in prose from his pen, aud one in poetry 
(1873), have appeared under the name of Barry Gvay. 



I 



SHIPS AT SEA. 

I have .ships that went to sea, 
More than fifty years ago ; 

None have yet come home to me. 
But are sailing to and fro. 

I have seen thrni in my sleep, 

Plunging through the shoreless deep, 



With tattered sails and battered hulls. 
While around them screamed the gulls, 
Flying low, flying low. 

I have wondered why they stayed 

From me, sailing round the world ; 
And I've said, " I'm half afraid 

That their sails will ne'er be furled." 
Great the treasures that they hold, 
Silks, and plumes, and bars of gold ; 
While the spices that they bear 
Fill with fragrance all the air, 
As they sail, as they sail. 

Ah ! each sailor in the port 

Knows that I have ships at sea. 
Of the wiuds and waves the sport. 

And the sailors pity me. 
Oft they come and with me walk, 
Cheering me with hopeful talk, 
Till I put my fears aside. 
And, contented, watch the tide 
Rise and fall, rise aud fall. 

I have waited on the piers. 

Gazing for them down the bay, 
Days aud nights for many years, 
Till I turned heart-sick away. 
But the pilots, when they land, 
Stop and take me by the hand, 
Saying, " You will live to see 
Your proud vessels come from sea, 
Oue and all, one aud all." 

So I never qnite despair. 

Nor let hope or courage fail ; 
And some day, when skies are fair. 

Up the bay my ships will sail. 
I shall buy then all I need, — 
Prints to look at, books to read. 
Horses, wines, and works of art, — 
Everything except a heart — 
That is lost, that is lost. 

Once when I was pure and young, 

Richer, too, thau I am now. 
Ere a cloud was o'er me flung, 

Or a wrinkle creased my brow, 
Tliere was oue whose heart was mine ; 
But she's something now divine, 
Aud though come my ships from sea, 
They can briug no heart to me 
Ever more, ever more. 



81G 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETllT. 



t]ovatio ^Tclson IJoiDcrs. 

AMERICAN. 

Of English and German descent, Hie Rev. Dr. Powers 
was born in Amenia, N. Y., April 30lli, 1820. He was 
ijradnated at Union Colleice in 1850, and was ordained iu 
Trinity Cliurch in 1855. He was Rector of tUe Episco- 
pal Church in Davenport, Iowa, several years; of St. 
John's Church, Chicago, in ISOS ; bnt iu 1875 became Rec- 
tor of Christ Cluircli, Bridgeport, Conn. His books are ; 
"Through the Year," a eoUcetion of discourses (1875); 
" Poems, Early and Late" (Chicago, 1S7()). He was an 
intimate friend of Bryant and Bayard Taylor; and has 
been a contributor to the leading periodicals of America, 
as well as to V Art, the French art review. His poetry 
has the charm of an enthusiasm genuine and spontane- 
ous, and we feel iu it the throbs of an emotion always 
true and pure. 



FROM "MEMORIAL DAY." 

Out of thine azure depths, O suu benign, 
Shower thy golden kisses on the May! 

Drink, fertile fields, Islud Nature's mystic wine, 

Till every herb throb with a life diviue ; — 
Let not a single dew-drop go a.stray. 

15rood, moistened airs, with warm and fragrant wing, 
On all the vales ; and haste, with glowing feet, 
Y'e soft-lii>ped Hours, to make the landscape sweet 

Till earth shall burst to flowers — a perfect Spring ! 
O vernal sea.s(>n ! give your richest blooms — 
Rare radiance woven iu celestial looms, 
The subtlest meanings of each tint and tone 
That Beauty keeps about her peerless throne : 

Our hearts ache with uusyllabled applause. 
We are unworthy, — but for those who lie 

Iu graves made holy by their life-blood shed, — 

The hero-youth who took our perilled cause, 
And thought it sweet and beautiful to die, 

Tliat Freedom's fields by us bo harvested, — 
We crave the choicest emblems to impart, — 
The sense of that which blossoms iu the heart! 
# *» ^ if # rf 

The uatiou lives: after War's bloody showers 

The air is sweet with Freedom's stainless flowers. 

Let praise asceiul and gratulations grand ! 

The graves of martyrs consecrate the land. 



A HOSE-BUD. 

It was merely the bud of a blood-red rose 

That I found 'tween the lids of my book to-day: 

What of it? Nothing to yon, I sni>p()se — 
Sweet ashes a breath would scatter a\\a\' ! 



Yet here I am holding the dead, faded thing. 
As the suu drops out of the August sky, 

And dew-druukeu blossoms their odors fling 
Ou the twilight air — do you ask me why? 

The ye.irs are gathered iu this little tomb, — 

(Strange that a grave iu my hand I should hold!) 
Springs that showered their kisses of bloom, 

And summers that revelled iu fruits of gidd. 
No breath of the meadows uor orange bough 

Sheds to my spirit an odor so rare : 
Y'ou see not — how can you? — what I sec now — 

That marvellous face — Are the angels so fair ? 

Slie gave me this bud and a single leaf, — 

Geranium — it h-is crumbled away ; — 
What a glory touched life then, bnt how grief 

Drives to tasks that sprinkle the head with gray ! 
Half doubting I number the seasons since flown ; 

Like a star she just trembled on womanhood's eve : 
To what iu the garden of God has she growu ? 

Naught more fair than she was can my fancy c(mi- 
ceive. 

For the roses of morning, and nnisic, and light. 

The motions of birds, and the freshness of June, 
The glimmer of lilies, and childhood's delight, 

In her exquisite nature were blended in tune. 
Its sweetness yet lingers like perfume that clings 

To the air when the splendor of blo.ssonis has fled, 
More tender than touch of invisible wings. 

The spell of her presence around mo seems shed. 

And now while this faded bud iu my palm 

Grows dim iu the darkness, and still is dear, 
All over my sorrow is sprinkled a btilm 

From the depth of a heavenly atmosphere. 
A hand long vanished I seem to hold ; 

The years their glory of dreams restore : 
I see a face that can never grow old, 

And life looks large on the other shore. 



illovtiincr (Collins. 

Born at Plymouth, England, 18-37, Collins died a876) 
in his forty-ninth year, the victim of excessive literary 
labor. He was the author of fourteen moderately suc- 
cessful novels; and, in poetry, of "Idyls and Rhymes" 
(18.55), "Summer Songs" (181)0), "Inn of Strange Meet- 
ings" (1871), "The British Birds" (1873). He was a fre- 
quent contributor to runch and other prosperous peri- 
odicals. " I wholly agree," he writes, " in the great say- 
ing, Laborare est orare: I add, Laborare est viveye.''' Again 



MORTIMER COLLIXS. 



817 



lic writes: "I sliould grow very weary of life if I did not 
feel that I liad God for friend." His marriage was an 
exceiitionally bappy one. He not only wrote poetry, 
but made life a poem. Says one of bis friends: "Ho 
' I'joiced in diffusing gladness ; was intensely gentle and 
tender, and peculiarly sensitive to kindness." By intui- 
tion be seemed to have a thorough fiiUb in God and a 
future life. His writings indieate a highly poetical tem- 
perament, and be preserved bis intellectual vigor and 
Uindly nature to the last. 



FIRST OF APRIL, 1876. 

Now, if to be an April-fool 

Is to delight in the song of the thrnsh, 
To long for the .swallow in air's blue hollow, 

And the nightingale's riotous music-gush, 
And to paiut a vision of cities Elysiau 

Out away in the sunsct-fln.sh — 
Then I grasp my flagon and swear thereby, 
We are April-fools, my Love and I. 

And if to be an April-fool 

Is to feel contempt for iron and gold, 
For the shallow fame at which most men aim — 

And to turn from worldlings cruel and cold 
To God in His splendor, loving and tender, 

And to bask in His presence manifold — 
Then by all the stars in His infinite sky. 
We are April-fools, my Love and I. 



I 



IN VIEW OF DEATH. 

No: I shall pa.ss into the Morning Land 
As now from sleep into the life of morn ; 
Live the new life of the new world, unshorn 

Of the swift brain, the executing hand; 

See the dense darkness suddenly withdrawn, 
As when Orion's sightless eyes discerned the dawti. 

I shall behold it: I shall see the utter 

(Jlory of sunrise heretofore unseen, 

Freshening the woodland ways with brighter 
green , 
And calling iuto life all wings that flutter, 

All throats of music and all eyes of light, 

Aud driving o'er the verge the intolerable night. 

O virgin world! O marvellous far days! 

No more with dreams of grief doth love grow 

bitter. 
Nor trouble dim the lustre wont to glitter 
In happy eyes. Decay alone decays : 
52 



A moment — death's dull sleep is o'er ; aud we 
Drink the immortal morning air Ejirin^. 



THE POSITIVISTS. 

Life and the universe show spontaneity : 
Down with ridiculous notions of Deity, 

Cbnrchcs and creeds are all lost in the mists; 

Truth must be sought with the Positivists. 

Wise are their teachers beyond all comparison, 
Conite, Huxley, Tyndall, Mill, Morley, and Harrison : 
Who will adventure to enter the lists 
With such a squadron of Positivists? 

Social arraugemcuts are awful mi.scarriages ; 
Cause of all crime is our system of marriages. 

Poets with sonnets and lovers with trysts 

Kindle the ire of the Positivists. 

Husbands and wives should be all one community, 
Exquisite freedom with ab.solute unity. 

Wedding-rings worse are than manacled wrists, 
Such is the creed of the Positivists. 

There was an .ape in the days that are earlier ; 

Centuries passed, and his hair became curlier; 
Centuries more gave a thumb to his wrist — • 
Then he was Max, — and a Positivist. 

If you are pious (mild form of insanity). 

Bow down and worship the mass of humanity. 
Other religions are buried in mists : 
"We're our owu gods!" sav the Positivists. 



COLLINS'S LAST VERSES. 

I have been sitting .alone 

All d.ay wliile the clouds went by, 

While moved the strength of the seas, 
While a wind with a w ill of his own, 

A Poet out of the sky. 

Smote the green haqi of the trees. 

Alone, yet not alone, 

For I felt, as the gay wind whirled, 

As the cloudy sky grew clear, 
The touch of our Father half-kuown, 

Who dwells at the heart of the world, 

Yet who is always here. 



818 



CYCLOFJLDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



illvG. (Utijcl Cijnu Cccvs. 



Etheliiula Elliott (1837-1879) was born and educated 
ill Goshen, Orange County, N. J. She bei^an to write for 
llic weekly and monthly periodicals under the pseudo- 
nyme of Ethel Lyun, which she retained after her mar- 
riage. A volume of poems from her pen appeared short- 
ly before lier death. Her poem of "The Picket-guard," 
whieh first appeared in Harjxr's ireeWy, November, 18BI, 
was afterward claimed, erroneously it would seem, for 
Major Lamar Fontaine of Texas. It also appeared in 
•'The War Poetry of the South," edited by William Gil- 
more Siinms. In a private letter Mrs. Beers wrote : " The 
poor 'Picket' has had so many 'authentic' claimants and 
willing sponsors, that I sometimes question myself wheth- 
er I did really write it that cool September morning af- 
ter reading the stereotyped announcement, 'All quiet,' 
etc., to which was added in small type, ' A picket shot !' " 



THE PICKET-GUARD. 

"All quiet along the Potomac," they say, 

"Except now and then a stray picket 
Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, 

By a lifleman hid in the thicket. 
'Tis nothing — a private or two, now and then, 

Will not count in tlie news of the battle ; 
Not an ofiScer lost — only one of the men, 

Moaning ont, all alone, the death-rattle." 

All qniet along the Potomac to-night. 

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming ; 
Their tents in the rays of the clear autnmn moon, 

Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. 
A tremnlons sigh, as the gentle night-wind 

Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping ; 
While stars np above, with their glittering eyes, 

Keep guard — for the army is sleeping. 

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, 

As he tramps from the rock to the fonntaiii. 
And thinks of the two in the low trnndle-bed 

Far away in the cot on the mountain. 
His musket falls slack — his face, dark and grim, 

Grows gentle with memories tender, 
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, — 

For their mother — may Heaven defend her ! 

'file moon seems to shine just as brightly as tlien. 

That night, when the love yet nnspoUen 
Leajied np to his lips — when low-iiinrmured vows 

Were pledged to be ever nnbrokeii. 
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, 

He dashes otl' tears that are welling, 



And gathers his gun clo.ser up to its place. 
As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree — 

The footstep is lagging and weary; 
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light. 

Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. 
Hark ! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves ? 

Was it moonlight so woiulrously Hashing? 
It looked like a rifle — "Ah! Mary, good-bye !" 

And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing. 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 
No sound save the rush of the river ; 

While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead — 
The picket's off duty forever! 



Crligar ^^Ifrcli Bouiring. 

A son of Sir John Bowring, himseir a poet, hymn-writ- 
er, and translator, Edgar (born in England about 18'.i7) 
has made translations from Goethe and other Germaii 
poets. 



WHAT SONGS ARE LIKE. 

After Goethe. 

Songs are like painted w indow-panes : 
In darkness wrapped, the Church remains, 
If from the market-place we view it : 
Thus sees the ignoramus through it. 
No wonder that he deems it tame, — 
And all his life 'twill bo the same. 

But lot us now inside repair, 

And greet the lioly Chapel there ! 

At once the whole seems clear and bright, 

Each ornament is bathed iu light, 

And fraught with meaning to the sight. 

God's children ! thus your fortune prize, 

Be edilied, and feast your eyes. 



YOUTH AND AGE. 
I'"BOM Goethe, .Et. 77. 

When 1 was still a youthful w ight, 
So full of enjoyment and merry, 

The painters used to as.sert in spite, 

That my features were small — yes, very ; 

Yet then full many a beauteous child 

With true affection npou me smiled. 



EVGJn ALFItED UUnjUyU.—HO.SE TEllRY COOKE. 



819 



Now as a graybeard I sit Uiue in state, 
Ry street and by laue held in awe, sirs ; 

And may be seen, like old Frederick tbe Great, 
On iiipebowls, ou cups, aud ou sancers. 

Yet the beauteous maidens, tbey keep afar : 

O vision of voutb ! O soldeu star! 



Uosc (Lcvnj ttoolic. 

AMERICAN, 

Rose Teri'v was born in Hartford, Conn., February 
ITtli, 1S37, and educated in that city at the Female Sem- 
inary. After her marriaije she became a resident of Win- 
sted, Litchfield County, Conn. lu the early days of the 
Atlantic ilontldy s,\w coninbwiKi to its pages many graph- 
ic and amusing sketches of rural life in New England. In 
1861 she published a volume of poems in Boston. She is 
one of the genuine warblers, whose songs are not so much 
artificial products as they are the melodious expression 
of some heart-felt thought or emotion. 



Krc 



TRAILIXG ARBUTUS. 

Darlings of the forest! 

Blo.ssoming alone 
When Earth's grief is sorest 
For ber jewels gone — 
the last suow - drift melts, your tender buds 
liave blown. 



Tinged ■nitli color faintly. 

Like tbe morning sky. 

Or more pale and saintly. 

Wrapped in leaves ye lie, 

Even as children sleep in faith's simplicity. 

There the wild wood-robin 

Hymns yonr solitude. 
And tbe rain comes sobbing 
Through tbe budding wood. 
While tbe low south wind sighs, but dare not be 
more rude. 

Were your pure lips fashioned 

Out of air and dew : 
Starlight uuimiiassioncd. 
Dawn's most tender hue — 
And scented by tbe woods that gathered sweets for 
you ? 

Fairest and most lonely. 
From the world apart, 



Made for beauty only, 

Veiled from Nature's heart, 
With such uucouscious grace as makes tlie dream 
of Art ! 

W^ere not mortal sorrow 

An immortal shade. 
Then would I to-morrow 
Such a flower be made, 
And live in the dear woods where my lost childhood 
played. 



INDOLENCE. 

Indolent! indoleut! yes, I am indolent, 

So is the grass growing tenderly, slowly ; 

So is tbe violet fragrant and lowly, 
Drinking in quietness, peace, and content ; 

So i.s the bird on the light braucbes swinging. 

Idly bis carol of gratitude singing, 
Only ou living and loving intent. 

Indolent! indolent! yes, I am indolent! 

So is the cloud overhanging tbe mountain ; 

So is the tremulous wave of a fountain. 
Uttering softly its silvery psalm. 

Nerve and sensation in quiet reposing. 

Silent as blossoms the night dew is closing, 
But the full heart beating strongly aiul calm. 

Indolent! indolent! yes, I am indolent, 
If it be idle to gather my pleasure 
Out of creation's uncovetcd treasure. 

Midnight and morning, by forest and sea. 
Wild with the tempest's sublime exultation. 
Lonely iu Autumn's forlorn lamentation. 

Hopeful and happy with Spring .and the bee. 

Indoleut! indolent! are ye not indolent? 

Thralls of the earth, and its ns.ages weary ; 

Toiling like gnomes where tbe darkness is dreary, 
Toiling and sinning, to heap up your gold! 

Stifling tbe heavenward breath of devotion ; 

Crushing the freshness of every emotion ; 
Hearts like tbe dead which are pulseless and cold ! 

Indoleut! indolent! art thou not indoleut f 
Thou who art living unloving and lonely, 
Wrapped in a jLall that will cover thee only. 

Shrouded in selfishness, piteous ghost! 

Sad eyes behold thee, aud angels are weepin" 
O'er thy forsaken and desolate sleeping; 

Art thou not indolent ?— Art thou not lost? 



820 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BUITISH AND AilERICAX POETKY. 



AMERICAN. 

Trowbrklge wiis bom in.Ogden, N. T., in 1827. He re- 
ceived a good common school education, but was largely 
self-taught — mastering the Latin, French, and German 
languages. He went to New York in 1S46, applied him- 
self to literature, encountered gallantly some of the ex- 
periences of the unknown and impecunious autlior, re- 
moved to Boston in 1850, wrote " Father Bright Hopes," 
a story for the young, then several novels wjiieh had a 
good sale : he contributed largely to tlie leading mag- 
azines, published "The Emigrant's Story, and other 
Poems," in 1875; and "The Book of Gold, and other 
Poems," in 1877. He is also the author of " Guy Brown," 
a novelette in verse, published in "The Masque of tlie 
Poets" (Roberts Brothers, Boston, 1878); and of some 
lialf-dozen successful stories for the young. It is in his 
jHietry that Trowbridge excels. " The Vagabonds" has 
been neatly illustrated by Darlcy. It is one of tlie happy 
hits that are not soon forgotten. 



BEYOND. 

From her own fair dominions, 
Long since, witli slioru pinions, 
My spirit was banished : 
But above her still hover, iu vigils and dreams, 
Ethereal visitants, voices, and gleams, 
That forever remind her 
Of something behiuil her 
Long vanished. 

Through the listening night, 
With mysterious flight. 

Pass those -winged intimations: 
Like stars shot from heaven, their still voices fall 

to me ; 
Far and departing, they signal and call to nie, 
Strangely beseeching me, 
Chiding, yet teaching me 
Patience. 

Tlien at (inies, oh! at times, 
To their luminous climes 

I pursue as a swallow ! 
To the river of Peace, and its solacing shades, 
To the haunts of my lost ones, iu heavenly glades, 
With strong aspirations 
Their pinions' vibrations 
I follow. 

O heart! be thon patient! 
Though here I am stationed 



A season in durance, 
The chain of the world I will cheerfully wear; 
For, spanning my soul like a rainbow, I bear, 
With the yoke of my lowly 
Condition, a holy 
Assurance, — 

That never iu vaiu 
Does the spirit maintain 
Her eternal allegiance : 
Though suft'ering and yearning, like Infancy learninu 
Its lesson, we linger; then skyward returning, 
On plumes fully grown 
We depart to our own 
Native regions! 



THE VAGABONDS. 

We are two travellers, Roger and I. 

Roger's my dog — come here, you scamp ! 
Jump for the gentleman — mind your eye! 

Over the table — look out for the lamp ! 
The rogue is growing a little old ; 

Five years we've tramped through wind and 
weather. 
And slept out-doors when nights were cold. 

And ate and drank and starved together. 

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you — 

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, 
A fire to thaw onr thumbs (poor fellow ! 

The paw he holds up there's been frozen). 
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle 

(This out-door business is bad for strings), 
Tlieii a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle. 

And Roger and I set up for kings. 

No, thank ye, sir-A-I never drink; 

Roger and I are exceedingly moral. 
Aren't we, Roger? — see him wink! 

Well, something hot, then — we won't quarrel. 
He's thirsty, too — see him nod his head : 

What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk! 
Ho nnderstands every word that's said. 

And he knows good milk from water-and chalk. 

The truth is, sir, now I reflect, 

I've been so sadly given to grog, 
I wonder I've not lost the respect 

(Here's to you, sir!) even of my dog. 
But he sticks by through thick and thin; 

And this old coat, with its empty jiockets 



JOHN TOWNSEXD TltOWBIilDGE.—JULIAX FANE. 



Wl 



And rnjj;s that smell of tobacco and gin, 

He'll follow -vvliile ho has eyes in his sockets. 

There isn't another creature living 

Wonld do it, and prove, through every disaster, 
So foud, so faithful, and so forgiving 

To such a miserable, thankless master! 
Xo, sir — see him wag his tail and giin ! 

By George ! it makes my old eyes water! 
That is, there's something in this giu 

That chokes a fellow. But uo matter. 

We'll have some music if you're willing. 

And Roger (hem ! wh.at a plague a cough is, sir!) 
Sh.all march a little. Start, you villain ! 

Stand straight! 'Bout face ! Salute your officer ! 
Put up that paw ! Dress ! Take your rifle ! 

(Some dogs have arms, you see !) Now hold your 
Cap while the gentleman gives a trifle 

To aid a poor old patriot soldier. 

March ! Halt ! Now show how the reliel shakes 

When he stands up to hear his sentence. 
Xow tell us how many drams it takes 

To honor a jolly new acquaintance. 
Five yelps — that's five; he's mighty knowing. 

The night's before us, fill the glasses ! 
Quick, sir! I'm ill — my brain is going! 

Some brand}' — thank you — there! it passes! 

Wliy not reform ? That's easily said ; 

But I've gone through such wretched treatment. 
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread. 

And scarce remembering what meat meant, 
That my poor stomach's past reform ; 

And there are times when, mad with thinking, 
I'd sell out heaven for something warm 

To prop a horrible inward sinking. 

Is there a way to forget to think ? 

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, 
A dear girl's love — But I took to drink — 

Tlie same old story; you know how it ends. 
If you could have seen these classic features — 

You needn't laugh, sir; they were not then 
Such a burning libel on God's creatures; 

I was one of your handsome men ! 



If 



If 



I 



you had seen her, so fair and young, 
Whose head was happy on this breast, 
you could have heard the songs I sung 
When the wine went round, you wouldn't have 
guea.sed 



That ever I, sir, should be straying 

From door to door \\'ith fiddle and dog. 

Ragged and penniless, and playing 
To you to-night for a glass of grog. 

She's married since — a parson's wife; 

'Twas better for her that we should part — 
Better the soberest, prosiest life 

Than a blasted home and a broken heart. 
I have seen her! Once. I was weak and spent: 

On the dusty road a carriage stopped, 
But little she dreamed, as on she went. 

Who ki.ssed tlie coin that her fingers dropped! 

You've set me to talking, sir ; I'm sorry ; 

It makes me wild to think of the change! 
What do you care for a beggar's story ? 

Is it amusing? Y'ou find it strange? 
I had a mother so proud of me ! 

'Twas well she died before — Do yon know 
If the happy spirits in heaven can see 

The ruiu and wretchedness here below ? 

Another glass, and strong, to deaden 

This pain, then Roger and I will start. 
I wonder has he such a lumpish, leaden, 

Aching thing in place of a heart ? 
He is sad sometimes, and would weep if he could, 

No doubt remembering things that were — 
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food. 

And himself a sober, respectable cur. 

I'm better now ; that glass was warming — 

You rascal, limber your lazy feet ! 
AVe must be fiddling and performing 

For supper and bed, or starve in the street. 
Not a very gay life to lead, you think ? 

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, 
And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink — 

The sooner the better for Roger and me! 



Julian JTanc. 

Julian Charles Henry Fane (1837-1870), a. native of 
London, was "a poet, a musician, a linguist, a diploma- 
tist, an eloquent spealicr, a wit, a mimic, a deliglitful 
talker." So says Mr. John Dennis, a contemporary man 
of letters. In conjunction with liis friend Edward Robert 
Bulwcr (afterward Lord Lytton), Fane publislicd "Tann- 
liauser; or, tlie Battle of the Bards— a Poem" (1861). 
He liad previously published (1853) a volume of poems, 
a second edition of whicli, with additional notes, appear- 
ed in 1853. His Sonnets to his Motlier (Ad Matremj arc 
remarkable specimens of this form of composition, al- 



«22 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BBITISH AND AilEUICAN POETIIY. 



tlioui;li framed after the Sliakspcarian model. A Life of 
Fane was i)ubr[slied (1871) by Lord Lytton,who says of 
tlie two sonnets, dated 18T0 : " On the evening of tlic ISlli 
of Mareli, 18T0, his physieal suffering was excessive. The 
fuUowing day was the birthday of his mother." She 
found what she " dared not, could not anticipate." There 
lay upon the table a letter with the two sonnets. " They 
are the last words ever written by Julian Fane. But 
tliis golden chain of votive verse * * * was not broken 
till life itself had left the hand that wrought it." 



AD MATEEM. 

M.\RCH 13, 1862. 

Oft in the aftci-days, when tbou anil I 
H.'ive fallen from the scope of linnian view, 
When, both together, under the sweet sky 
We sleep beneath the daisies and the dew, 
Men will recall thj' graeiou.s presence bland. 
Conning tlie pictured sweetness of thy face ; 
Will pore o'er paintings by thy plastic hand, 
Aud vaunt thy skill, and tell thy deeds of grace. 
Oh may they then, who crown thee with true bays, 
Saying, " What love nnto her son she bore !" 
Make this .addition to thy perfect prai.se, 
" Nor ever yet was mother •worshipped more !" 
So shall I live with thee, and thy dear fame 
Shall link my love unto thine honored name. 



AD MATEEM. 

MARCH 13, 1864. 

Music, and fraukineense of flowers, belong 

To this sweet festival of all the year. 

Take, then, the latest blossom of my song. 

And to Love's canticle incline thine ear. 

What is it that Love chants? thy perfect praise. 

What is it that Love prays ? worthy to prove. 

What is it Love desires ? thy length of days. 

What is it that Love asks ? return of love. 

Ah, what requital can Love ask more dear 

Than by Love's priceless self to be repaid ? 

Thy liberal love, increasing year by year. 

Hath granted more tli.an all my heart hath prayed. 

And, prodigal as Nature, makes me pine 

To think how poor my love compared with thine ! 



AD MATEEM. 

M.^ItCH 13, 1870. 

Wheu the vast ho.iveu is dark with omiuons clouds, 
That lower their glooinful faces to the earth ; 



When all things sweet and fair are cloaked in 

sbroud.s, 
And dire calamity and c.ire have birth ; 
When furious tempests strip the woodland green. 
And from bare boughs the hapless songsters sing; 
Wheu Winter stalks, a spectre, on the scene. 
And breathes a blight on every living thing; 
Then, wheu the spirit of man, by sickness tried, 
Half fears, half hopes, that Death be at his side, 
Outleaps the suu, and gives him life again. 
O Mother, I clasped Death ; but, seeing thy tace, 
Leaped from his dark arms to thy dear embrace.' 



Dante (Gabriel Uossctti. 

Rossetti was born in London in 1828; the son of Mr. 
Gabriel Rossetti (1783-1&54), Professor of Italian at King's 
College, and author of a Commentary on Dante. A poet. 
Rossetti is also an artist, and one of the originators of 
the so-called Pre-Raphaelite school of painting. He 
published in ISTO a volume of poems: also a work on 
the early Italian poets. Mr.Stcdman, in his " Victorian 
Poets," says of him: "He approaches Tennyson in sim- 
plicity, purity, and richness of tone. His verse is com- 
pact of tenderuess, emotional ecstasy, and poetic f re." 



LOST DAYS: SONNET. 

The lost days of my life until to-day, 
What were the.v, could I see them on the .street 
Lie as they fell ? Would they be ears of w heat 
Sown once for food but trodden into clay ? 
Or golden coins squandered and still to pay ! 
Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet f 
Or such spilt water as in dreams must cheat 
The throats of men in Hell, who thirst alway ? 
I do not see them here; but .after death 
God knows I know the faces I .sliall see, 
Each one a murdered self, with low last breath : 
"I am thyself, — wliat hast thou done to me?" 
"And I — and I — thyself" (lo! each one saith), 
" And thou thyself to all eternity !" 



FEOM "THE PORTRAIT." 

This is her picture as she was: 
It seems a thing to wonder on, 

As though mine im.age in the glass 
.Should tarry when myself am gone. 

I gaze until she seems to stir,— 

Until mine eyes almost aver 



' It will be remarked tluit this soiiuet has but tliirteeu hues. 



DANTE GABRIEL EOSSETTL— CLARENCE COOK. 



823 



That uow, even uow, the sweet lips part 

To bieatlie the -svoitls of the sweet heart : — 
And yet the earth is over her. 
Alas! even such the thin-drawu ray 

That makes the prisou-depths more nule, — 
Tlie drip of water night aud day 

Giving a tongue to solitude. 
Yet tliis, of all love's perfect prize 
Remains : save what ill monrufiil gnlse 

Takes counsel with my soul alone; 

Save what is secret and uuknown, 
Below the earth, above the skies. 



(Ularcncc iL'ooli. 

AMERICAN. 
A native of Dorchester, now a part of Boston, Mass., 
Cook w.is born September 8tb, 18:28. He was fitted for 
Harvard College, which he entered, and was duly gradu- 
ated. As a writer on art and kindred subjects, lie has 
won wcll-ineritcd distinction. His residence is the city 
of New York. His poems are scattered through the 
m.igazines, but arc well worthy of being collected into 
a volume. His "Abram and Zimri" is one of the most 
clianning narrative poems in the hinguage. 



ABKAM AND ZIMRI. 

Ahraiu and Zinui owned a field together — 

A level field hid in a, happy vale ; 

They ploughed it with one plough, and in the 

spriug 
Sowed, walking side by side, the fruitful seed. 
In harvest, when the glad earth smiles with grain, 
Each carried to his home one-half the sheaves, 
And stored them with much labor in his barns. 
Now Abram had a wife aud seven sons. 
But Zimri dwelt alone withiu his hou.se. 

One night, before the sheaves were gathered in, 
As Zimri lay upon his lonely bed 
Aud counted in his mind his little gains. 
He thought upon his brother Abram's lot. 
And said, "I dwell alone within my house. 
But Abram hath a wife and seven sons, 
And yet we share the harvest sheaves alike. 
He surely needeth more for life than I ; 
I will arise, aud gird myself, and go 
Down to the field, and add to his from mine." 

So he arose, and girded up his loins, 
Aud went out softly to the level field ; 
The moon shone out from dusky bars of clouds, 
The trees stood black agaiust the cold blue sky. 
The branches waved and whispered in the wind. 



So Zimri, guided by the shifting light. 
Went down the mountain path, and fouud the field. 
Took from his store of sheaves a generous third. 
And bore them gladly to his brother's heap, 
And then went back to sleep and happy dreams. 

Now, that same night, as Abram lay in bed, 
Thinking upon his blissful state in life. 
He thought upon his brother Zimri's lot, 
And said, "He dwells withiu bis house alone, 
He goeth fortli to toil with few to help. 
He goeth home at night to a cold house. 
And hath few other friends but me and mine " 
(For these two tilled the happy vale alone) ; 
"While I, whom Heaven hath very greatly blessed. 
Dwell happy with my wife and seven sons, 
Who aid me in my toil aud make it light, 
And yet we share the harvest sheaves alike. 
This surely is not ideasing unto God; 
I will arise and gird myself, and go 
Out to the field, and borrow from my store. 
And add unto my brother Zimri's pile." 

.So he arose aud girded up his loins. 
Anil went down softly to the level field ; 
The moon shone out from silver b.ars of clouds, 
The trees stood bl.ack agaiust the starry sky. 
The dark leaves waved and whispered in the breeze. 
So Abram, guided by the doubtful light, 
Passed down the mountain path and found the field. 
Took from his store of sheaves a generous third, 
XwA added them unto his brother's heap ; 
Then he went back to sleep and happy dreams. 

So the next morning with the early sun 
The brothers rose, and went out to their toil ; 
And when they came to see the heavy sheaves, 
Each wondered in his heart to find his heap. 
Though he had given a third, was still the same. 

Now the next night went Zimri to the field. 
Took from his store of sheaves a generous share 
And placed them on bis brother Abram's heap, 
And then lay down behind his pile to watch. 
The moon looked out from bars of silvery cloud, 
The cedars stood up black agaiust the sky, 
The olive-branclies whispered in the wind: 
Then Abram came down softly from his home, 
And, looking to the right and left, went on. 
Took from his ample store a generous third. 
And laid it on his brother Zimri's pile. 
Then Zimri rose and caught him in his arms, 
Aud wept upon his neck, and kissed bis cheek. 
And Abram saw the whole, and could not speak. 
Neither could Zimri. So they walked along 
Back to their homes, and thanked their God in prayer 
That he had bound them in such loving bands. 



824 



CYCLOPJ^DIA OF BlilTISa ASD AMEI{ICA2f POETRY. 



IValtcr (Lljornburn. 



Thornbury (1828-1876) was the son of a London solic- 
itor, and by baptism bis first name was George, wliicli 
he dropped. His poetical works were: "Lays and Le- 
gends of the New World," 1851 ; " Songs of Cavaliers and 
Roundheads," 1857; and "Historical and Legendary Bal- 
lads and Songs," 1875. He was the author of some si.^ 
or seven novels, and was for some years art-critic to the 
Athetumtm. As a tourist, he wrote "Experiences in the 
United States," also "Life in Turkey." He toiled on 
till within a few days of his death, which came suddenly ; 
the result of over-hraiu-work. 



HOW SIR EICHAED DIED. 

Stately as bridegroom to a feast 
Sir Richard trod Ihe scaffold stair, 

And, bowing to the crowd, untied 
The love-locks from liis sable hair; 

Took off bis watch, "Give that to Ned, 

I've done with time," be proudly said. 

'Twas bitter cold — it made bira shake. 

Said one — " Ab ! see the villain's look !'' 
Sir Richard, with a scornful frown, 

Cried, " Frost, not fear, my body .shook !" 
Giving a gold-piece to the slave. 
He laughed, "Now praise me, master knave! 

Tliey pointed, with a sneering smile, 
Unto a black box, long and grim ; 

But no white shroud, or badge of death, 
Had power to draw a tear from liiin ; 

"It needs no lock," he said in jest., 

"This chamber where to-night I rest." 

Then crying out — "God save the King!" 
In spite of hiss and shout and frown ; 

He stripped his doublet, dropped his cloak, 
And gave the headsman's man a crown ; 

Then " On for heaven !" he proudly cried. 

And bowed his head — and so he died. 



THE OLD GRENADIER'S STORY. 

TOLD ON A BENCH OUTSIDE THE INV.M.IDES. 

'Twas the day beside the Pyramids, — 

It seems but .an hour ago. 
That Kleber's Foot stood firm in squares, 

Returning blow for blow. 
Tlie Mamelukes were tossing 

Their standards fo the sky. 
When I heard a child's voice say, "Sly men, 

'Tccu-h mc Ihc way to die!" 



'Twas a little drummer, with his side 

Toru terribly with shot ; 
But still he feebly beat his drum. 

As though the wound were not. 
And when the Mameluke's wild horse 

Burst with a scream and cry. 
He said, " men of the Forty-third, 

Teach me the wai/ to die! 

" My mother has got other sous. 

With stouter hearts than mine. 
But none more ready blood for France 

To pour out free as wine. 
Yet still life's sweet," the brave lad moaned, 

" Fair are this earth and sky ; 
Then, comrades of the Forty-tliird, 

Teach me the way to die!" 

I saw Saleuche, of the granite heart, 

Wiping his burning eyes : 
It was by far more pitiful 

Than mere loud sobs and cries. 
One bit his cartridge till his lip 

Grew black as winter sky. 
But still the boy moaned, "Forty-third, 

Teach me the tcay fo die .'" 

Oh never saw I sight like that! 

The sergeant flung down flag, 
Even the tifer bound his brow 

With a wet and bloody rag; 
Then looked at locks, and li.\ed their steel, 

But never made reply. 
Until he sobbed out once again, 

"Teach mc the way to die!" 

Then, with a shout that flew to God, 
They strode into the fray ; 

I saw their red i)],umcs join and wave, 
But slowly melt away. 

The last who went — a wounded man- 
Bade the poor boy good-bye. 

And said, "We men of the Forty-third 
Teach yon the way to die .'" 

I never saw so s.ad .a look 

As the poor youngster cast. 
When the hot smoke of cannon 

In cloud and whirlwind passed. 
Earth shook, and Heaven answered : 

I watched his eagle-eye. 
As he faintly mo.aned, "The Forty-third 

Teach me the icay to die !" 



WALTER THOBNBVRT. — WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 



&ib 



Then, with a nuisket for a crutch, 

He limped unto the fight ; 
I, with a bnllet ill my hip, 

Had neither strength uor might. 
But, proudly beating on his drum, 

A fever in his eye, 
I heard him moan, "The Forty-third 

Tiiuijht me the icuij to die!" 

They found him on the morrow, 

Stretched on a heaji of dead ; 
His hand was in the grenadier's 

Who at his bidding bled. 
They hung a medal round his neck, 

And closed his dauntless eye ; 
On the stone they cut, "The Forty-third 

Taught him the way to die!" 

'Tis forty years from then till now — 

The grave gapes at my feet — ■ 
Yet when I think of such a boy, 

I feel my old heart beat. 
And from my sleep I sometimes wake. 

Hearing a feeble cry. 
And a voice that says, "Now, Forty-third, 

Teaeh me the way to die!" 



lUiUiam ^llingljam. 

AUinghani (1838- ) is a native of Ballyshannon, 

County of Donegal, Ireland. Removing to England, lie 
obtained an appointment in the Customs. His publica- 
tions are: "Poems," 1850; "Day and Night Songs," 
1854; "Laurence Bloonifield in Ireland" (a poem in 
twelve chapters), 1864 ; and " Fifty Modern Poems," 
186.5. For several yeai's he was editor of Fraser^s Maga- 
zine, but retired from tlie editorsliip in 1879. 



SONG. 



O Spirit of the Summer-time! 

Bring back the roses to the dells; 
Tlic swallow from her distant clime, 

Tlie honey-bee from drowsy cells. 

Bring back the friendship of the sun ; 

The gilded evenings, calm and late. 
When merry children homeward run, 

And peeping stars bid lovers wait. 

Bring back the singing; and the scent 
Of me.ndow-lands at dewy prime ; — 

Oh bring again my heart's content, 
Thou Spirit of the Summer-time! 



THE TOUCHSTONE. 

A man there came, whence none could tell. 
Bearing a Touchstone in his hand. 
And tested all things in the laud 

By its unerring spell. 

A thousand transformations rose 

From fair to foul, from foul to fair ; 
The golden crown be ditl not spare. 



Of heirloom jewels, iirized so much. 

Were many changed to chips and clods ; 
And even statues of the gods 

Crumbled beneath its touch. 

Then angrily the people cried, 

"The loss outweighs the profit far; 
Our goods sufiice us as they are : 

We will not have them tried." 

And, since they could not so avail 
To check his unrelenting quest. 
They seized him, saying, "Let him test 

How real is our jail!" 

But though they slew him with the sword, 
And In a fire his Touchstone burned. 
Its doings could not be o'erturned. 

Its undoings restored. 

And when, to stop all future harm. 
They strewed its ashes on the breeze, 
They little guessed each grain of these 

Conveyed the perfect charm. 



AUTLTVINAL SONNET. 

Now Autumn's tire burns slowly along the woods, 

And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt. 

And night by night the monitory blast 

Wails in the key-hole, telling how it passed 

O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes. 

Or grim, wide wave; and now the power is felt 

Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods 

Than any joy indulgent summer dealt. 

Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve. 

Pensive and glad, with tones that recognize 

The soft invisible dew in each one's eyes. 

It may be, somewhat thus we shall have leave 

To walk with memory, when distaut lies 

Poor Earth, where we were wjmt to live and grieve. 



826 



CTCLOPJEDtA OF BUITISH ASD AMERICAN POETRY. 



(f?cralb lUasscn. 



llassey was born in Ilcrtfordshire, England, in 1828. 
Of liumble origin, he fonglit liis way bravely up to dis- 
tinction in the face of severe difficulties. He has pub- 
lished several volumes both in prose and verse. In 187.5- 
'TC he lectured in the United States on the subject of 
Spiritualism. 

LITTLE WILLIE. 

Poor little Willie, 

With his many pretty wiles; 
Worlds of wisdom in bi.s look, 

Anil r[uaint, quiet smiles; 
Hair of amber touched with 

Gold of Heaven so brave ; 
All lying darkly hid 

In a workhouse grave. 

You remember little Willie, 

Fair and funny fellow ! he 
Sprang like a lily 

From the dirt of poverty. 
Poor little Willie! 

Not a friend was nigh 
When from the cold world 

He crouched down to die. 
In the day we wandered foodless. 

Little Willie cried for bread; 
In the night we wandered homeless, 

Little Willie cried for hcd. 
Parted at the workhouse door. 

Not a word we said ; 
Ah! so tired was poor Willie I 

And so sweetly sleep the dead I 

'Twas in the dead of winter 

Wo laid him in the earth ; 
The world brought iu the new year 

On a tide of mirth. 
But fur hist little Willie 

Not a tear we cra\'e ; 
Cold and hunger cannot wake hint 

Iu his workhouse grave. 

Wo thought him beautifnl, 

Felt it hard to part ; 
Wo loved him dutiful ; 

Down, down, poor heart! 
The storms tliey may beat, 

The winter winds may rave; 
Little Willie feel.s not 

Iu his w(jrkhonsc grave. 



No room for little Willie; 

In the world he had no part ; 
On him stared the Gorgon eye 

Through which looks no heart. 
" Come to me," said Heaven ; 

And if Heaven will save. 
Little matters though the door 

Be a workhouse grave. 



©corgc illcvcbitl). 

An English novelist and poet, born about 1828, Mere- 
dith has published "Poems" (1851); "Poems and Bal- 
lads" (1863); " Beauchamp's Career" (187.5); "Poems 
of the English Roadside." and several otlier works— e.\- 
liibiting his marked abilits' as a writer both in poetry 
and prose. Among his best novels are "Evan Harring- 
ton" (ISUl) and "Rhoda Fleming" (180.5). 



LOVE WITIIIX THE LOVKK'S BRE.\ST. 

Love within the lover's breast 
Burns like Hesper in the West, 
O'er the a.shes of the sun. 
Till the day and night arc done ; 
Then when Dawn drives up the car — 
Lo ! it is the moruing-star. 

Love I thy love pours down on mine 

As the sunlight on the vine. 

As the snow-rill ou the vale. 

As the salt breeze on the sail ; 

As the song unto the bird 

Ou my lips thy name is heard. 

As a dew-drop on tho rose 

Iu thy heart my passion glows; 

As a skylark to the sky 

Up into thji- breast I tly ; 

As a, sea-shell of the sea 

Ever shall I sing of thee. 



AT THE GATE. 

Outside the open gate a spirit stood. 

One called : "' Come iu I" Then he : " Ah, if I could ! 

For there within 'tis light and glorious. 

But here all cold and darkness dwell with ns." 

"Then,'' said the other, " come— the gate is wide!" 

But he : " I wait two augels who must guide. 

I cannot come unto Thee without these; 

Repentance first, and Faith Thy face that sees. 



GEOIiGE MEREDITH.— ALBICnr LAIGETOX. 



827 



I weep ami call : tliey do not lieav my voice ; 
I never shall witliiu the gate rejoice." 
V "O heart nnwise!" the voice did answer him, 
^"I reign o'er all the hosts of seraphim. 
Are not these angels also in my hand? 
If they come not to thee, 'tis my command. 
The darkness chills thee, tninnlt vexes thee ; 
Are angels more than I ? Come in to me." 

Then in the dark and restlessness and woe 
That .spirit rose and through the gate did go, 
Tremhliug because no augel walked before, 
Vet by the voice drawn onward evermore. 
.So came he weeping where the glory shone. 
And fell down crying, " Lord, I come alone!" 

" And it was thee I called," the voice replied ; 
• Be welcome." Then Love rose, a mighty tide 
That swept all else away. Speech found no place, 
l!ut sileuce, rapt, g.azed np nnto that face; 
Nor saw two angels from the radiance glide. 
And take their place forever at his side. 



Gilbert £aic(l)ton. 



AMERICAN. 

A native of Portsmouth, N. H., Laigliton was born in 
1839. He was for some time employed as the teller of a 
bank in his native town. In 18.59 he publisheci a volume 
of " Poems," of which the specimens we give are the best 
commendation. Another edition of his poems appeared 
in 1878. He is a cousin of Mrs. Celia Thaxtcr, to whom 
he dedicates his last volume. 



UNDER THE LEAVES. 

Oft have I walked these woodland paths. 

Without the blessed foreknowing 
That underneath the withered leaves 

The fairest buds were growing. 

To-day the south-wind sweeps away 
The types of Autumn's splendor, 

And shows the sweet arbutus flowers, — 
Spring's children, pure and tender. 

O prophet lio.wers ! — with lips of bloom, 

Outvying in your beauty 
Tlie pearly tints of oceau shells, — 

Ye teach me faith aud duty! 

Walk life's dark ways, ye seem to say. 
With Love's divine foreknowiug. 

That where niau sees but withered leaves, 
God sees the sweet flowers growing. 



TO MY SOUL. 

Guest from a holier world, 
Oh, tell mo where the peaceful valleys lie ! 
Dove in the ark of life, when thou shalt fly. 

Where will thj' wings be furled ? 

Where is thy native nest? 
Where the green pastures that the blessed roam ? 
Impatient dweller in thy clay-built home, 

Where is thy heavenly rest ? 

On some immortal shore, 
Some realm away from earth and time, I know, — 
A land of bloom where living waters flow, 

And grief comes nevermore. 

Faith turns my eyes above ; 
Day fills with floods of light the boundless skies; 
Xight w.atches calmly with her starry eyes 

All tremulous with love. 

And, as entranced I gaze, 
Sweet music floats to me from distant lyres; 
I see a tcmpio round whose golden spires 

LTuearthly glory plays. 

Beyond those azure deeps 
I fix thy home, — a mansion kept for thee 
Within the Father's house, whose noiseless key 

Kind Death, the warder, keeps! 



THE DEAD. 

I cannot tell you if the dead, 
That loved us foudlj' wheu on earth. 
Walk by our side, sit at our aearth. 

By ties of old afl'ectiou led ; 

Or, looking earnestly within. 
Know all onr joys, hear all our sighs, 
And watch us with their holy eyes 

Whene'er we tread the paths of sin ; 

Or if with mystic lore aud sign. 
They speak to us, or press our hand, 
Aud strive to make us understand 

The nearness of their forms divine : 

But this I know, — iu many dreams 
They come to us from realms afar, 
And le.ave the golden gates ajar, 

Through which immortal glory streams. 



828 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



£)cnnj Qliinroi). 



Born in Charleston, S. C, in 1839, Timrod died in Co- 
lumbia, S. C, in 1807. In his brief career he gave tokens 
of rare poetical powers, which, if life had been prolonged, 
and opportunities had been more favorable, would un- 
questionably liave placed him in the front rank of con- 
temporary poets. An eloquent and touching memoir of 
him by Paul 11. Ilayne, himself a true poet, was publish- 
ed in 1873, as an accompaniment to a collection of Tim- 
rod's poems. See the lines by his father, page 420. 



HARK TO THE SHOUTING WIND. 

Hark to tlie shouting Wind ! 

Hark to the flying Eaiu ! 
And I care not tbougU I never see 

A bright bine sky again. 

There are thoughts lu my breast to-day 
That are not for human speech ; 

But I hear them in the driving storm, 
And the roar upon the beach. 

And oh to be with that ship 

That I watch through the blinding brine ! 

Wind! for thy sweep of laud and sea! 
O Sea ! for a voice like thine ! 

Shout on, thou pitiless Wind, 

To the frightened aud flying Rain ! 

1 care not though I never see 
A calm blue sky again. 



ODE. 



Sung on the occasion of decorating the graves of Ihe Con- 
federate dead at Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S. C, 1S07. 

Sleep sweetly in your linmble graves, 
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause ; 

Though yet no marble column craves 
The pilgrim here to pause. 

In seeds of laurel in the earth 

The blossom of yonr fame is blown, 

And somewhere, waiting for its birth. 
The shaft is in the stone! 

Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 

Which keep in trust your storied tombs, 

Hcholil ! your sisters bring their tears, 
And these memorial blooms. 



Small tributes! but yonr shades will smile 
More proudly on these wreaths to-day, • 

Than when some cannon-moulded pile 
Shall overlook this bay. 

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies! 

Tliere is no holier spot of ground 
Than whei'e defeated valor lies, 

By mourning beauty crowned! 



A COMMON THOUGHT. 

Somewhere on this earthly planet, 
In the dust of flowers to be. 

In the dew-drop, in the sunshine, 
Sleeps a solenm day for me. 

At this wakeful hour of midnight 

I behold it dawn in mist, 
And I hear a sound of sobbing 

Through the darkness — hist ! oh, hist ! 

In a dim and musky chamber, 

I am breathing life away ; 
Some one draws a curtain softly, 

Aud I watch •the broadening day. 

As it purples in the zenith, 
As it brightens on the lawn, 

There's a hush of death about ine. 
And a whisper, " He is gone !" 



FROM "A SOUTHERN SPRING." 

Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air 
Which dwells with all things fair; 
Spring, with her golden suns aud silver rain. 
Is with us once again. 

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns 
Its fragrant lamps, aud turns 
Into a royal court with green festoons 
The banks of dark lagoons. 

In the deep heart of every forest tree 
The blood is all aglee, 

And there's a look about the leafless bowers 
As if they dreamed of flowers. 

Yet still on every side we trace the hand 
Of Winter in the land. 



HEXItr TIMROD.—LtZZIE DOTEX. 



S29 



Save where the maple reddens ou the hiwn, 
Flushed by the season's dawn ; 

Or where, like those strange semblances we tiud 

That age to childhood bind, 

The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, 

The brown of Autumn corn. 

As yet the turf is dark, although you know 
That, not a span below, 

A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, 
And soon will burst their tomb. 

Already here and there, ou frailest stems, 
Appear some azure gems, 
tSmall as might deck, upon a gala-day, 
'J'he forehead of a fay. 

In gardens you may note amid the dearth 

The crocus breaking earth ; 

And near the snowdrop's tender white and green, 

The violet in its screen. 

]{ut many gleams and shadows needs must pass 
Along the budding grass, 

And weeks go by before the enamored South 
Shall kiss the rose's mouth. 

Still, there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn 
III the sweet airs of morn ; 
One almost looks to see the very street 
flrow purple at his feet. • 

At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, 
And bring.s, you know not why, 
A feeling as when eager crowds await 
Hefore a palace gate 

Some wondrous pageant ; and you scarce would 

start. 
If from a beech's heart, 

A blue-ej-ed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, 
'• Behold me ! I am May !" 



SONNETS. 
I. 

Poet! if on a lasting fame be bent 

Thy unpcrturbing liojies, thou wilt not roam 

Too far from thine own happy heart and home ; 

Cling to the lowly earth, and be content! 

So shall thy name bo dear to mauy a heart ; 



So .shall the noblest truths by thee be taught ; 
The flower and fruit of wholesome human thought 
Bless the sweet labors of thy gentle art. 
The brightest stars are nearest to the earth, 
And we may track the mighty sun above, 
Even by the shadow of a slender flower. 
Always, O bard, humility is power! 
And thou may'st draw from matters of the hearth 
Truths wide as nations, and as deep as love. 



I scarcely grieve, O Nature ! at the lot 

That pent my life within a city's bounds, 

And shut me from thy sweetest sights and sounds. 

Perh.aps I had not leai'ued, if some lone cot 

Had nursed a dreamy childhood, what the mart 

Taught mo amid its turmoil ; so my youth 

Had missed full many a stern but wholesome truth. 

Here, too, O Nature! iu this hanut of Art, 

Thy iiower is on me, and I own thy thrall. 

There is no unimpressive spot on earth! 

The beauty of the stars is over all, 

And Day aud Darkness visit every hearth. 

Clouds do not scorn us : yonder factory's smoke 

Looked like a golden mist when morning broke. 



t'wM Dotcn. 



Miss Doten was born in Plymouth, Mass., about the 
year 18:29, She received a good early education, but was 
mostly self-taught. She is publicly known as an "in- 
spirational speaker," and her poems are nearly all im- 
provisations, produced witli little or no intellectual la- 
bor. She has put forth two volumes of poems, which 
have attracted a good deal of attention in England as 
well as in her native country. Her residence for sev- 
eral years has been in Boston. 



"GONE IS GONE, AND DEAD IS DEAD." 

"Ou returniug to the iua, he fomid there a wandering min- 
strel — a woman — gin^iiij:, and accompanying her voice with the 
music of a harp. The burden of the song was, 'Gone is gone, 
and dead is dead.' "—Jean Paul Richtek. 

" Gone is gone, and dead is dead !" 
Words to hopeless sorrow wed — 
Words from deepest anguish wrung. 
Which a lonely wanderer sung. 
While her harp prolonged the strain, 
Like a spirit's cry of pain 
When all hope with life is fled : 
" Gone is gone, and dead is dead." 



fii30 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH ASD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Mournful singer ! bearts uiikuowu 
Tlirill responsive to tliat tone ; 
By a eouinjon weal .and woe, 
Kinilrcd sorrows all must know. 
Lips all tremulous with paiu 
Oft repeat tliat sad refraiu 
When the fatal shaft is sped — 
" Goue is gone, and dead is dead."- 

Paiu and death are everywhere — 
lu the earth, and sea, and air ; 
And the sunshine's golden glauce, 
And the heaven's serene expanse, 
With a silence calm and high, 
Seem to mock tliat mournful cry 
Wrung from hearts by hope unl'ed — 
" Goue is goue, and dead is dead." 

O ye .sorrowing ones, arise ; 
Wipe the tear-drops from your eyes ; 
Lift your faces to the light; 
Read Death's mystery aright. 
Life unfolds from life within, 
And with death does life begin. 
Of the soul cannot be said, 
"Gone is gone, and dead is dead." 

As the stars, which, one by one, 
Lighted at the central sun, 
Swept across ethereal space, 
Each to its predestined place. 
So the soul's Promethean lire. 
Kindled never to expire, 
On its course innnortal .sped, — 
Is not gone, and is uot dead ! 

By a Power to thought unknown, 
Love shall ever seek its own. 
Sundered not by time or space. 
With uo distant dwelling-place. 
Soul shall answer unto soul, 
As the needle to the pole : 
Leaving grief's lament unsaid, 
"Gone is gone, and dead is dead." 

Evermore Love's quickening breath 
{'alls the living soul friun death ; 
And the resurrection's power 
Gomes to every dying hour. 
When the soul, with vision clear, 
Learns that Heaven is always near. 
Never more shall it bo said, 
" Gone is gone, and dead is dead." 



(I^uii Cjuni)j|)rcij UliiUastcr. 

AMERICAN. 

Boni at Clyde, N. Y., 1829, McMaster became a lawyer 
and tlien a judge, resident at Bath, N. Y. In tlie lew 
poems from bis pen he has given evidence of a purely 
original vein. 



CARMEN BELLICOSUM. 

In their ragged regimentals 
Stood the old Continental.s, 

Yielding not, 
When the Grenadiers were lunging. 
And like hail fell the plungiug 
Cannon-shot : 
When the hies 
Of the isles. 
From the smoky night encampment bore the banner 
of the rampant 

Unicorn, 
And gruramer, grummer, grummer rolled the roll of 
the drummer 

Through the morn ! 

But with eyes to the front all, 
And with guns horizontal, 

Stood our sires ; 
And the balls whistled deadly. 
And in streams flashing redly 
Blazed the fires ; 
As the roar 
On the shore 
Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green sod- 
ded acres 

Of the plain ; 
And louder, louder, louder cracked the black gun- 
powdei". 

Cracking amain ! 

Now like smiths at their forges 
Worked the red Saint George's 

Cannoniers, 
And the " villauoua saltpetre" 
R.ang a fierce discordant metre 
Round their ears. 
As the swift 
Storm-drift, 
With hot sweeping anger came the Horse-guards' 
clangor 

On our Hanks ; 
Then higher, higher, higher burned the old-lash- 
ioned fire 

Through the rank.s! 



GUT HLMVUREY McMASTER.—FITZ-JAMES O'BEIEX. 



631 



Then the oUl-fashioued Colouel 
Galloped through the white infernal 
Powder-cloud ; 
W ^ His broad-sword was swinging, 

And his brazen tliroat was ringing, 
Trnnipet-lond ; 
Tlien tlio blno 
Bnllets llcw, 
And tlie trooper-jaclcets redden at the touch of the 
leaden 

Eiflc-bn^ath, 
And rounder, nninder, rounder roared the iron six- 
pounder, 

Hurling death. 



BRANT TO THE INDIANS. 

Tlie following is nn estract from a Centennial Poem, deliv- 
ered August 20th, ISTO, iu memory of the Battle of the Che- 
mung. The scene of the battle, which took place in 17T0, was 
tlie beautiful, virgin valley of (^'heninns:, not far from Newtown, 
N. Y., the English name of a small Indian village, and near 
Elinira. 

Ye biaves of the Ancient League — the people's de- 
fenders ! 

Here, iu the gates of the South, the white foe comos, 

Daring his doom, yet marching with banners and 
splendors. 

With empty roar of cannon and rattle of drums. 

These are the hungry caters of land — the greedy 
Devourers of forest anil lake and meadow and 

swamp ; 
Gorged with the soil they have robbed from the 

helpless and needy, 
The tribes that trembled before their martial pomp. 

These are the rich, who covet the humlde goods of 
the poor: 

The wise, who with their cunning the simple en- 
snare ; 

The strong, who trample the weak as weeds on the 
moor; 

Tlie great, who grudge with the small the earth to 
share. 

But you are the valiant braves of Ho-den-a-sau-nee ; 
The tribes of the East were weaklings, with hearts 

of the deer ; 
Uncouqnorcd in war you are, and ever shall be. 
For your limbs are mighty — your hearts are void 

of fear. 



Continue to listen ! Tliese white men are liars who 

say 
That red men are faithless to treaty, and heed not 

their pledge ; 
That they love but to ravage and burn, to torture 

and slay, [edge ! 

And to ruin the towns with torch, and the hatchet's 

The Spirit above gave his red children these lands. 
The deer on the hills, the beaver and fowls in the 

ponds ; 
The bow and the hatchet and knife he i>laced iu 

your hands. 
And bound your tribes together in mighty bonds. 

Who are these farm-house curs that foolishly rant 
At you, the untamable cubs of the mountain-cat ? 
Who is this lawyer' that seeks on the war-path for 
Brant, [eral's hat ? 

And struts with a new -bought sword and a gen- 
Why do these choppers of wood, these ox-driving 

toilers, 
Lust for the ancient homes of Ho-den-a-sau-nee ? 
WJiy from their barn-yards come these rustic de- 
spoilers? [be? 
Shall the sweet wilderness like their vile farms e'er 

Can the warrior become a farmer's hired clown ? 

Shall he hoe like the squaw, or toss up grass on a 
fork? 

Will the panther churn milk in the pen of the tread- 
mill hound ? 

Or the be.ar wear an apron and do a scullion's work ? 

C'ontiinie to listen ! Ye are not fashioned for slaves! 
And that these blue -eyed robbers at once shall 

know : 
Want they your lauds? — they shall not even have 

graves. 
Until their bodies are buried by winter's snow! 



JFit^.ilames (D'33ricn. 

O'Brien (1829-1862), the son of a barrister, wns born iu 
Irelaud, and educated at Trinity College, Dublin. While 
quite jouiig lie went to London, and wrote for Dickens's 
Jiouxe/whl iro«7«. In 18.53 he emigrated to America, and 
soon became a v.alued eontriljutor to the leading period- 
icals. Many of his poems appeared in Hniijerh Magazine 

1 This is a reference to General Sullivan, who commanded 
the American army, numbering live thousand men. 



8-i2 



CYCLOPEDIA OF liKITISH AXD AMEBIC AN I'OETRY. 



and Harper's Weekly between 1853 and 1860. When news 
of the dc;ith of Kane reached New York, O'Brien was 
asked to write a poem on the subject for the next num- 
liur of Harper's Weekly. It is a brilliant proof of his gen- 
ius that lie could produce to order such a poem as he did. 
Kudc in places, and showing a lack of the labor lima, it is 
_vot a remarkable production. 

When tlie Civil War broke out, he enlisted in the New 
York Seventh Regiment, and marched with his company 
to the capital. In January, 1863, he got an appointment 
on the staff of Gen. Lander, and showed gi'eat bravery in 
several skirmishes. The following month, while head- 
ing a cavalry charge, he was shot in the shoulder. The 
wound was not at first thought dangerous, but from sur- 
gical maltreatment it became so. On the 4th of April 
lie had to submit to an operation, of which he wrote: 
"AH my shoulder-bone and a portion of my upper arm 
have been taken away. I nearly died. My breath ceased, 
heart ceased to beat, pulse stopped. * * * There is a 
chance of my getting out of it ; that's all. In case I 
don't, good-bye, old fellow, with all my love!" Two 
days after this was written, he died. 



ELISHA KENT KANE. 

DIED FEIiRU.^EY 16, 1S57. 

Aloft, upon an old basaltic crag, 

Which, scalped by keen winds that defend the 

Pole, 
Gazes with dead face on the seas that ndl 
Around the secret of the mystic zone, 
A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag 
Flutters alone. 
, And underneath, upon the lifeless front 

Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced ; 
Kit type of him who, famishing and ganut, 
But with a rocky purpose lu liis soul, 
Breasted the gathering snows, 
Clung to the drifting floes. 
By want beleaguered, and by winter chased, 
Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste. 

Not many months ago we greeted liim, 

Crowned with the icy honors of the North. 
Across the land his hard-won fame went forth. 
And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by limb. 
His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim, 
Burst from its decorous quiet as he came. 
Hot Southern lips, with eloquence aflame. 
Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim, 
I'roffered its horny hand. The large-lungod West, 

From out its giant breast 
Yillid its frank welcome. And from main to main, 
Jubilant to the sky, 
Thundered the mighty cry, 
Honor to Kane. 



In vain — in vain beneath his feet we flung 
The reddening roses ! All in vain we poured 
The golden wine, and round the shining board 
Sent the toast circling, till the rafters rung 
With the thrice-tripled honors of the fitast ! 
Scarce the buds wilted and the voices cea.sed 
Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes, 
Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies, 

Faded and faded. And the brave young heart 
That the relentless Arctic winds had robbed 
Of all its vital heat, in that long quest 
For the lost Captain, now within his breast 

More and more faintly throbbed. 
His was the victory ; but as his grasp 
Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp, 

Death launched a whistling dart ; 
And ere the thunders of applause were done 
His bright eyes closed forever on the sun ! 
Too late — too late the sjileudid prize he won 
In the Olympic race of Science and of Art I 

Like to some shattered berg that, pale and huie, 
Drifts from the white North to a Tropic zone, 
And lu the burning day 
Wastes peak by peak away, 
Till on some rosy even 
It dies with sunlight blessing it ; so he 
Tranquilly floated to a Southern .sea, 
And melted into Heaven ! 

He needs no tears, who lived a noble life! 
We will not weep for him who died so well ; 
But we will gather round the hearth, and tell 

The story of his strife. 

Such homage suits him well ; 
Better than funeral pomp or passing bell ! 

W'hat tale of peril and self-sacrifice ! 
Prisoned amid thexfastnesses of ice, 

With Hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow ! 
Night lengthening into months ; the ravenous floe 
Crunching the massive ships, as the white-bear 
Crunches his prey. The insufificient share 

Of loathsome food ; 
Tlie lethargy of famiue ; the despair 

Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued ; 

Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued 
Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind 
Glimmered the fading embers of a mind! 
That awful hour, when through the prostrate band 
Delirium stalked, laying his burning hand 

Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew. 

The whispers of rebellion, faint and few 



FITZ-JAMES O'BniEN.— CHARLES G. HALPINE.—FLOEUS B. PLIMPTON. 



833 



At first, but (leepeuing ever till tbey grew 
Into black tboiigUts of murder: sucb tbe throug 
( If borrors rouud tlie Hero. Higb tbe song 
fSlioulil be tbat bymus tbe uoblo part be played I 
Sinking himself — yet niiuistering aid 

To all around bini. By a luigbty will 

Living defiant of tbe -wants tbat kill,. 
ISecause bis death would seal his comrades' fate ; 

Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill 
Those Polar winters, dark and desolate. 
Kiinal to every trial — every fiite 

He stands, until spring, tardy with relief, 
Unlocks the icy gate. 
And the pale prisoners thread the world once more, 
To tbe steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shore. 
Bearing their dying chief! 

Time was when be should gain his spurs of gold 
From royal bauds, who wooed the knighlly slate; 

The kuell of old formalities is tolled, 

And tbe world's knights are now self-cousecrate. 

No grander episode dotb chivalry hold 
In all its anuals, back to Charlemagne, 
Thau that long vigil of unceasing paiu, 

Faithfully kept, through hunger aud through cold. 



(L'jjaiics (!?raljam Ijalpinc. 

Ilalpine (1829-1869) was a native of Irelnnd. Emi- 
grating to America, lie connected himself with the Press, 
and won distinction. Under the assumed name of Miles 
O'Reilly he wrote some of the most effective of the hu- 
morous poems that were produced during the Civil War. 
A major in tlie army of the XJniou, he wrote for the cause 
almost as well as he fought. 



JANETTE'S HAIR. 

'■ Oh, loosen the snood that yon wear, Janette, 
Let me tangle a baud in your bair — my pet ;'' 
Vox tbe world to nie bad no daintier sight [white. 
Thau yonr brown bair veiling your shoulder 

It was brown with a golden gloss, Janette, 
It was tiller than silk of the tloss — my pet; 
'Twas a beautiful mist falling down to your wrist, 
"I'was a thing to be braided, aud jewelled, aud 
kissed — 
'Twas the loveliest hair in tbe world — my pet. 

My arm was the arm of a clown, Janette, 
It was sinewy, bristled, aud brown — my pet : 
53 



But warmly aud softly it loved to caress 
Your rouud white neck and your wealth of tress, 
Your beautiful plenty of bair — my pet. 

Your eyes bad a swimming glory, Janette, 
Revealing tbe old, dear story — my pet ; 
They were gray with tbat chastened tinge of the sky 
When tbe trout leaps quickest to snap the fly. 
And they matched with your goldeu bair — my pet. 

Your lips — but I have no words, Janette — 
They were fresh as the twitter of birds — my pet. 
When the spring is young, aud roses are wet, 
\Vitli tbe dew-drops in each red bosom set, 

Aud they suited your gold brown hair — my pet. 

Ob, you tangled my life in your hair, Janette, 
'Twas a silkeu and golden snare — my pet ; 
But, .so gentle the boudage, mj' soul did implore 
The right to continue your slave evermore, 

With my tingeis enmeshed in your hair — my pet. 

Thus ever I dream what you were, Janette, 
With your lips and your eyes aud yonr bair — my pet ; 
In the darkness of desolate years I moan, 
And my tears fall bitterly over tbe stone 
Tliat covers your golden hair — my pet. 



JFlorus 33cavLislcj) Plimpton. 

AMERICAN. 
Plimpton was born in 1830, in Palmyra, Portage Coun- 
ty, O. He was educated principally at Allegliany Col- 
lege, MeadviUe, Pa., and in 1851 connected himself edi- 
tori.ally with a newspaper at Warren, Trumbull County. 
In 1857 he removed to Pittsburgh, Pa., and edited tlie 
Doihj Despatch. 



TELL HER. 

O river Beautiful! tbe breezy bills 

That slope their green declivities to thee, 

III purple reaches bide my Life from me : — 

Go, then, beyoud the thunder of the mills. 

And wheels tbat cbnrn thy waters into foam. 

And murmuring softly to the darling's ear. 

And niurmuriug sweetly when my love shall bear, 

Tell how I miss her presence in our home. 

Say tbat it is as lonely as my heart ; 

The rooms deserted ; all her pet birds mute ; 

The sweet geranium odorless ; the flute, 

Its stops nntoucbed, while wondrous gems of art 

Lie lustreless as diamonds in a mine, 

To kindle in her smile aud in her radiance shine. 



834 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



(L'l)vistina C^corgina llossclti. 

Miss Rossetti, a sister of Dante Gabriel Rossetti,was 
born in London in 1830. Her collected poems were re- 
published in Boston by Roberts Brothers in 1875. She 
has written several books for children. 



CONSIDER. 
Consider 
The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief: 

We are as they ; 

Like them we fade away, 
As doth a leaf. 

Consider 

The sparrows of the air of small account; 

Our God doth view 
Whether they fall or mount : 

Ho guards us too. 

Consider 

The lilies that do neither spin nor toil, 

Yet are most fair : 

What iirofits all this care. 
And all this coil ? 

Consider 

The birds that have no harn nor harvest-weeks ; 

God gives them food : — 
Much more onr Father seeks 
To do us good. 



BEAUTY IS VAIN. 

While roses are so red. 

While lilies are so white, 
Shall a woman exalt her face 

Because it gives delight ? 
She's not so sweet as a rose, 

A lily is straighter than she. 
And if slie were as red or white 

She'd be hut one of three. 

Whether she llu.'sh in snnmier. 

Or in its winter grow pale, 
Wliether she flaunt her beauty 

Or hide it away in a veil, — 
Be she red or white, 

And stand she erect or bowed, 
Time will win the race he runs with her. 

And hide her away in a shroud. 



i?amcs (Poiubrcij Clttrk. 

AMERICAN, 

A native of Oswego County, N. Y., Clark was born in 
1830. His residence (1880) was in Minneapolis, Minn. 
A musical composer and singer, as well as a natural 
poet, be has given popular entertainments with great 
success in inost of the Western cities. 



LEONA. 



Leona, the hour draws nigh. 

The hour we've waited so long, 
For the angel to open a door through the sky. 
That my spirit may break from its prisou and try 
Its voice in an infinite song. 

Just now, as the slumbers of uiglit 

Came o'er mo with peace-giving breath, 
The curtain half lifted revealed to my sight 
Those windows which look on the kingdom of light, 
That borders the river of death. 

And a vision fell solemn and sweet. 

Bringing gleams of a morning-lit land; 
I saw the white shore which the pale waters beat. 
And I heard the low lull as they broke at their feet 
Who walked on the beautiful strand. 

And I wondered why spirits could cling 

To their clay with a struggle and sigh. 
When life's purple autumn is better than spring, 
And the soul flies away like a sparrow, to sing 
In a climate where leftves never die. 

Leona, come close to my bed, 

And lay your dear hand on my brow. 
The same touch that thrilled me in days that are fled, 
And raised the lost roses of youth from the dead. 

Can brighten the brief moments now. 

We have loved from the cold world apart. 

And your trust was too generous and true 
For their hate to o'erthrow; when the slanderer's 

dart 
Was rankling deep in my desolate heart, 
I was dearer than ever to you. 

I thank the Great Father for this, 

That our love is not lavished in vain ; 
Each germ in the future will blossom to bliss, 
And the forms that we love, and the lips that we kiss. 
Never shrink at the shadow of pain. 



JJME.S GOWDREY CLARK.— ALEXAXDER SMITH. 



H35 



By the li^lit of this faith am I taught 
I That my lahor is ouly begun ; [fought 

III the strength of this hope have I struggled ami 
With the legions of wrong, till my armor has caught 
The gleam of Eternity's sun. 

Leoiia, look forth ami behold 

From headland, from hill-side, and deep. 
The day-king stirrenders his banners of gold; 
The twilight advances through woodland and wold, 
And the dews are hegiiniing to weep. 

The moon's silver hair lies uncurled, 

Down the broad-breasted mountains away; 
Ere sunset's red glories again shall be furled 
On the walls of the west, o'er the plains of the world, 
I shall rise in a limitless day. 

0! come n.-)t in tears to my tomb, 

Nor plant with frail flowers the sod ; 
There is rest among roses too sweet for its gloom, 
And life where the lilies eternally bloom 



Yet deeply those memories burn 

■\Vhieh bind mo to you and to earth, 
And I sometimes have thought that my being would 

yearn, 
III the bowers of its beautiful home, to return 
And visit the home of its birth. 

'Twould even be pleasant to stay. 

And walk by your side to the last ; 
But the land-breeze of Heaven is beginning to play — 
Life's shadows are mcieting Eternity's day. 
And Its tumult is hushed in the past. 

Leona, good-bye : should the grief 
That is gathering now, ever he 
Too dark for your faith, you will long for relief, 
And remember, the journey, though lonesome, is 
brief. 
Over lowland and river to me. 



vllcfanbcr SinitI). 



A native of Kilmarnock, Scotland (1830-1867), Smith 
put fortli in 1853 a volume of poems, of which the prin- 
cipal was entitled "A Life Drama." Two more volumes 
of his poetry appcired; one in 1857, the other in 1861. 
In one of Miss Mitford's letters we read : "Mr. Kingsley 
siiys that Alfred Tennyson says tliat Smith's poems show 
fancy, but not imagination ; and on my repeating this 



to Mrs. Browning, she said it was exactly her impres- 
sion." Smith's "Life," written by P. P. Alexander, ap- 
pears in au edition of his " Last Leaves " (1868). 



A DAY IN SPRING. 

From "A Life Drasia." 

The lark is singing iu the blinding sky. 
Hedges are white with May. The bridegroom sea. 
Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride, 
And, in the fulness of Lis marriage joy. 
He decorates her tawny brow with shells. 
Retires .a space, to see how fair she looks. 
Then pi-oud, runs up to kiss her. All is fair — 
All glad, from grass to sun ! 



A DAY IN SUMMER. 
From "A Life Drama." 

Each leaf upou the trees doth shako with joy. 
With joy the white clouds navigate the blue. 
And on his painted wings, the butterfly. 
Most splendid masker iu this caruival. 
Floats through the air iu joy ! Better for man, 
Were he and Nature more familiar frieuds ! 



HER LAST WORDS. 

The callow young were huddling in the nests. 
The marigold was bnruiug in the marsh, 
Like a thing dipped in sunset when he came. 

My blood went up to meet him ou my face. 
Glad as a child that hears its father's step. 
And runs to meet him at the opeu porch. 

I g.ave him all my being, like a flower 
That flings its perfume ou a vagrant breeze ; 
A breeze that wanders on, and heeds it not. 

His scorn is lying on my heart like snow. 
My eyes are weary, and I fain would sleep ; 
The quietest sleep is underneath the ground. 

Are ye around me, friends ? I cannot see, 

I cannot hear the voices that I love, 

I lift my hands to you from out the night. 

Methought I felt a tear upou my cheek ; 
Weep not, my mother! It is time to rest. 
And I am very weary ; so, good-night ! 



KK 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BUITISH AND AMERICAN POETHT . 



(Hccil Jraiucs ^Iciranlicr. 

Mrs. Alcxaiidci', born about 1830, is the wife of William 
Alexander, D.D., Bishop of Dcrry, etc. She is the author 
of " Moral Songs, Hymns for Children," and " Poems on 
Old Testament Suljjeets." She has edited the "Cliildren's 
(iarland" and the "Sunday Book of Poetry" (1865). 



THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 

By Nebo's lonely mountain, 

On this side Jordan's wave, 
In a vale in tbe land of Moab, 

Tliero lies a lonely grave. 
And no man knows tbat sepnlcbie, 

And no man saw it e'er, 
For tbe angels of God uptnrned tbe sod. 

And laid tbe dead mau there. 

Tbat was the grandest funeral 

Tbat ever passed on earth ; 
But no man heard the trampling 

Or saw the train go forth, — 
Noiselessly as tbe daylight 

Conies back when night is done, 
And tbe crimson streak on ocean's cbeck 

Cirows into the great sun, — 

Noiselessly as tbe spring-time 

Her crown of verdure weaves, 
And all the trees on all tbe hills 

Open their thousand leaves : 
So without sound of music. 

Or voice of tbeni tbat wept. 
Silently down from tbe mountain's crown 

The great procession swept. 

Perchance the bald old eagle 

On gray Betb-peor's height. 
Out of his lonely eyrie. 

Looked on tbe wondrous sight: 
Perchance the lion stalking 

Still shuns tbat hallowed spot : 
For beast and bird have seen and beard 

That which man knoweth not. 

But when tbe warrior dietb, 

His comrades in the war. 
With arms reversed and muffled drum. 

Follow liis funeral car : 
Tlioy show Ibe banners taken, 

Tboy tell bis battles won, 
And after him lead bis masterless steed. 

While peals the miunte-gun. 



Amid the noblest of the land 

We lay tbe sage to rest, 
And give tbe bard an honored place, 

With costly marble dressed, 
In tbe great minster transept 

Where lights like glories fall, 
And tbe organ rings, and tbe sweet choir sings 

Along tbe emblazoned wall. 

This was Ibe truest warrior 

That ever buckled sword, 
This tbe most gifted poet 

Tbat ever breathed a word ; 
And never earth's philosopher 

Traced with bis golden pen. 
On the deathless page, truths half so sage 

As he wrote down for men. 

And bad be not high honor — 

Tbe hill-side for a pall, 
To lie in state while augels wait 

With stars for tapers tall. 
And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes, 

Over bis bier to wave. 
And Ciod's own baud in tbat lonely land. 

To lay him in tbe grave ? 

In that strange grave without a name, 

Whence bis unooftined clay 
Shall break again, O wondrous thought! 

Before tbe Judgment-day. 
And stand with glory wrapped around 

On the hills he never trod. 
And speak of the strife tbat won our life, 

With tbe Incarnate Son of God. 

O lonely grave iu Moab's land! 

O dark Betb-peor's hill ! 
Speak to these chrions hearts of ours, 

And teach them to be still. 
Ctod bath his mysteries of grace. 

Ways that we cannot tell ; 
He hides them deep, like the bidden sleep 

Of him he loved so well. 



iUarijavct iJnnkiu Preston. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs. Preston, a daughter of Dr. George JunUin, is a 
native of Lexington, Va. She has been a frequent con- 
tributor to the magazines, and is the author of three 
volumes of poems wliieli have been well received, and 
give evidence of high poetical gifts. Her "Cartoons" 



MAUGAREI JVNEIN PRESTON. 



«?7 



(iniblislicd in Boston, 1870) went to a second edition a 
montli aftci' its appearance, and a tliird lias since been 
put fortli. Slic was foi- years tlio literai-y critic of tlie 
Baltimore Southern Review, and a diligent contributor to 
several Southern journals. Her sister was tlie wife of 
Stonewall Jackson (Thomas Jonathan Jacljson) of mil- 
itary renown, and Mrs. Preston has written a poem, 
worthy of the subject, on his death. The "Dedication" 
in her "Old Songs and New," published in Philadelphia 
( 1870), is a favorable example of her style. 



DEDICATION. 

Pay-dnty clone, — I've iilled forth to get 

All hour's light i)astime iu the shady lanes, 
And here and there have jihicked with careless 
pains 
Tlieso wayside waifs, — sweetbrier and violet, 
And such like simple things that seemed indeed 
Flowers, — though, perhaps, I knew not fiower 
from weed. 

What shall I do with them ? — They find uo place 
In stately vases where magnolias give 
Out sweets iu which their faintness could not live : 

Yet tied with grasses, posy- wise, for grace, 

I have no heart to cast them qnile away, [day. 
Though their brief bloom should not outlive the 

Upon the open jiages of your book, 

I lay them down : — And if within your eye 
A little tender mist I may descry, 
Or a sweet sunshine flicker in your look, — 
Right happy will I be, thongh all declare 
No eye but love's could lind a violet there. 



THE TYRANNY OF MOOD. 

I. MORNING. 

It is enough : I feel, this golden morn. 
As if a royal appanage were mine. 
Through Nature's queenly waiTant of divine 
Investiture. What princess, palace born, 
Hath right of rapture more, when skies adorn 
Themselves so grandly ; when the mountains shine 
Transfigured ; when the air exalts like wine ; 
When pearly purples steep the yellowing corn ? 
So satisKed with all the goodliuess 
Of God's good world, — my being to its brim 
Surcharged with ntter thankfulness no less 
Than bliss of beauty, passionately glad [dim, — 
Through rush of tears that leaves the landscape 
" Who dares," I cry, " iu such a world be sad 1" 



I press my cheek against the window-pane. 
And gaze abroad into the blank, black space 
Where earth and sky no more have any place, 
Wiped from existence by the expunging raiu ; 
And as I hear the worried winds complain, 
A darkness darker than the murk whose trace 
Invades the curtained room is on my face, 
Beneatli which life and life's best ends seem vain. 
My swelling aspirations viewless sink 
As you cloud-blotted hills : hopes that shone bright 
As planets yester-eve, like them to-night 
Are gulfed, the impenetrable mists before: 
"O weary world," I cry, "bow dare I think 
Thon hast for me one gleam of gladness more ?" 



SAINT CECILIA. 

Haven't you seen her? — and don't you know 

Why I dote ou the darling so? 

Let me picture her as she stands 

Tliere with the music-book in her bands, 

Looking as ravishing, rapt, and bright 

As a baby Saint Cecilia might. 

Lisping licr bird-notes, — tbat's Belle White. 

Watch as she raises her eyes to you, 
Half-crushed violets dipped in dew, 
Brimming with timorous, coy surprise, — 
(Doves have just such glistening eyes:) 
But, let a dozen of years have flight. 
Will there be then such harmless light 
Warming these luminous eyes, — Belle White? 

Look at the pretty, feminine gr.ace, 
Even now, on the small, youug face: 
Such a consciousness as she speaks, 
Flushing the ivory of her cheeks, — 
Such a maideuly, arch delight 
That she carries me captive quite, 
Snared with her daisy chain, — Belle White. 

Many an ambushed smile lies hid 

Under that innocent, downcast lid : 

Arrows will fly, with silvery tips, 

Out from the bow of those arcliing lips 

Parting so guilelessly, .as .she stands 

There with the music-book iu her hands. 

Chanting her bird-notes soft and light, 

Even as Saint Cecilia might, 

Dove with the folded wings, — Belle White! 



836 



CYCLOPJiDIA OF BllITJSH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Io\)\\ (Pstcn (Cooke. 



AMERICAN. 

Cooke, a brotbei- to Pliilip Pendleton Cooke, was boin 
in Winchester, Va., in 1830. His fumily removed to Ricli- 
mond in 1839, and, after a good education, lie studied law 
in tlie ofBce of his father, and was admitted to the Bar. 
Literature has, however, claimed much of his attention. 
He has published several popular novels, among which 
are "The Virginia Bohemians" and "Her Majesty the 
Queen." 

MAY. 

Has the old glory passed 

From tender May — 
Tbat never the ecboiug blast 
Of bugle-horns merry, and fast 
Dying away like the past, 

Welcomes the day ? 

Has the old Beauty gone 

From golden May — 
That not any more at dawn 
Over the flowery lawn, 
Or knolls of the forest withdrawn, 

Maids are at play ? 

Is the old freshness dead 

Of the fairy May ?— 
Ah! the sad tear-drops unshed! 
Ah! the young maidens unwed! 
Golden locks — cheeks rosy red! 

Ah ! where are they ? 



(Elino Dean |Jroctor. 

AMERICAN. 

Miss Proctor was born in the interesting old town 
of Henniker, N. H,, on the Contooconk River. On com- 
jilcting her school education, she made Brooklyn, N. Y., 
her home. She puhli.-hed a volume of poems, national 
and miscellaneous, in 18(57. It fixed her rank among the 
foremost of American feminine poets. After its publica- 
tion she made an extensive European tour, visiting, with 
a party of friends, all the countries except Portugal, 
ascending the Nile, inspecting the noted attractions of 
Syria, and travelling in Russia over routes rarely fre- 
<iucnted. This portion of lier trip she has described iu 
"A Russian Journey," published in 1ST3, and full of rare 
and entertaining information. Miss Proctor has been 
a frequent contributor to magazines and newspapers. 
Some of her poems seem to combine a masculine vigor 
and sjiirit witli feminine purity and grace. As remarka- 
ble for personal attractions as for her graces of character, 
?lie is described by one of her friends as " a true imct in 
deeds as well as in words." 



FROM "THE RETURN OF THE DEAD." 

Low hung the moon, the wind was still. 
As slow I climbed the midnight hill, 
And passed the ruined garden o'er, 
And gained the barred and silent door, 
Sad welcomed by the lingering rose 
That, startled, shed its waning snows. 

The holt flew hack with sudden clang, 
I entered, wall and rafter rang, 
Down dropped the moon, and clear and high 
Septembei-'s wind went wailing by ; 
"Alas!" I sighed, "the love and glow 
That lit this mansion long ago!" 

And groping up the threshold stair, 
And past the chambers cold and bare, 
I sought the room where, glad of yore. 
We sat the blazing tiro before. 
And heard the tales a father told, 
Till glow was gone and evening old. 

Where were those rosy children three ? 
The boy beneath the moaning sea ; 
Sweet Margaret, down where violets hide, 
Slept, tranquil by that father's side, 
And I, alone, a pilgrim still. 
Was left to clipib the midnight hill. 

My hand was on the latch, when, lo ! 
'Twas lifted from within ! I know 
I was not wild, and could I dream ? 
Within, I saw the wood-fire gleam, 
And smiling, w.aiting, beckoning there. 
My father in his ancient chair! 

the long rapture, perfect rest. 

As close he claSped mo to his breast I 
Put back the braids the wind had blown. 
Said I had like my nuither grown. 
And bade me tell him, frank as she. 
All the long years had bronglit lo nic. 

Tlien, by his side, his hand in mine, 

1 tasted joy serene, divine. 

And saw my griefs unfolding fair 
As flowers, in June's enchanted air. 
So warm his words, so soft his sighs. 
Such tender lovelight in his eyes ! 

"O Death!" I cried, "if these be thine. 
For me the asphodels entwine. 



EDNA DEAN PROCTOn.— EDWARD AUGUSTUS JENKS. 



839 



Fold mo witbiu thy perfect calm ; 
Leave ou my lips the bliss of balm, 
Ami let me sliimlier, pillowed low, 
Witb Margaret, where the violets blow." 

Aud still we tallied. O'er cloudy bars 
Orion bore his pomp of stars ; 
Within, the wood-fire fainter glowed, 
Weird on the wall the shadows showed, 
Till, in the east, a pallor born, 
Told midnight melting into morn. 

'Tis true, Iiis rest this many a year 

Has made the village churcli-yard dear ; 

'Tis true, bis stone is graven fair, 

" Here lies, remote from mortal care." 

1 cannot tell how this may be. 

But well I know he talked with me. 



TAKE HEART. 

All day the stormy wind has blown 
From off the dark and rainy sea ; 

No bird has past the window flown, 

The onlj- song has been the moan 
The wind made in the willow-tree. 

This is the summer's burial-time; 

She died when dropped tlie earliest leaves ; 
And, cold upon her rosy prime. 
Fell down the autunin's frosty rime, — 

Yet I am not as one that grieves, — 

For well I know o'er sunny seas 

The bluebird waits for April skies ; 
And at the roots of forest trees 
The May-flowers sleep in fragrant case, 
And violets hide their azure eyes. 

O thou, by winds of grief o'erblown 

Beside some golden summer's bier, — 
Take heart ! Tliy birds are only flown, 
Thy blossoms sleeping, tearful sown, 
To greet thee iu the immortal year! 



HEAVEN, O LORD, I CANNOT LOSE. 

Now summer finds ber perfect prime ! 

Sweet blows the wind from western calms ; 
Ou every bower red roses climb ; 

The meadows sleep in mingled balms. 



Nor stream, nor bank the way-side by. 
But lilies float and daisies throng. 

Nor space of blue and sunny sky 
That is not cleft witli soaring song. 

flowery morns, O tuneful eves, 
Fly swift ! my soul ye cannot fill ! 

Bring the ripe fruit, the garuered sheaves, 

Tlie drifting snows on jilain and hill. 
Alike, to mc, fall frosts and dews; 
But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose! 

Warm bauds to-day are clasped in miue ; 

Fond hearts my mirth or monruing share; 
Aud, over hope's horizon line, 

The future dawns, serenely fair. 
Yet still, tliough fervent vow denies, 

I know the rapture will not stay ; 
Some wind of grief or donbt will rise, 

Aud turn my rosy sky to gray. 

1 shall awake, in rainy morn. 

To find my hearth left lone and drear ; 
Thus half in sadness, half in scorn, 

I let my life bum on as clear. 
Though friends grow cold or fouil love wooes ; 
But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose! 

In golden hours the angel Peace 

Comes down and broods me with ber wings: 
I gain from sorrow sweet release ; 

I mate me with diviuest things ; 
When sliapes of guilt aud gloom arise, 

And far the radiant angel flees, — 
My song is lost in mournful siglis. 

My wine of triumph left but lees. 
In vain for me her pinions shine. 

And pure, celestial days begin ; 
Earth's pa.ssion-flowers I still must twine, 

Nor braid one beauteous lily in. 
Ah ! is it good or ill I choose f 
Bnt Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose ! 



(Jriituavb ^uciustus 3cuK's. 

AMERICAN. 

A native of Newport, N. H., Jenks was born Oct. 30th, 
1S30. He was etlucatcil at the Thetford, Vt., Academy; 
learned to set type before he was seventeen, and, after 
some experience as a publisher of newspapers, was called 
in 1871 to the management of the Republican Press As- 
sociation of Concord, N. H. Before that he had been en- 
gaged in varions enterprises at the West, and was at one 
time a resident of Vieksburg, Miss. An amateur in verse, 
he is not unfrequeully the true artist. 



840 



CTCLOPjEDIA of BIUTISU AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



GOING AND COMING. 

Going — tlio great rouiiil Sun, 

Dragging the captive Day 
Over beliiutl the frowning hill, 

Over beyond the bay — 
Dying! 
Coming — the iliisliy Night, 

Silently stealing in, 
Gloomily draping the soft, warm conch 

Where the golden-haired Day had been 
Lying- 
Going — the bright, blilhe Spring: 

Blossoms ! how fast ye fall, 
Shooting ont of your starry sky 

Into the darkness all 
Blindly ! 
Coming — the mellow days ; 

Crimson and yellow leaves ; 
Languishing puriile and amber fruits 

Kissing the bearded sheaves 
Kindly ! 

Going — onr early friends ; 

Voices we loved are dumb ; 
Footsteps grow dim in the morning dew; 

Fainter the echoes come 
Ringing ! 
Coming to join our march — 

Shoulder to shoulder pressed ; 
Gray-haired veterans strike their tents 

For the far-off purple West — 



Going — this old, old life; 

Beautiful world! farewell! 
Forest and meadow! river and hill! 

Ring ye a loving knell 
O'er us! 
Coming — a nobler life; 

Coming — a better land ; 
Coming — the long, long, nightlcss day, 

Coming — the grand, grand 
Chorus ! 



iJcau jJnijcloui. 



Miss Ingclow, a native of Ipswicli, Englnnil, born about 
IKiO, put forth a volume of poems in 180"3, wliieh ran 
through fourteen editions iu five years, and was repub- 
lished in BostOH, Mass. She lias written several novels, 
stories for children, etc., and contributed largely to va- 



rious periodical works. In tlic course of eighteen years 
her Ameiican publisliers paid her iu copyriglit upward 
of flttecn tliousand dollars. 



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LIN- 
COLNSHIRE. (1571.) 

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, 
The ringers rang by two, by three ; 

'■ Pull, if ye never pulled before ; 

Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. 

" Play nppe, play uppe, O Boston bells ! 

Play all your changes, all your swells, 
Play uppe 'The Brides of Euderby.'" 

Jlen say it was a stolen tyde — 

The Lord that sent it. He knows all ; 

But iu niyuo ears doth still abide 
The message that the bells let fall : 

And there was naught of strange, beside 

The flight of mews and peewits pied 

By millions crouched ou the old sea-wall. 

I sat and spun within the doore, 

My thread brake off, I raised niync eyes ; 

The level sun, like ruddy ore. 
Lay sinking in the barren skies; 

And dark against d.ay's golden death 

She moved where Lindis wandtreth, — 

Jly Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 

"Cusha! Cnsha! Cusha!'' calling. 
Ere the early dews were falling, 
Farre away I heard her song. 
"Cnsha! Cusha!" all along; 
Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 

Floweth, floweth. 
From the meads where meliek groweth 
Faintly came her yiilking song — 

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, 
"For the dews will soono be falling; 
Leave your meadow-grasses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come nppe Whitofoot, come nppe Lightfoot, 
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow. 
From the clovers lift your head ; 
Come nppe Whitefoot, come nppe Lightfoot, 
Come nppe Jetty, rise and follow, 
Jetty, to the milking shed." 



JEAN INGELOW. 



841 



If it bo long — ay, long ago, — 

When I begiinie to tliiiik Iiowo loug, 

Againe I hear the Liiidis flow. 

Swift as au arrowe, sharp anil strong ; 

Anil all the aire, it seemeth uiee 

I5in full of floating bells (saylh shee). 

That ring the time of Enderby. 

AUe fresh the level pastnre lay. 
And not a shadowe luote be scene. 

Save where full fyvo good miles away 
The steeple towered from out the greeue ; 

And lo ! the great bell farre and wide 

Was heard in all the conntry side 

That Saturday at evjen-tide. 

The swaunerds where their sedges are 
Moved on in sunset's golden breath. 

The sheplierdo lads I heard afarre. 
And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; 

Till floating o'er tlie grassy sea 

Came downe tliat kyudly message free, 

The " Brides of Mavis Enderby." 

Tlien some looked uppe into the sky. 
And all along where Lindis flows 

To where the goodly vessels lie, 

And where the lordly steeple shows. 

Tliey sayde, "And wliy should this thing be? 

What danger lowers by land or sea ? 

They ring the tunc of Enderby! 

" For evil news from Mablethorpe, 

Of pyrate galleys warping downe ; 
Eor shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, 

They have not spared to wake the towue : 
But while the west bin red to see. 
And storms be none, and pyrates flee. 
Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby?'" 

I looked without, and lo ! my souue 

Came riding down with might and main ; 

He raised a shout as he drew on, 
Till all the welkin rang again : 

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" 

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 

" The old sea-wall (he eryed) is downe. 

The rising tide comes on apace. 
And boats adrift iu yonder towue 

Go sailing nppe the market-place." 
He shook as one that looks on death : 



"God save yon, mother I" straight he sayth ; 
"Where is my wife, Elizabeth ?" 

"Good Sonne, where Lindis winds away. 
With her two bairns I marked her long ; 

Aud ere yon bells beganne to play 
Afar I heard her milking-soug." 

He looked across the grassy lea, 

To right, to left, " Ho, Enderby !" 

They rang "The Brides of Enderby !" 

With that he cried and beat his breast, 

For, lo! along the river's bed 
A mighty eygre reared his crest. 

And uppe the Liudis raging .sped. 
It swept with tliunderous noises loud ; 
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, 
Or like a demon iu a shroud. 

Aud rearing Lindis, backward pressed, 

Shook all her trembling bankes amaine, 
Then nuidly at the eygre's breast 

Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 
Then baukes came downe with ruin and rout- 
Theu beaten foam flew round about — 
Then all the mighty floods were out. 

So farre, so fast the eygre drave. 
The heart had hardly time to beat, 

Before :i shallow seething wave 

Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet: 

The feet bad hardly time to flee 

Before it brake against the knee, 

Aud all the world was iu the sea. 

Upon the roofe we sat that uight : 
The noise of bells went sweeping by ; 

I nurrked tlie lofty beacon light 

Stream from the church tower, red and high- 

A lurid mark and dread to see ; 

And awesome bells they were to mee, 

That in the dark rang " Enderby." 

Tliey rang the sailor lads to guide 

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; 

And I — my Sonne was at my side, 
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed ; 

Aud yet be moaned beneath his breath, 

" Oh come iu life, or come in death ! 

Oh lost ! my love, Elizabeth." 

And didst thou visit him no more ? 

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare ; 



HA2 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BlUTISU AXD AMEItlCJX POETRY. 



Tbe waters laid thee at his doore, 

Ere yet tbe early dawu was clear, 
Thy pretty bairns iu fast embrace, 
The lifted sun shoue on thy face, 
Dowue drifted to tby dwelling-place. 

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, 
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; 

A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! 

To manye more than myne and mee : 

But each will mourn his own (she sayth), 

And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Thau my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 

I shall never hear her more 
By the reedy Liudis shore, 
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, 
Ere the early dews be falling ; 
I shall never hear her soug, 
'• Cusha ! Cnsha !" all along 
Where the snuny Lindis floweth, 

Goeth, floweth ; 
From the meads where nielick groweth, 
When the water, winding down, 
Onward floweth to the town. 

I shall never see her more 

AVhere the reeds and rushes quiver. 

Shiver, quiver ; 
Stand beside the sobbing river, 
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling 
To the sandy, lonesome shore ; 
I shall never hear her calling, 
" Leave your meadow-grasses mellow. 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppo Whifefoot, come nppe Lightfoot ; 
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow. 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come nppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; 

Lightfoot, Whitefoot, 
From your clovers lift the head ; 
Come nppe .Jetty, follow, follow, 
Jetty, to the niilking-shed !" 



Duffy. Most of the poems have a political bearing, and 
are alive witli patriotic fire. A native of Ireland, slie 
was born about 1830. Her present residence, we Ijelieve, 
is London, whither she removed some years ago for tlie 
better education of her sons. 



Cabti lUilbc. 



Poems under the pen-name of "Speranza" appeared 
iu tlie DiiWln Xation in its palmy days. Tliey proved to 
be hy Lady Wilde, author of" Ugo Bassi," a tale in verse 
(IS.-)"), and other works. A collection of lier poems and 
translations was published in Dublin (1804) by James 



THE VOICE OF THE TOOK. 

Was ever sorrow like to our sorrow ? 

O God above ! 
Will our night never change into a morrow 

Of joy and love ? 
A deadly gloom is on ns waking, sleeping. 

Like the darkness at noontide 
That fell upon the pallid mother, weeping 

By the Crucified. 

Before us die our brothers, of starvation ; 

Around are cries of famine and despair! 
Where is hope for us, or comfort, or salvation — 

Where — oh ! where ? 
If the angels ever hearken, downward bending, 

They are weeping, we are sure. 
At the litanies of human groans ascending 

From the crushed hearts of the jioor. 

When the human rests in love upon the human. 

All grief is light ; 
But who bends one kind glance to illumine 

Our life-long night? 
The air around is ringing with their laughter — 

God has only made the rich to smile ; 
But we — in our rags, and want, and woe — wo fol- 
low after. 

Weeping the while. 

And the laughter seems but uttered to deride us: 

When, oh ! when 
Will fall the frozen barriers that divide ns 

From other men ? 
Will ignorance forever thus enslave us. 

Will misery forever lay ns low? 
All are eager with their insults ; but to save us 

None, none we know. 

We never knew a childhood's mirth and gladness. 

Nor the proud heart of youth free and brave; 
Oh, a death-like dream of wretchedness and sadness 

Is life's weary journey to the grave. 
Day V>y day we lower sink and lower. 

Till the God-like soul within 
Falls crushed beneath the fearful demon power 

Of jioverty and sin. 



LADY WILDE.— HELEX FISEE JACESOX. 



843 



So we toil on, ou with fevur buruing 

III heart aud brain ; 
So we toil ou, ou throngh bitter scorning. 

Want, woe, aud pain. 
We dare not raise our eyes to the blue heaven. 

Or the toil must cease — 
We dare not breathe the fresh air God has giveu 

One hour in iieace. 

We must toil though the light of life is huruiug, 

Oh, how dim ! 
We must toil, on our sick-bed feebly tnniiug 

Our eyes to Him 
Who alone can hear the pale lip faintly sayiug. 

With scarce moved breath, 
While the paler hands, u|)lifted, aid the praying: 

"Lord, grant us Dculh J" 



€)tkn S'xskc iJacksou. 



Mrs. Jackson, daughter of Professor N. W. Fiske, was 
born in Amherst, JIass., in 1831. She was mairietl to 
Major Hunt, U.S. A., — who was killed in 1863 while ex- 
perimenting with a submarine battery, — and by a subse- 
quent marriage became Mrs. Jackson. Her residence 
was at Newport, R. I. She has published "Verses by 
H. H." (1871), and a collection of foreign sketches, en- 
titled "Bits of Travel" (1872). Her poetry unites medi- 
tative deptli with rare sweetness of expression. To the 
question, "Is she not our best female poet?" Emerson 
replied, "Why not omit the v,ord female'" 



THE WAY TO SING. 

The birds must know. Who wisely sings 

Will slug as they. 
The common air has generous wings : 

Songs make their way. 

No messenger to rnn before. 

Devising plan ; 
No lueutiou of the place, or hour. 

To any mau ; 
No waiting till some sound betrays 

A listening e.ar ; 
No diflferent voice, no new delay.s. 

If steps draw near. 

" What hird is that ? The song is good." 

And eager eyes 
Go peering through the dusky wood 

In glad surprise. 



Then, late at night, when by his fire 

The traveller sits. 
Watching the flame grow brighter, higher. 

The sweet song flits, 
By snatches, through his wear}' brain. 

To help him rest : 
When next ho goes that road again. 

An empty nest 
On leafless bough will make him sigh : 

"Ah me! last spring, 
Just here I heard, in passing by, 

That rare bird sing." 

But while he sighs, remembering 

How sweet the song. 
The little bird, on tireless wing, 

Is borne along 
In other air; aud other men. 

With weary feet. 
On other roads, the simple strain 

Are finding sweet. 

The hirds must know. Who wisely sings 

Will sing as they. 
The common air has generous wings: 

Songs make their way. 



MAKCH. 

Beneath the sheltering walls the thin snow clings; 

Dead winter's skeleton, left bleaching, white. 

Disjointed, crumbling, on the friendly fields. 

The inky pools surrender tardily 

At noon, to patient herds, a frosty drink 

From jagged rims of ice ; a subtle red 

Of life is kindling every twig and stalk 

Of lowly meadow growths ; the willows weep, 

Their stems in furry white ; the pines grow gray 

A little, in the biting wind ; mid-day 

Brings tiny burrowed creatures, peeping ont 

Alert for sun. Ah, March ! We know thou art 

Kind-hearted, spite of ugly looks and threats. 

And, ont of sight, art nursing April's violets! 



THOUGHT. 

O messenger, art thou the king, or I ? 

Thou dalliest outside the palace gate 

Till on thine idle armor lie the late 

And heavy dews ; the morn's bright, scornful eye 



844 



CTCLOPMDIA OF BlilTlSH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Remiuds tliee ; tlieu iu subtle mockery 
Thou smilest at tlio window where I wait, 
Who bade thee ride for life. Iu empty state 
My days go on, while false hours prophesy 
Thy quick return ; at last, iu sad despair, 
I cease to bid thee, leave thee free as air. 
When lo ! thou stand'st before me glad aud fleet, 
Aud lay'st uudreauied-of treasures at my feet. 
Ah, luesseuger ! tliy royal blood to buy, 
I am too poor. Thou art the kiug, uot I. 



OCTOBER. 

O suns aud skies and clouds of June, 

Aud tlowcrs' of June together. 
Ye cannot rival for one hour 

October's bright blue weather^ 

When loud the bumblebee makes haste, 

Belated, thriftless vagi'ant, 
Aud goldeu-rod is dyiug fast, 

Aud lanes with grapes are frngraut ; 

Wheu gentians roll their fringes tight. 
To save them for the uioruing, 

Aud chestnuts fall from satin burrs 
Without a sound of warning; 

When on the ground red apples lie 

In piles, like jewels shining, 
And redder still ou old stone walls 

Are leaves of woodbine twiuiug ; 

Wlien all the lovely way-side things 
Their white-wiuged seeds are sowing, 

Aud in the fields, still green and fair. 
Late after-maths are growing ; 

When springs run low, anil ou the brooks. 

In idle golden freight ing, 
Bright leaves sink noiseless iu the hnsh 

Of woods, for winter waiting; 

When comrades sock sweet couutry haunts, 

By twos aud twos together. 
And count like misers, hour by hour, 

October'.s bright blue weather. 

O suns and skies and flowers of Juue, 
Count all your boasts together. 

Love loveth best of all the year 
October's bright bine weather. 



(TljarlcG Stuart CalccrlcB. 

Comic poet, hymn writer, and translator, Calvcrley 
(born 1831) has puljlishcd under the initials "C.S. C," 
iu London, "Verses and Translations," "Translations 
into English and Latin," and "Fly Leaves" (1S72), re- 
published in New York. As a writer of vers dc xocicte, 
lie diflfers both from Piacd and Holmes, and there is a 
decidedly original vein in his productions. 



LINES SUGGESTED BY THE FOURTEENTH OF 
FEBRUARY. 

Ere the morn the East has crimsoned, 

Wheu the stars are twinkling there, 
(As they did in Watts's Hymns,' aud 

Made him wonder what they were:) 
When the forest nymphs are beading 

Feru and flower with silvery dew, — 
My infallible proceeding 

Is to wake, aud thiuk of you. 

When the huutcr's ringing bugle 

Sounds farewell to field and copse, 
And I sit before my frugal 

Meal of gravy-sonp and chops : 
Wheu (as Gray reuiarks) " the mopiug 

Owl doth to the moon complain," 
And the hour suggests eloping — 

Fly my thoughts to yon again. 

May my dreams be granted ever ? 

Must I aye endure atflictiou 
Rarely realized, if ever, 

In our wildest works of fiction t 
Madly Romeo loved his Juliet; 

Coppertield began to pine 
Wheu he hadn't been to school yet — 

But their lows were cold to miue. 

Give me hope, the least, the dimmest. 

Ere I drain the poi.soucd cup: 
Tell me I may tell the chemist 

Not to make that arsenic up I 
Else the heart must cease to throb iu 

This my breast ; aud wheu, in tones 
Hushed, men ask, " Who killed Cock Robin ?'' 

Tliev'U be told, " Miss Clara J s." 



1 Au .'\llnsinn prob.ibly to Miss Jaue Taylor's (uot Watts's) lit- 
tle poum for chililreu, 

"Twinlile, twinkle, little star, 
llijw I wonder what you are !" 



ISABELLA {CRAIG) EXOX.— EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTOX. 



845 



Jsobclla ((EraiciJ Knor. 

Mrs. Knox lirst acquired distinction In literature as 
Miss Craig, in 18.VJ, by gaining tlie £50 prize oftcrcd by 
the Crystal Palace Company lor the best ode on tlie cen- 
tenary celebration of tlie birth of Burns. She was born 
in ISil, in Edinburgh, and published a volume of poems 
in 1856. 

THE BKIDES OF QUAIH. 

A stillness ciejit about the lion.se, 

At evcufall, iu nooutide glare ; 
Upon the sileut hills looked forth 

The many-winiloweil house of Qtiair. 

Tlie peacock on the terrace screamed ; 

Browsed on the lawn the timid hare : 
The great trees grew i' the avenue, 

Calm by the .sheltered house of Quair 

The pool was still ; around its brim 

The alders sickened all the air ; 
There came no miiimur from the streams, 

Though nigh flowed Leitheu, Tweed, and Quair. 

The days hold on their wonted pace, 
And men to court and camp repair, 

Their part to fill of good or ill, 

While women keep the house of Quair. 

And one is clad in widou',s weeds, 

And one is maiden-like and fair, 
And day by day they seek the paths 

About the lonely fields of Quair. 

To see the trout leap in the streams, 

The summer clouds reflected there. 
The maiden loves iu maiden dreams 

To hang o'er silver Tweed and Quair. 

Within, in pall-black velvet clad, 

Sits stately iu her oaken chair — 
A stately dame of ancient name — 

The mother of the house of Quair. 

Her daughter 'broiders hy her side. 

With heavy, drooping golden hair, 
And listens to her freiinent plaint — 

"111 fare the brides that come to Quair. 

'• For more than one hath lived in pine. 
And more than one hath died of care, 

And more tlian one hath sorely sinned, 
Left lonely in the hou.se of Quair. 



"Alas! and ere thy father died, 

I had not in his heart a share ; 
And now — may God forcfeud her ill — 

Thy brother brings his bride to Quair !" 

She came; they kissed her in the hall, 
They kissed her on the winding stair ; 

They led lier to her chamber high — 
The fairest in the house of Quair. 

'"Tis fair," she said, on looking forth; 

"But what although 'twere bleak and bare?" 
She looked the love she did not speak. 

And broke the ancient curse of Quair. 

" Where'er he dwells, where'er he goes. 
His dangers and his toils I share." 

What need be said, she was not one 
Of the ill-fated brides of Quair ! 



(JJiiUHiVLi llobcrt Culvucr.ilntlon. 

Under the name of "Owen Meredith," Lord Lytton 
the younger, born in 1831, has published several volumes 
of verse, among them a rhymed romance (1860), entitled 
"Lncille." He is the only son of the first Lord Lytton, 
better known as Bulwer, the novelist, and inherits mueli 
of his father's talent. For about twenty years lie was 
engaged in diplomatic service, and in 1876 was appoint- 
ed Viceroy of India ; a post from which he withdrew in 
1880. He has written fluently and well, though there is 
a lack of concentration and care manifest in several of 
bis poems. Republished in Boston, they have passed 
throuah several editions. 



LEOLINE. 

In the molten-golden moonlight, 

In the deep grass warm and dry. 
We watched the fire-fly rise and swim 

In floating sparkles hy. 
All night the hearts of nightingales, 

Song-steeping slnmhcrons leaves, 
Flowed to ns iu the shadow there 

Below the cottage eaves. 

We sang our songs together 

Till the stars shook iu the skies. 
Wc spoke — we spoke of common things, 

Yet the tears were iu onr eyes. 
And my hand — I know it trembled 

To each light, warm touch of thine ; 
But we were friends, and only friend.s, 

My sweet friend, Leoline ! 



846 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH JXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



How large the white moon looked, dear ! 

There has uot ever been, 
Siuce those old nights, the same great light 

lu the moons which I have seeu. 
I often wonder when I think, 

If you have thonght so too, 
Aud the moonlight has grown dimmer, dear, 

Thau it used to be to yon. 

And sometimes, when the warm west wiud 

Comes faiut across the sea. 
It seems that you have breathed ou it. 

So sweet it comes to me. 
Aud sometimes, wheu the long light wanes 

lu one deep crimsou liue, 
I muse, "And does she watch it too, 

Far off, sweet Leoline f" 

And often, leaning all day long 

My head upon my bauds, 
My heart aches for the vanished time 

lu the far fair foreign lauds ; 
Thinking sadly — " Is she happy ? 

Has she tears for those old hours ? 
Aud the cottage in the starlight ? 

Aud the sougs among the flowers ?" 

One night we sat below the porch, 

Aud out in that warm air 
A fire-fly, like a dying star, 

Fell taugled iu her hair ; 
But I kissed him lightly off agaiu, 

Aud he glittered up the vine, 
Aud died into the darkuess 

For the love of Leoliue ! 

Between two sougs of Petrarch 

I've a purple rose-leaf i)ressed, 
More sweet than common rose-leaves, 

For it ouce lay iu her breast. 
Wheu she gave me that, her eyes wore wet ; 

The rose was full of dew. 
The rose is withered loug ago ! 

The page is blistered, too. 

There's a blue flower iu my garden, 

Tlie bee loves more tlian ail ; 
Tbe bee aud I, we love it both. 

Though it is frail aud small. 
She loved it, too — loug, long ago ; 

Her love was less than mine. 
Still we were friends, but only friends. 

My lost love, Leoliue! 



(Plbr'iLific iJcfferson Cutler. 

AMERICAN. 

Cutler ( 1831-1S70) was a native ofHoUiston, Mass., and 
a graduate of Harvard (1S.53). In 1803 a volume of his 
poems was published in Boston. They were mostly on 
themes suggested by the war, and had the true Tyrtsean 
ring. He seems to have been unatl'ected by the intlucnce 
of Tennyson and Browning, and tlie scliool which they 
initiated. His style resembles more that of Macaulay, 
of whom, however, he was by no means an imitator. 



A POEM FOR THE HOUR. (1861.) 

From "LiBEnTT and Law." 

O Law, fair form of Liberty ! God's light is on thy 
brow, [thou : 

O Liberty, the soul of Law ! God's very self art 

One the clear river's sparkliug flood that clothes the 
bank with green. 

And oue the line of stubborn rock that holds the 
waters in ; 

Friends whom we cannot think apart, seeming each 
other's foe ; — 

Twin flowers upon a single stalk with equal grace 
that grow ; — 

O fair ideas! we write your names across our ban- 
ner's fold ; 

For you the sluggard's braiu is fire, for you the cow- 
ard bold. 

O daughter of the bleeding Past ! O hope the 
Prophets saw ! 

God give us Law iu Liberty, aud Liberty in Law. 

Full many a heart is aching with miugled joy and 

pain 
For those who go so proudly forth and may not 

come agaiu. 
Aud many a heart .is aching for those it leaves 

behind. 
As a thousand tender histories throug iu upon the 

miud. 
The old men bless the young men, and praise their 

bearing high ; 
The women in the door-ways stand to wave them 

bravely l)y ; 
One threw her arms about her boy, aud said, " Good- 
bye, my sou ; 
God help thee do the valiant deeds thy father woulil 

have done !" 
One held up to a bearded man a little child to kiss. 
And said, "I shall not be alone, for thy dear love 

aud this." 



t 



ELBRWGE JEFFERSON CUTLER. 



847 



And one, a rose-bud iu her band, leaned at a sol- 
dier's side ; — 

'• Tby conntry weds tbeo firat," she said ; " be I tby 
second bride 1'' 

niotbers I when around your beartbs ye count 

your cherished ones. 
And miss from the enchanted ring the flower of all 

your sons ; 
O wives ! when o'er the cradled cliild ye bend at 

evening's fall, 
And voices which the heart can hear across the 

distance call; 
O maids! when iu the sleepless nights ye ope the 

little case. 
And look till ye can look no more upon the proud 

young face ; — 
Not only pray the Lord of life, who measures mor- 
tal breath, 
To bring the absent back unscathed out of the fire 

of death, — 
Oh ! pray with that divine content which God's 

best favor draws. 
That, whosoever lives or dies, he save His holy cause! 

So out of shop and farm-house, from shore and in- 
land glen. 

Thick as the bees in clover -time are swarming 
armed men ; 

Along the dusty roads in haste the eager columns 
come. 

With flash of sword and musket's gleam, the bugle 
and the drum. 

Ho! comrades, see tlie starry flag, broad-waving at 
our head ! 

Ho ! comrades, mark the tender light on the dear 
eniblems spread ! 

Our fathers' blood has hnllowetl it; 'tis part of 
their renown ; 

And palsied be the caitiff-hand would pluck its glo- 
ries down ! 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! it is our home where'er thy col- 
ors fly : 

We win with thee the victory, or in thy shadow die. 

O women ! drive the rattling loom, and gather in 
the hay ; 

For all the youth worth love and truth are mar- 
shalled for the fray : 

Soutliward the hosts are hurrying with banners wide 
unfurled. 

From wLere the stately Hr.d3oa floats the wealth 
of half the world; 



From where amid his clustered isles Lake Huron's 

waters gleam ; 
From where the Mississippi pours an unpolluted 

stream ; 
From where Kentucky's fields of corn bend iu the 

Southern air ; 
From broad Ohio's luscious vines ; from Jersey's 

orchards fair ; 
From where between his fertile slopes Nebraska's 

rivers run ; 
From Pennsylvania's iron hills ; from woody Ore- 
gon ; 
Aud Massachusetts led the van, as iu the days of 

yore. 
And gave lier reddest blood to cleanse the stones 

of Baltimore. 

O mothers, sisters, daughters! spare the tears ye 

fain would shed : 
Who seem to die iu such a cause, ye cannot call 

them dead ; 
They live upon the lips of men, iu picture, bust, 

aud song ; 
And uature folds them iu her heart and keeps them 

safe from wrong. 
Oh ! length of days is not a boon the brave man 

prayetli for; 
There are a thousand evils worse than death or any 

war, — 
Oppression with his iron strength, fed on the souls 

of men ; 
Aud license with the hungry brood that haunt his 

ghastly den. 
But like bright stars ye fill the eye, — adoring hearts 

ye draw, 
O sacred grace of Liberty ! O majesty of Law ! 

Hurrah ! the drums are beating ; the fife is calling 

shrill ; 
Ten thousand .starry banners flame on town, and 

bay, and hill ; 
The thunders of the rising war drown Labor's peace- 
ful hum ; 
Thank God that we have lived to see the saffron 

morniug come! 
The morning of the battle -call, to every soldier 

dear, — 
O joy! the cry is '-Forward!" O joy! the foe is 

near ! 
For all the crafty men of peace have failed to purge 

the land ; 
Hurrah! the ranks of battle close; God takes his 

cause in hand ! 



!iiS 



CrCLOPJSDIA OF BRITISH JSD AMEBIC AN FOE TRY. 



illatlijias Can-. 



Ban-, born in Edinburgh in 1831, was tlic son of a 
(icmiau watcli-malier. Removing to London, lie pub- 
lished a volume of "Poems" in 1865, and the following 
vuai' issued the "Child's Garland," ■which was well re- 
ceived. A revised and enlarged edition of his "Poems" 
appeared in 1S70. His songs and i-hymcs for the young 
have earned him the title of " The Cliildreu's Poet- 
laureate." 

GOD'S FLOWERS. 

Look lip, .sweet wife, tliroiigh liappy tears, 
Anil see our tiny bnils ablow, 
With yearning souls that strive to sbow, 

And burst tbe tender green of years. 

So sweet they Lang upon life's stem, 
Their beauty stills onr very breatli, 
As, thinking of the spoiler, Death, 

We bend in silence over them, — 

And shed our dew of praise and prayer 
Ou hearts that turn toward the snii. 
And watch the leaflets, one by one. 

That scent for ns the common air. 

And she, onr hitest blossom given, 

That scarce hath lost the dimple-touch 
Of God's own fingers, and, as such, 

Still piil.scs to the tlnob of heaven ; 

And blind with brightness of his face. 
Lies dreaming in a nest of love. 
With ears that catch the sounds that move 

.\nd swell around the Throne of Grace ! — 

Ah! how for her onr hearts will peer 

And look, with faith, through swimming eyes. 
For balmy winds and summer skies. 

And tremble when a cloud is near. 

Dear flowers of God '. how much we owe 
To what you give ns, all unsought — 
The grandeur and the glory caught 

From hills where truth and wisdom grow. 
ISCO. 



ONLY A BABY SMALL. 

Only a baby small, 

Dropped from the skies; 
Only a laughing face, 

Two sunnv eyes ; 



Only two cherry lips, 
One chubby nose ; 

Only two little hands. 
Ten little toes. 

Only a golden head. 

Curly and soft ; 
Only a tongue that wags 

Loudly and oft ; 
Only a little biaiu. 

Empty of thought ; 
Only a little heart. 

Troubled with uanght. 

Only a tender flower 

Sent ns to rear ; 
Only a life to love, 

While we are here ; 
Only a baby small, 

Never at rest ; 
Small, but how dear to n.s, 

God knoweth best. 



|Jaul tjaiuilton Cjaniic. 

AMERICAN. 

Hayne was born in Charleston, S. C, in 1831. He pub- 
lished volumes of poems as early as 18.5.5 and 18.57; and 
in 1859 appeared his " Avolio ; a Legend of the Island of 
Cos, with other Poems, Lyrical, Miseellancous, and Dra- 
matic." He has since been a frequent contributor to the 
leading magazines. He is the author oTnn excellent me- 
moir of Henry Timrod, one of the most gifted of Ameri- 
can poets ; and Hayne himself writes as if he too had 
been "in Arcadia horn." 



FROM THE WOODS. 

Why should I, with a mournful, morbid spleen, 
Lament that here, in this half-desert scene. 

My lot is placed ? 
At least the poet-winds are bold and loud, — 
At least the sunset glorilies the cloud. 

And forests old and proud 
Rustle their verdurous banners o'er the waste. 

rercliance 'tis best that I, whose Fate's eclipse 
Seems final, — I, whose sluggish life-wave slips 

Languid away, — 
Sbonld here, within these lowly walks, apart 
From the fierce throhbings of the populous mart, 

Commnno with mine own heart. 
While Wisdom blooms from buried Hope's decay. 



PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.— ELIZABETH AKEES ALLEN. 



Si9 



Nature, though wild her i'ovins, sustains me still; 
The founts are musical, — the barren hill 

Glows with strange lights; 
Through solemn iiine-groves the small rivulets 

fleet, 
Sparkling, as if a Naiad's silvery feet, 
In quick and coy retreat. 
Glanced through the star-gleams on caliu summer 
nights; 

And the great sky, the royal heaven above, 
Darkens with storms or melts iu hues of love; 

While far remote. 
Just where the sunlight smites the woods with 

fire, 
Wakeus the multitudinous sylvau choir; 
Their innocent love's desire 
Poured iu a rill of song from each harmonious throat. 

My walls ai-e crumbling, but immortal looks 
Smile ou me here from faces of rare books : 

Shakspeare consoles 
My heart with true philosophies ; a. balm 
Of spiritual dews from humbler song or psalm 
Fills me with tender calm, 
Or through hushed heavens of soul Milton's deep 
thunder rolls ! 

And more than all, o'er shattered wrecks of Fate, 
The relics of a happier time and state, 

My uobler life 
Shines on nnquenched ! O deathless love that lies 
In the clear midnight of those passionate eyes! 

Joy wanetli! Fortune flies! 
What then f Thou still art here, soul of ray soul, 

my W i t'e ! 



LYRIC OF ACTION. 

Tis the part of a coward to brood 
O'er the past that is withered and dead : 

What though the heart's roses are ashes and dust? 
What though the heart's music be fled ? 
Still shine the grand heavens o'erhead, 

Whence the voice of an angel thrills clear ou the 
soul, 

" Gird about thee thine armor, press on to the goal !" 

If the faults or the crimes of thy youth 

Are a burden too heavy to bear, 
What hope can reblooni on the desolate waste 

Of a jealous and craven despair? 

Down, down with the fetters of fear! 
54 



In the strength of thy valor and manhood arise, 
With the faith that illumes and the will that defies. 

"Too late!" through God's infinite world. 
From His throne to life's nethermost fires — 

"Too late!" is a phantom that flies at the dawn 
Of the soul that repents and aspires. 
If pure thou hast made thy desires, 

There's no height the strong wings of immortals 
may gain 

Which iu striving to roach thou shalt strive for in 



Then np to the contest with fate. 

Unbound by the past, which is dead! 

What though the heart's roses are ashes and dust ! 
What though the heart's music be fled ? 
Still shine the fair heavens o'erhead ; 

And sublime as the angel who rules iu the sun 

Beams the promise of peace when the conflict is won ! 



SONNET. 

Day follows day ; years perish ; still mine eyes 

Are opened on the self-same round of space ; 

Yon fadeless forests in their Titan grace, 

And the large splendors of those opulent skies. 

I watch, unwearied, the miraculous dyes 

Of dawn or sunset ; the soft boughs which lace 

Round some coy Dryad in a lonely place. 

Thrilled with low whispering and strange sylvan 

sighs : 
Weary ? The poet's mind is fresh as dew. 
Aiul oft refilled as fountains of the light. 
His clear child's soul finds something sweet and new 
Even iu a weed's heart, the carved leaves of corn. 
The spear-like grass, the silvery rime of morn, 
A cloud rose-edged, and fleeting stars at night ! 



(Eli^abetl) ^licrs iHllcu. 



Mrs. Allen, a native of Strong, Franklin County, Me., 
was born October 9th, 1833, nnrt married in ISfiO to Pnid 
.'\kers, the sculptor, who died in 1861. She subsequently 
became the wife of Mr. E. M. Allen, of New York. Her 
early poems appeared under the nom dc plume of Flor- 
ence Percy. An edition of her works was ptibUs'.icd in 
Boston in 1867. Her popular poem of "Rock Me to 
Sleep" lias had many elaiinaiits, whose persistency can 
be explained only by the theory of kleptomania. There 



850 



CTCLOFJiDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



is a peculiar oliarm in nearly all her lyrical productions : 
tliey are as remarkable for tenderness and patlios as lor 
tlieir artistic construction. Her residence is Greenville, 
N.J. 



ROCK ME TO SLEEP. 

Backward, turn backward, Time, in your fliglit, 
Make me a child agaiu,jiist for to-uight ; 
Motlier, come back from the echoless shore ; 
Take me again to your heart as of yore ; 
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; 
Over my slumbers your loviug watch keep — 
Rock 1110 to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep. 

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years! 
I am so weary of toil and of tears — 
Toil without recompense — tears all in vain — 
Take them and give me my childhood again .' 
I have grown weary of dust and decay — 
Weary of Hinging uiy soul-wealth away; 
Weary of sowing for others to reap — 
Rock nic to sleep, mother — rock nie to sleep. 

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue. 
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you. 
Many a summer the grass has grown green, 
Blossomed aud faded, our faces between ; 
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain 
Long I to-night for your presence again. 
Come from the silence, so long and so deep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep. 

Over my heart, in the days that are flown, 
No love like mother-love ever has shone ; 
No other worship abides and endures — 
Faithful, unselti.sh, and patient like yonrs ; 
None like a mother can charm away pain 
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. 
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep. 

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold. 
Fall on your shoulders agaiu, as of old ; 
Let it drop over my forehead to-night, 
Sliading my faint eyes away from the light; 
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more 
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore ; 
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep. 

Mother, dear mother, the ye.irs have been long 
Since I last listened your lullaby song; 



Sing, then, aud uuto my soul it shall seem 
Womanhood's years have been only a dream. 
Clasped to your heart in a loviug embrace, 
With your light lashes just sweeping my face, 
Never hereafter to wake or to weep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep. 



TILL DEATH. 

Make rae no vows of coustancy, dear friend — 

To love me, though I die, thy whole life long, 
And love no other till thy days shall eud — 
Nay — it were rash and wrong. 

If thou canst love another, bo it so ; 

I would not reach out of my quiet grave 
To bind thy heart, if it should choose to go — 
Love should not be a slave. 

My placid ghost, I trust, will walk serene 

In clearer light than gilds these earthly morns, 
Above the jealousies aud envies keen 

Which sow this life with thorns. 

Thou wouldst not feel my shadowy caress, 

If, after death, my soul should linger here; 
Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness, 
Love's presence warm aud near. 

It would not make me sleep more peacefully 
That thou wert wastiug all thy life in woe 
For my jioor sake ; what love thou hast for me. 
Bestow it ere I go. 

Carve not upon a stone when I am dead 

The praises v\hich remorseful mourners give 
To women's graves — a tardy recompense — 
But speak them while I live. 

Heap not the heavy marble on my head. 

To shut away the sunshiue and the dew ; 
Let small blooms grow there, and the grasses wave. 
And raiu-drops filter through. 

Thou wilt meet many fairer and more gay 

Thau I — but, trust me, thou canst never find 
One who will love and serve thee, night and day. 
With a more single mind. 

Forget mo when I die ; the violets 

Above my rest will blossom just as blue. 
Nor miss thy tears ; ev'n Nature's self forgets ; 
But while I live be true. 



EDWIN ARNOLD. 



851 



(fiiurm vlnioiLi. 



Born in London in 1S33, Arnold was educated at Ox- 
ford, and in 1S52 obtained tbe Newdigate prize for a 
poem on Belsbazzar's feast. A proficient in Sanscrit 
and Arabic, he is a member of tbe Order of tbe Star of 
India. He has written "Griselda," a drama; "Poems, 
Narrative and Lyrical;" "Education in India;" "The 
Poets of Greece " (1869), besides several translations and 
contributions to tbe magazines. His longest poem, " Tbe 
Light of Asia" (1880), is founded on the history of 
Prince Gautama,' who became the Bnddha of Oriental 
worship, and who flourished about 543 B.C. In regard 
to the doctrine of " Nirvana," Arnold has "a firm con- 
viction that a third of mankind would never have been 
brouglit to believe in blank abstraction, or in nothing- 
ness as the issue and crown of Being." Still, he leaves 
tbe question obscure, for he says : 

"If any teach Nirvana is to cease. 
Say iiuto .snch tliey lie. 
If any teacli Nirvana is to live. 

Say inito such they err ; not knowing this, 
Nor what light shines beyond their broken himps, 
Nor lifeless, timeless bliss." 

The original American publishers of this noble epic are 
Roberts Brothers, Boston, who share their profits with 
the author. It passed tlirough nineteen editions in less 
tliau a year. Arnold became connected with tlie edi- 
torial staff of tbe Daily Telegraph, London, in 1861. In 
1S79 be travelled in Egypt, and in 1880 withdrew from 
his connection with tbe Press. 



AFTER DEATH IN AKABIA.' 

He who died at Azan sends 
This to comfort all bis tVieuils. 

Faithful friends ! It lies, I know, 
Pale and white and coUl as suow ; 
And ye say, "Abdullah's dead!" 
Weeping at the feet and head. 
I can see your falling tears, 
I can hear your sighs anil prayers ; 
Yet I smile, and whi.sper this : — 
" I am not the thing you kiss ; 
Cease your tears, aud let it lie ; 
It was mine, it is not I." 

^ This remarkable poem has been often recited at funerals in 
America. An Arabic poet of the twelfth century seems to have 
suggested it in lines which have been thus translated: 

" When I am robed in the habiliments 4if the grave, my ftiends 
will weep for me. Say to them that this insensible corpse is 
not I. It is my body, but I no longer dwell in it. I am now 
a life that is inextinguishable. The remains they contemplate 
have beeu my temporary abode, my clothing for a day. I am a 
bird ; the corpse was my cage. I iiave unfolded my wings, and 
fled my prison. I am the pearl ; it was the shell, now of no 
value. • • • My voyage is terminated. I leave you in exile. Let 
the shell perish wilii the illusions of earth. Do not say of the 
dead, this is death, for it is iu reality the veritable life." 

We are indebted to the author for a corrected copy of the 
pnem, into which had crept several errors. The word Azan re- 
fers to the hour of Moslem prayer. 



Sweet friends ! w hat the women lave. 

For it.s last bed of the grave, 

Is a lint which I am quilting, 

Is a garmeut no more tilting. 

Is a cage, from which at last. 

Like a hawk, my soul hath passed. 

Love the inmate, not the room — 

The wearer, not the garb — the plnine 

Of the falcon, not the bars 

Which kept him fioni the splendid stars. 

Loving friends 1 Be wi.sc, and dry 
Straightway every weeping eye; 
What ye lift upon the bier 
Is not worth a wistful tear, 
'Tis an empty sea-shell — one 
Out of which the pearl has gone ; 
The shell is broken — it lies there ; 
The pearl, the all, the soul, is here. 
'Tis an earthen jar, whose lid 
Allah sealed, the while it hid 
That treasure of his treasury, 
A mind that loved him : let it lie ! 
Let the shard he earth's once more, 
Since the gold shines in His store ! 

Allah glorious ! Allah good ! 
Now thy world is understood ; 
Now the long, long wonder ends ! 
Yet ye weep, my erring friends, 
While the man whom ye call dead, 
In unspoken bliss, instead. 
Lives aud loves you ; lost, 'tis true, 
By snch light as shines for you ; 
But in the light ye cannot see 
Of unfulfilled felicity— 
In enlarging paradise, 
Lives a life that never dies. 

Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell; 
Where I am, ye too shall dwell, 
I am gone before yonr face, 
A moment's time, a little space ; 
When ye come where I have stepped. 
Ye will wonder why ye wept ; 
Ye will know, by wise love taught. 
That here is all, and there is naught. 
Weep awhile, if ye are fain — 
Sunshine still must follow rain ; 
Only not at death — for death. 
Now I know, is that first breath 
Which our souls draw when we enter 
Life, which is of all life centre. 



8o2 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BBITISH AND JMEllICAX POETHT. 



Be ye certain all seems love, 
Viewed from Allali's throne above ; 
Be je stout of heart, and come 
Bravely onward to your home! 

L<i AUiih ilia Allah! yea! 

Thou Love divine! Tlion Love alway! 

He that died at Azan gave 

This to those who made his grave. 



A MA FUTURE. 

Where waitest thou, 
Lady I am to love ? Thou comest not, 
Thou knowest of my sad and lonely lot — 

I looked for thee ere now. 

It is the May, 
And each sweet sister soul hath found its brother; 
Only we two seek fondly each the other, 

And seeking, still delay. 

AVhere art thiiu, sweet ? 
I long for thee as thirsty lips for streams ; 
O gentle promised angel of my dreams, 

■\Vhy do we never meet ? 

Thou .art as I — 
Thy .soul doth wait for mine, as mine for thee : 
We cannot live apart — unist meeting be 

Never before we die ! 

Dear soul, not so! 
For time doth keep for ns some hajipy years. 
And God hath portioned us our smiles and tears, 

Tliou knowest, and I knew. 

Yes, we .shall meet ; 
And therefore let our searching be the stronger ; 
Dark ways of life shall not divide us longer. 

Nor doubt, nor danger, sweet. 

Tlieiefore I bear 
This winter-tide as bravely .as I may, 
Patiently waiting for the bright spring day 

Tliat eouieth with thee, dear. 

'Tis the May light 
That crimsons all the quiet college gloom : 
May it shine softly in thy sleeping-room — 

And so, dear wife, good-night ! 



JJamcs \\. ConibavLi. 

AMERICAN. 

Born .January IStli, 1832, in Burliiii;ton, N. Y., Lom- 
bard moved to Springfield, Mass., witli liis parents. It 
had been tlie lionie of his ancestors since 1(>46, and tlicre 
lie was educated. He studied for tlie ministry, and was 
settled over a congregation in Fairfield, Conn. 



•NOT AS THOUGH I HAD ALREADY AT- 
TAINED.' 

Not, my soul, what thou hast done, 

But what thou art doing ; 
Not the course which thou hast run. 

But which thou'rt pursuing; 
Not the prize already won. 

But that thou art wooing. 

Tliy progression, not thy rest, — 

Striving, not attaining, — 
Is the measure and the test 

Of thy hope remaining; 
Not in gain thou'rt half so blessed 

As iu conscious gaining. 

If tluui to the Past wilt go, 

Of Experience learning, 
Faults and follies it can sliow, — 

Wisdom dearly earning ; 
But the path once trodden, know, 

Hath no more returning. 

Let not thy good hope depart, 

Sit not down bewailing; 
Rouse thy strength anew, brave heart! 

'Neath despair's assailing : 
Tliis will give thee fairer start, — 

Knowledge of thy failing. 

Yet shall every rampant wrong 

In the dust be lying, — 
Soon thy foes, though proud and strong, 

In defeat be flying ; 
Then shall a triumphant song 

Take the place of sighing. 



lUilliam lHalKuc tjarnnj. 

AMERICAN, 

Ilarncy was born iu 1833 at Bloomiuirton, lud., where 
liis lather was professor of mathematics in the Universi- 
ty. His parents moved to Kentucky when William was 



WILLIAM WALLACE HARNEY.— LEWIS MORRIS. 



853 



vet a child, autl he entered Louisville College. At the 
close of his educational course he taug'lit school for 
awhile, then studied law, but in 1859 became connected 
e as editor with tlie LoidsfiUe Dalhj Democrat, since which 
^ his labors have left him but brief opportunities for the 
cultivation of poetry. 



JDI.MY'S WOOING. 

The wind came blowing out of the AVest, 

And Jiuimy mowed the Lay ; 
The wind came Wowing out of the West: 
It stirred the gieen leaves out of their rest, 
Ami rocked the bluebird up in his uest, 

As Jimmy mowed the hay. 

The sw.illows skimmed aloug the ground, 

And Jimmy mowed the hay ; 
The swallows skimmed along the ground. 
And rustling leaves made a pleasant souud, 
Like children babbling all around — 

As Jiumiy uiowed the hay. 

JliUy came with her bucket by, 

And Jimmy mowed the hay ; 
Milly came with her bucket by. 
With wee light foot, so trim and sly, 
Aud sunhurut cheek and laughing ej-e — 

And Jimmy mowed the hay. 

A rustic Ruth iu liuscy gowu — 

And Jimmy mowed the hay: 
A rustic Ruth iu liusoy gowu, 
He watched her soft cheeks' changing brown, 
Aud the long dark lash that trembled down, 

Whenever he looked that way. 

Oh ! Milly's heart was good as gold, 

And Jimmy mowed the hay ; 
Oh ! Milly's heart was good as gold ; 
But Jimmy thought her shy aud cold, 
Aud more he thought than e'er he told, 

As Jinuny mowed the hay. 

The rain came pattering down amain, 

Aud Jimmy mowed the hay ; 
The rain came pattering down amain ; 
And under the thatch of the laden wain, 
Jimmy and Milly, a cunning twain, 

Sat sheltered by the hay. 

The merry rain-drops hurried in 

Under the thatch of hay ; 
The merry rain-drops hurried in, 



Aud laughed and prattled in a din, 
Over that which they saw within, 
Under the thatch of hay. 

For Milly uestled to Jimmy's breast, 

Under the thatch of hay ; 
For Milly uestled to Jimmy's breast. 
Like a wild bird fluttering to its uest; 
And then I'll swear she looked her best 

Under the thatch of hay. 

Aud when the sun came laughing out 

Over the ruined hay — 
Aud when the snn came laughing out, 
Milly had ceased to pet and pout. 
And twittering birds began to shout, 

As if for a wedding-day. 



Ceiuis lllonis. 

Morris, born at Carmarthen, South Wales, Jan. 2Sd, 
18.33, graduated at Oxford with the highest classical 
honors in 1855; studied law, aud practised at Lincoln's 
Inn till 18Ti His "Songs of Two Worlds" appeared iu 
three series iu 1872, 1874, and 1875. His " Epic of Hades," 
which was not published in its completed form till 187S, 
has passed through ten editions in England, and been re- 
published by Roberts Brothers, Boston. In 1878 appear- 
ed "Gwen;" and in 1880 "The Ode of Life." Morris is 
the representative of an old Welsh family, and is a great- 
grandson of Lewis Morris (1703-1765), the Welsh anti- 
quary and poet. 



IT SHALL BE WELL. 

If thou shale be in heart a child. 
Forgiving, tender, meek, and mild, 
Though with light stains of earth defiled, 
O soul, it shall be well. 

It shall be well with thee indeed, 
Whate'er thy race, thy tongue, thy creed, 
Thou slialt not lose thy fitting meed ; 
It shall be surely well. 

Not where, nor how, nor when we know, 
Nor by what stages thou shalt grow ; 
W^e may but whisper faint aud low. 
It shall be surely well. 

It shall be well with thee, oh, soul, 
Though the heavens wither like a scroll, 
Though sun and moon forget to roll, — 
O soul, it sliall he well. 



854 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



DEAR LITTLE HAND. 

Dear little liaiul tbat clasps my own, 

Embrowned with toil aud seamed with strife ; 

Pink little fingers not yet grown 
To the poor strength of after-life, — 
Dear little hand! 

Dear little eyes which smile on mine, 
With the first peep of morning light; 

Now April-wet Tvith tears, or fine 

With dews of pity, or laughing bright. 
Dear little eyes! 

Dear little voice, whose broken speech 
All eloquent utterance can transcend ; 

Sweet childish wisdom strong to reach 
A holier deep than love or friend : 
Dear little voice ! 

Dear little life ! my care to keep 
From every spot and stain of sin ; 

Sweet soul foredoomed, for joy or pain, 
To struggle and — which? to fall or win? 
Dread niy.stical life ! 



THE TREASURE OF HOPE. 

O fair bird, singing in the woods, 

To the rising and the setting sun, 
Does ever any thi-ob of pain 

Thrill through thee ere thy song be done : 
Because tlie summer fleets so fast ; 

Because the autnnin fades so soon ; 
Because the deadly winter treads 

So closely on the steps of June ? 

O sweet maid, opening like a rose 

In Love's mysterious, honeyed air. 
Dost think sometimes the day will come 

When thou shalt be no longer fair: 
When Love will leave thee and pass on 

To younger and to brighter eyes ; 
And thou shalt live unloved, alone, 

A dull life, only dowered with sighs? 

O brave youth, panting for the figlit, 
To conquer wroug and win thee fame, 

Dost see thyself grown old and spent. 
And thine a still unhonored name : 

When all thy hopes have come to naught, 
And all tl)y fair schemes droop aud pine; 



And Wrong still lifts her hydra heads 
To fall to stronger anus than thine ? 

Nay; song and love aud lofty aims 

May never be where faith is not ; 
Strong souls within the present live ; 

The future veiled, — the past forgot : 
Grasping what is, with hands of steel. 

They bend what shall be, to their will ; 
And, bliud alike to doubt and dread, 

The End, for which they are, fulfil. 



Qrbimtnb (Ularcnce Stciinuan. 

AMERICAN. 

Born in Hartforcl, Conn., in 1833, Stedman was edu- 
cated at Yale College, but did not graduate. His motli- 
cr, whose maiden name was Dodge, was first married to 
Mr. Stedman, of Hartford, but after his death became tlie 
wife of William B. Kinney of the Xcwark Advertiser, sub- 
sequently United States Minister to Sardinia. Edmund 
inherited his mother's poetical tastes. He has publish- 
ed "Tlio Diamond Wedding: Poems Lyric and Idyllic" 
(18G0) ; " The Blameless Prince, and other Poems " (1.SC4) ; 
also a poem on Hawthorne; and "The Victorian Poets" 
(1879), a series of careful critical sketches. Not wishing 
to trust wholly to literature for a support, he became a 
member of the New York Stock Exeliauge, and was suc- 
cessful in his operations. The British Quarterly Review 
refers to him as "one of the most versatile, as well as one 
of the most retined and artistic of Ameiicau poets." As 
a critic, too, he has won distinctiou. 



PROVENCAL LOVERS. 

AUCASSIN AND NICOI.ETTE. 

Within the garden of Beancaire 
He met her by a secret stair ; — 
Tlio night waS' centuries ago. 
Said Aucassin, " My love, my pet, 
These old confessors vex mo so ! 
They threaten all the pains of hell 
Unless I give you up, ma belle ;" — 
Said Aucassin to Nicolette. 

"Now, who shiuild tliere in Heaven he 
To fill your place, ma trfes-douee mie ? 
To reach that spot I little care! 
There all the droning priests are met ;- 
All the old cripples, too, are there 
That nuto shrines and altars cling 
To filch the Peter-penco we bring ;" — 
Said Aucassin to Nicolette. 



EDMUND CLAREKCE STEDMAX. 



855 



" There are the barefoot monks and friars 
With gowus well tattered by the briers, 
The saints who lift their eyes and whine : 
I like them not — a starveling set ! 
Who'd care with folks like these to dine ? 
The other road 'twere jnst as well 
That you and I slionld take, ma belle !" 
Said Ancassiu to Nicolette. 

" To Purgatory I would go 
With pleasant comrades whom wo know, 
Fair scholars, minstrels, lusty kniglits 
Whoso deeds the land will not forget, 
Tlie captains of a hundred fights, 
True meu of valor and degree : 
We'll join that gallant company," — 
Said Aucasslu to Nicolette. 

" Tliere, too, are jousts and joyance rare, 
And beauteous ladies debonair, 
The pretty dames, the merry brides 
Who «ith their wedded lords coquette, 
And have a friend or two besides, — 
And all in gold and trappings gay, 
With furs, and crests in vair and gray," — 
S.aid Ancassiu to Nicolette. 

'• Sweet players on the cithern strings. 
And they who roam the world like kings, 
Are gathered there, so blithe and free! 
I'ardie! I'd join them now, my pet. 
If you went also, ma douce mie ! 
The joys of Heaven I'd forego 
To have yoii with me there below," — 
Said Ancassiu to Nicolette. 



HOW OLD BROWN TOOK HARPER'S FERRY. 

John Brown in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yan- 
kee farmer, [of might ; 
Brave and godly, with four sons, all stalwart men 
There he spoke aloud for freedom, and the Border- 
strife grew warmer, [iu the night; 
Till the Rangers tired his dwelling, in his absence. 
And Old Brown, 
Osawatoniie Brown, 
Came homeward iu the morning — to find his house 
burned down. 

Then he grasped his trusty rifle, and boldly fought 

for freedom ; [ing hand ; 

Smote from border unto border the tierce, iuvad- 



Aud he and his brave boys vowed — so might Heav- 
en hel|) and speed 'em ! — 
They would save those grand old prairies from 
the curse that blights the land: 
And Old Brown, 
Osawatoniie Brown, 
Said, "Boys, the Lord will aid us !" and ho shoved 
his ramrod down. 

And the Lord did aid these men, and they labored 
day and even. 
Saving Kansas from its peril ; aud their very 
lives seemed charmed. 
Till the ruffians killed one sou, in the blessdd light 
of Heaven, — 
Iu cold blood the fellows slew him, as he jour- 
neyed all unarmed. 

Then Old Brown, 
Osawatoniie Brown, 
Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, aud frowned a 
terrible frown. 

Then they seized another brave boy, — not amid the 
heat of battle. 
But iu peace, behind his ploughshare, — and they 
loaded him with chains. 
And with pikes, before their horses, even as they 
goad their cattle. 
Drove him cruelly, for their sport, and at last blew 
out his brains: 

Then Old Brown, 
Osawatoniie Brown, 
Raised his right hand up to Heaven, calling Heav- 
en's veugeauco down. 

And he swore a fearful oath, by the name of the 
Almighty, 
He would hunt this raveniug evil that had scathed 
and torn him so ; 
He would seize it by the vitals; he would crush 
it day and night; he [for blow. 

Would so pursue its footsteps, so return it blow 
That Old Brown, 

Osawatoniie Brown, [town. 

Should be a uame to swear by, in backwoods or iu 

Then his beard became more grizzled, and his wild 

bine eye grew wilder, 

Aud more sharply curved his hawk's-nose, snuft- 

ing battle froiu afar ; 

And ho and the two boys left, though the Kansas 

strife waxed milder, [der War, 

Grew more sullen, till was over the bloody Bor- 



856 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BltlTlSH AND AilEElCAN rOETliY. 



And Old Brown, 
Osiiwatoniie Brown, 
Had gone ciazy, as tbcy reckoned \>j Lis fearful 
glare and frown. 

So lie left, the plains of Kansas and their bitter woes 
behind him. 
Slipped off into Virginia, where the statesmen all 
are born, 
Hired a farm by Harper's Ferry, and uo one knew 
where to find him. 
Or whether he'd tarned parson, or was jacketed 
and shorn ; 

For Old Brown, 
Osawatuniie Brown, 
JIad as he was, knew texts enongh to wear a par- 
son's gown. 

He bonght no plonghs and harrows, spades and shov- 
els, and sncli trifles; [train, 
Bnt qnietly to his raneho there came, by every 
Boxes full of pikes and pistols, and his well -be- 
loved Sharp's rifles; 
And eighteen other madmen joined their leader 
there again. 

Says Old Brown, 
Osawatoniie Blown, 
"Boys! we've got an army large enongh to march 
and take the town, — 

"Take the town, and seize the mnskets, free the 
negroes, and then arm tliem ; 
Carry tlio Comity and the State, ay I and all the 
potent Sonth. 
On their own heads be the slaughter, if their vic- 
tims rise to harm them — 
These Virginians! wlio believed not, nor wonld 
heed the warning month I" 
Says Old Brown, 
Osawatoniie Brown, 
" Tlie woild shall see a Republic, or my name is not 
John Brown!" 

'Twas the sixteenth of October, on the evening of 
a Snndny : 
" This good work" — declared the Captain — " shall 
be on a holy night!" — 
It was on a Sunday evening, and Captain Stepliens, 
fifteen privates — black and white. 
Captain Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Marched across the bridged I'otomac, and knocked 
the sentry down ; 



Took the guarded armory-building, and the mnskets 

and the cannon ; 

Captured all the comity mnjois and the colonels, 

one by one; [ran on, 

Scared to death each gallant scion of Virginia tliey 

And before the noon of Monday, I say, the deed 

was done. 

Mad Old Brown, 
Osawatoniie Brown, 
With his eiglitecu other crazy men, went in and 
took tlie town. 

Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder 
made he ; 
It was all done in the uiiduight, like tlie Kinpcr- 
or's'COKj) iVvtdt, 
"Cut tlio wires! Stop the rail-cars! Ilnld the 
streets and bridges!" said he; 
Tlien declared tlie new Republic, witli liimsi'll' (lu- 
guiding star ; — 

This Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
And tlie bold two thousand citizens ran off and left 
the town. 

Tliere was riding and railroading, and expressing 
here and tliitlier ; 
And the Martinsburg Sharpshooters, and the 
Charlestown Volunteers, 
And the Shepherdstown and Winchester Militia 
hiistened whither 
Old Brown was said to muster his ten Ihousaiid 
grenadiers. 

General Brown ! 
Osawatomie Biciwu ! ! 
Behind whose rampant banner all the North was 
jioming down. 

But at last, 'tis said, some prisoners escaped from 
Old Brown's durance, [ont. 

And the effervescent valor of the Chivalry broke 
When tliey learned that nineteen madmen had the 
marvellous assurance — 
Only nineteen — thus to seize the place and drive 
theui straight about ; 
And Old Brown, 
O.sawatomie Brown, 
Found ail army come to take liiin, encamped around 
the town. 

But to storm, with all the forces I have mentioned, 

was too risky ; [inent Marines, 

So they hurried off to Richmond I'or the Govern- 



EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.— HARRIET McEWEN KIMBALL. 



857 



Tore them from tlicir weeping matrous, fueil their 
souls with Bourbon wliiskey. 
Till they battered down Brown's castle with their 
ladders and machines; 
And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Received three bayonet stabs, and a cut ou his bravo 
old crown. 

Tally-ho! the old Virginia gentry gather to the 
baying! [ily away; 

In they rushed and killed the game, shooting Inst- 
And whene'er they slew a rebel, those who came too 
late for slaying, [liis clay; 

Not to lose a share of glory, fired their bullets in 
And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Saw his sons fall dead beside him, and between them 
laid him down. 

How the conquerors wore their laurels ; how they 
hastened on the trial ; 
How old Brown was placed, half dying, on the 
Charlestowu court-house floor; 
How he s[)()ko his graud oration, in tUe scorn of all 
denial ; 
What the brave old madman told them — these are 
known the couutry o'er. 
Hang Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown! — 
Said the jndgo — "and all such rebels!" with his 
most jndicial frown. 

But, Virginians! don't do it! for I tell you that the 
flagon. 
Filled with blood of Old Brown's oftspring, was 
first poured by Southern hands ; 
And each drop from Old Brown's life-veins, like the 
red gore of the dragon. 
May spring up a vengeful Fury, hissing through 
your slave-worn lands ! 
And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
May trouble you more than ever, when you've nailed 
his coffin down. 
November, ISS'.i. 



Cjarrict IllcCfivcn Kimball. 

AMERICAN. 

Miss Kimball was horn in Portsmouth, N. H., in 1834. 
Her studies, with tlic exception of a few years at school, 
were pursued at home. Her first little book ot "Hymns " 



was published by E. P. Dutton A Co., New York, in 1867, 
and save her at once a reputation; the second, ''Swal- 
low Kliglits of Song," by tlic same publishers in 1874. 
The third and last, "Tlie Blessed Company of all Faith- 
ful People," appeared iu 1879, from the press of A. D. F. 
Randolph it Co. Miss Kimball's hymns are remarkable 
not oidy as devotional productions, but lor their Uicid 
poetical quality and artistic Hnish, 



THE GUEST. 

"Behold, I stand at tlie door, aud knock: if any ni.nn hear 
my voice, niul open llie door, I will come iu to him, and will 
sup with him, aud he with me." — Rev. iii. 20. 

Speechless Sorrow sat ■with me, 
I was sighing heavily; 
Lamp and fire were out ; the rain 
Wildly beat the window-paue. 
In the dark we heard a knock, 
And a hand was ou the lock ; 
One in waiting spake to me. 

Saying sweetly, 
" I am come to sup witli thee." 

All my room was dark and damp : 
" Sorrow," said I, " trim the lamp ; 
Light the fire, and cheer thy face ; 
Set the guest-chair iu its place." 
And again I heard the knock: 
In the dark I found the lock : — 
" Enter ! I have turned the key ! — 

Enter, Stranger! 
Who art come to sup with me." 

Opening wide the door, he came; 
But I could not speak his name: 
In the guest-chair took his place; 
But I could not see his face! — 
When my cheerful fire was beaming, 
Wlien my little lamp ■was gleaming, 
And the feast was spread for three — 

Lo ! my Master 
Was the Guest that supped with me! 



THE CRICKETS. 

Pipe, little minstrels of the -R'aning year. 

In gentle concert pipe! 
Pipe the warm noons ; the mellow harvest near ; 

Tlie apples dropping ripe ; 

The tempered sunshine and the softened .shade ; 
The trill of louely bird ; 



858 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Tbe sweet sad liiisb on Nature's glailuess laid; 
The somuls tUiougU silence heard ! 

Pipe tenderly the passing of the year ; 

Tlie Summer's brief reprieve ; 
Tbe dry husk rustling round the yellow ear ; 

Tbe cliill of morn and eve ! 

Pipe tbe untroubled trouble of tbe year; 

Pipe low tbe painless pain ; 
Pipe your unceasing melancholy cheer; 

Tbe Year is in tbe wane. 



LONGING FOR RAIN. 

Earth swoons, o'erwbelmed with weight of bloom; 

Tbe scanty dews seem dropped in vaiu ; 
Atbirst she lies, while garish sides 

Burn with their brassy hints of rain. 

Morn after nioru the flaming snu 

.Smites tbe bare hills with fiery rod ; 

Night after night with blood-red light 
Glares like a slow-aveugiug god. 

Ob for a cloudy curtain drawn 

To screen us from the scorching sky ! 

Ob for the rain to lay again 

Tbe snu)tberiug dust-clouds passing by! 

To wash the hedges, white -nith dnst, 
Freshen the grass, and fill tbe pool ; 

While in tbe breeze the odorous trees 
Drip softly, swaying dark and cool ! 



ALL'S WELL. 

The day is cmled. Ere 1 sink to sleep 

Jly weary spirit seeks repose in Tliine : 
Father! forgive' my trespasses, and keep 
This little life of mine. 

With loving kindness curtain Tlion my bed ; 
And co(d in rest my burning pilgrim-feet ; 
Tliy pardon be the pillow f<n- my bead, — 
So shall my sleep be sweet. 

At peace with all the world, dear Lord, and Thee, 
No fears my soul's unwavering faith can shake; 
All's well ! wbidu'ver side the grave for me 
Tbe morning light may break ! 



AMERICAN. 

Arnold (183-1-1865) w.as a native of New York, and early 
in life applied himself to literary pursuits. His "Drift, 
and otliur Poems," edited by William Winter, appe;u-cil 
in 1800. Dying at an early age, Arnold left evidences 
of a remarkable gift for lyrical expression. His literary 
career extended over a period of twelve years; "and in 
that time," says Winter, "he wrote, with equal fluency 
and versatility, stories, poems, eriticisnis — in short, ev- 
erything for which there is a demand in the literary 
magazines and in New York journalism." 



IN THE DARK. 

Ilis last poem ; written a few days before his death. 

All moveless stand tbe ancient cedar-trees 

Along tbe drifted sand-bills where they grow ; 

And from the dark west comes a wandering breeze, 
And waves them to and fro. 

A murky darkness lies along the sand. 

Where bright tbe sunbeams of the morning shone, 

And the eye vainly seeks by sea and laud 
Some light to rest upon. 

No large pale star its glimmering vigil keeps; 

An inky sea reflects an inky sky ; 
Aiul the dark river, like a serpent, creeps 

To where its black piers lie. 

Strange salty odors through tlie darkness steal. 
And through tbe dark the oeeaii-tbuuders roll: 

Thick darkness gathers, stifling, till I feel 
Its weight upon my soul. 

I stretch my hands out in the empty air; 

I strain my eyes into the heavy night ; 
Blackness of darkness !— Father, hear my prayer! 

Grant me to see tbe light ! 



GUI BONOf 

A harmless fellow, wasting useless days, 
Am I: I love my comfort and my leisure: 

Let those who wish tboni toil for gold and praise; 
To me this summer-day brings more of pleasure. 

So, hero upon the grass I lie at ease. 

While soletnu voices from tbe Past are calling. 

Mingled with rustling whispers in tbe trees, 
And pleasant sounds of water idly falling. 



GEORGE ARNOLD.— RICHARD EEALF. 



859 



Tliere was a time wbeu I bad Ligher aims 
Tliau tbtis to lie among the flowers ami listeu 
f To lisping birds, or watch tbe snnset's flames 

On tile broad river's surface glow aud glistou. 



Tbere was a time, perhaps, when I had thonght 
To make a name, a home, a bright existence : 

Hilt time has shown mo that my dreams were 
naught 
Save a mirage that vanished with tbe distance. 

Well, it is gone: I care no longer now 

For fame, for fortune, or for empty praises; 

Rather than wear a crown upon my brow, 
I'd lie forever here among the daisies. 

So yon, who wish for fame, good friend, pass by ; 

With you I snrely cannot tliink to quarrel: 
Give mo peace, rest, this bank whereon I lie, 

And spare me both the lalior and the laurel I 



A SUMMER LONGING. 

I must away to wooded hills and vales. 

Where broad, slow streams flow cool aud sileutly, 

Aud idle barges flap their listless sails. 

I'tir me the summer sunset glows and pales, 
And green fields wait for me. 

I long for shadowy forests, where the birds 
Twitter aud chirp at uoon from every tree; 

I long for blossomed leaves and lowing herds; 

And nature's voices say, in mystic words, 
" The green fields wait for thee." 

I dream of uplands where the primrose shines, 
And waves her yellow lamps above the lea; 

Of tangled copses swung with trailing vines; 

Of open vistas, skirted with tall jiiues, 
Where green fields wait for me. 

I think of long, sweet afternoons, when I 

May lie aud listen to the distant sea, 
Or bear the breezes in the reeds that sigh, 
Or insect voices chirping shrill and dry, 
111 fields that wait for me. 

Tlieso dreams of summer come to bid me find 

The forest's shade, the wild-bird's melody, 
While summer's rosy wreaths for me are twined. 
While summer's fragrance lingers on the wind, 
Aud green fields wait for me. 



Uicljarb Ucalf. 



The life of Rcalf (183t-lS78), that "most unhappy man 
of men, "had in it the elements of the moot direful trag- 
edy. A native of Uckfleld, Sussex, England, his first vol- 
ume of verses, "Guesses at the Beautiftd," was publish- 
ed while lie was yet a youtli (18.52), in Brishtou, England, 
and won high praise from Tliackeray and Lytton. The 
poor lad was of humble parentage, his father being a day- 
laborer in the fields, and his sister a domestic servant. 
He came to the United States about the year 1855, and 
took a conspicuous part in tlie Kansas and other border 
troubles. He subsequently served in the brigade of Gen. 
John F. Miller in the Civil War, and became a colonel. 
For a time he was associated with John Brown, " Osa- 
watomie Brown," in Kiinsas. He was twice married, and 
became the father of twius by his second wife ; but was 
made frantic by the persecutions of his first wife, from 
wliom he liad been separated since 1873. She followed 
him to Oakland, California, where, to escape the misery 
of her presence, he took laudanum and died. 

Realf gives tokens of intense, though unehastcned pow- 
er, as a poet. Had he been as well educated as Shelley, 
he might have been his peer. Among his early patron- 
esses was Lady Byron. In the "Life and Letters" of 
Frederick W. Robertson, the famous Brighton preacher, 
we find this reference to Realf: "One diiy," writes Mr. 
A.J.Ross, "as we were speaking together of the rieli 
ea.lownients of a youth in whom we were rantually in- 
terested, he (Robertson) said with empliasis, 'How un- 
happy he will be !' " With what a sad accuracy was the 
prophesy fulfiled ! 



MY SLAIN. 

This sweet child which hath climbed uiion my knee, 
This amber-haired, four-summered little maid, 

With her unconscious beauty troubleth me, 
With her low prattle maketh me afraid. 

Ah, darling! when you cling aud nestle so 
You hurt me, though you do not see nie cry, 
Xor hear the weariness with which I sigh, 

For the dear babe I killed so long ago. 
I tremble at the touch of your caress : 

I am not worthy of your innocent faith ; 
I, who with whetted knives of worldliiiess, 

Did put my own childbeartedness to death. 
Beside whose grave I pace for evermore, 
Like desolation ou a shipwrecked shore. 

There is no little child within me now. 

To sing back to the thrushes, to leap up 
When June winds kiss me, when an apple-bough 

Laughs into blossoms, or a buttercup 
Pliiys with the sunshine, or a violet 

Dances in the glad dew. Alas ! alas ! 

The meaning of the daisies in the grass 
I have forgotten ; aud if my cheeks are wet. 



860 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



It is not with the blitlieuess of the child, 
But with the hitter sorrow of sail years. 

Oh, iiioiuiiii^ life, with life inecoueileil ; 
Oh, backward looking thought, O pain, O tears. 

For us there is not any silver sound 

Of rhythmic wonders springing from tlie ground. 

Woe Avortli the knowledge and the booki.sh lore 
Which makes men mummies, weighs out every 
grain 

Of that which was miraculous before, 

And sneers the heart down with the scoffing brain ; 

Woe worth the peering, analytic days 

Tliat dry the tender juices in the breast. 
And put the thunders of the Lord to test, 

So that no marvel must be, and no praise. 
Nor any God exceiit Necessity. 

Wliat can ye give my poor, starved life iu lieu 
Of tliis dead cherub which I slew for ye? 

Take back your doubtful wisdom, and renew 
Jly early foolish freslmess of the dunce, 
Whose simple instincts guessed the heavens at 
ouce. 



SYMBOLISMS. 

All round ns lie the awful sacrednesses 

Of babes and cradles, graves and hoary hairs; 

Of girlish laughters and of manly cares; 
Of nn>aning sighs aud passionate caresses; 

Of iufiuite ascensions of the soul. 
And wild liyeu.a-hungers of the flesh ; 

Of cottage virtues and the solemn roll 
Of populous cities' thunder, and the fresh, 

Warm faith of childhood, sweet as niiguonette 
Auiid l)oul)t's bitter herbage, and the dear 

Ke-glimpses of the early star which set 
Down tlie blue skies of our lost hemisphere, 

Aud all the consecrations aud delights 

Woven in tlio texture of the days and nights. 

The daily miracle of Life goes on 

Witliin our cliambers, at our household hearths. 

In soljer duties and iu jocund mirths; 
In .all the nnrjuiet hopes and fears that run 

Out of our hearts along the edges of 
The terrible abysses; iu the calms 

Of frieudsliip, in the ecstasies of love : 
Iu burial-dirges aud iu marriage-psalms; 

Iu all the far weird voices that wo hear; 
In all tlio mystic visions wo behold; 

In our souls' summers when the days are clear; 
And in our winters when the nights are cold, 



And iu the subtle secrets of our breath, 
Aud that Annunciation named death. 

Karth ! thou hast not any wind that blows 
Which is not music: every weed of thine 
Pressed rightly flows iu aromatic wine; 

Aud every humble hedge-row flower that grows. 
And every little brown bird that doth sing. 

Hath something greater than itself, aud bears 
A living Word to every living thing, 

Albeit it hold the Message uuawares. 

All shapes and sounds have somethiug which is n(]t 

Of them : a Spirit broods amid the gra.ss ; 
Vague outliues of the Everlasting Thought 

Lie ill the melting shadows as they pass; 
The touch of an Eterual Presence thrills 
The fringes of the sunsets and the hills. 

Forever, through the world's material forms. 

Heaven shoots its immaterial ; night aud day 

Apocalyptic intimations stniy 
Across the rifts of matter; viewless arms 

Lean lovingly toward us froui the air; 
There is a breathing marvel iu the sea; 

The saiiphire foreheads of the mountains wear 
A light within light which eusymbols the 

Unutterable Beauty aud Perfection 
That, with immeasurable strivings, strives 

Through bodied form and sensuous indirection 
To hint unto our dull and hardened lives 

(Poor lives, that cannot see nor hear aright.') 

The bodiless glories which are out of sight. 

Sometimes (we know not Iiow, nor why, nor whence) 
The twitter of the swallows 'neath the caves, 
The shimmer of the light among the leaves. 

Will strike up through the thicli roofs of our sense. 
And show us things which seers aud sages saw 

Iu the gray earth's jjveeu dawn : sometliiug doth stir 
Like organ-hymns within ns, aud doth awe 

Our pulses into listening, aud confer 
Burdens of Being on us; and we ache 

With weights of Revelation, and our ears 
Hear voices from the Inliiiite that take 

The luished soul captive, .and the saddening years 
Seem built on pill.ared joys, and oveihead 
Vast <love-liko wings that arch the world are 
SI) read. 

Hk, by such raptuesses and intuitions, 
Doth pledge His utmost iunuortality 
Unto our mortal iusulificiency, 
I Fettered in grossness, that these sensual prisons. 



RICHARD REALF.— NANCY PRIEST WAKEFIELD. 



861 



A!;aiust whose bars we beat so tiled wings, 
Avail not to ward off the clear access 

Of His liigU heralds and interpretings ; 
Wherefore, albeit we may not fnlly guess 

The meaning of the wonder, let ns keep 
(lean channels for the instincts which respond 

To the Unutterable Sanctities that sweep 
Down the far reaches of the strange Beyond, 

Whose mystery strikes the spirit into fever, 

And hanuts, and hnrts, and blesses ns forever. 



JJ'aiuij J^Jricst lHakcficlL). 

AMERICAN. 

Nancy Amelia Woodbury Priest (1834-1870), a native 
of Royalston, Mass., was married in 186.5 to Lieut. A. C. 
WakelieUl. Her "Over the River" lias had a wide cir- 
ciiIutioii,and is still one of the pieces that illnstrate the 
doctrine of the " survival of the fittest." In the Rev. A. 
P. .Marvin's History of Winchcudon is this note: "Mrs. 
Wakclicld, though born in the edge of Royalston, be- 
longs to Wincliendon. Her family have resided here 
from the beginning through five or six generations. Her 
father moved into Royalston a little while before her 
bh'th, and returned while she was quite young." It 
illustrates the rare power of genius to find two towns 
contending for the honor of having given birth to llie 
author of a poem of forty-eight lines. But Mrs. Wake- 
field did not fail to offer other assurance than this of 
tlie poetical gift she has displayed so felicitously. 



OVER THE RIVER. 

Over the river they beckon to nie, 
I Loved ones who've crossed to the other side ; 

The gleam of their snowy robes I see, 

Bnt their voices are drowned in the rushing tide. 
There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, 

And eyes, the reflection of Heaven's own blue : 
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, 

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view: 
We saw not the angels who met him there, 

The gates of the city we could not see; 
Over the river, over the river. 

My broUier stands waiting to welcome me. 

Over the river the boatman pale 

Carried another, — the household pet ; 
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale, — 

Darling Minnie! I see her yet. 
She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands. 

And fearlessly entered the jrfiantoai bark : 
We watched it glide from the silver sands. 

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark, 



We know .she is safe on the farther side, 
Where all the ransomed and angels be ; 

Over the river, the mystic river, 

My childhood's idol is waiting for nie. 

For none return from those quiet shores, 

AVho cross with the boatman cold and pale ; 
We hear the dip of the golden oars, 

We catch a gleam of the snowy sail, 
And lo ! they have passed from our yearning heart ; 

They cross the stream aud are gone for aye ! 
We may not sunder the veil ajjart 

That hides from our vision the gates of day, 
We only know that their barks no more 

May sail with ns over Life's stormy sea: 
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, 

They watch aud beckon aud wait for me. 

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold 

Is flushing river and hill aud shore, 
I shall one day stand by the water cold. 

And list for the souud of the boatman's oar ; 
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail ; 

I shall hear the boat as it gains the stranil, 
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale 

To the better shore of the spirit land. 
I shall know the loved who have gone before ; 

Aud joyfully sweet will the nieetiug be, 
When over the river, the peaceful river, 

The Angel of Death shall carrv me. 



FROM "HEAVEN." 

The city's shining towers we may not see 

With our dim earthly vision ; 
For Death, the silent warder, keeps the key 

That opes the gates elysian. 

But sometimes, when adown the western sky 

A fiery sun-set lingers. 
Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly, 

Unlocked by unseen lingers. 

And while they stand a moment half ajar 

Gleams from the inner glory 
Stream brightly through tlie azure vault afar, 

And h.'ilf reveal the story. 

O land nukuown ! O land of love divine! 

Father, all-wise, eternal ! 
O guide these wandering, way-worn feet of mine 

Into these pastures vernal ! 



862 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



lUilliain Illorris. 



Morris was born in London in 1S34, and educated at 
Oxford. His first publication (1853) was "The Defence 
of Gucnevcre, and other Poems." In 1867 appeared liis 
"Life and Death of Jason," and in 1S6S-1ST1, at inter- 
vals, "The Earthly Paradise," in four parts. In his skill 
as a poetical narrator Morris has been compared by Swin- 
burne to Chaucer. His long poems, if deficient in ele- 
ments of popularity, because of tlieir remoteness from 
modern themes, show remarkable ease and fluency of 
versification, with beauty of narrative diction. 



MARCH. 

Slayer of the winter, art thou Iiere again ? 
O welcome tbon that briug'st the suniuier uigh ! 
The hitter wind makes not thy victory vain, 
Nor will wo mock thee for thy faint hhie sky. 
Welcome, O March! whose kindly days and dry 
Make April ready for the throstle's song, 
Thou first redresser of the winter's wrong ! 

Yea, welcome March ! and though I die ere June, 
Yet for the hope of life I give thee praise, 
Striving to swell the bnrdeu of the tune 
That even now I hear thy brown birds raise. 
Unmindful of the past or coming days; 
Who sing : " O joy ! a uew year is begun : 
What hai>piness to look upon the sun !" 

Ah, what begettelh all this storm of bliss 

But Death himself, who, crying solemnly, 

Even from the heart of sweet Forgetfulness, 

Bids us " Rejoice, lest pleasureless ye die. 

Within a little time ninst ye go by. 

Stretch forth your open hands, and while ye live, 

Take all the gifts that Death and Life may give." 



(Hclia ®l)ortcr. 



Mrs. Tliaxter, daui;hter of Mr. Laighton, once propri- 
etor of Appledore, Isles of Shoals, was born in Ports- 
mouth, N. H., in 183.5. She passed the early part of her 
life, and much of the later, at Appledore, one of a rocky 
group of small islands about ten miles from the nuiin- 
laud. She has been no idle observer of the nniods and 
colors of the ocean, the habits of the sea-birds, and all 
the poetical aspects of the rugged scenes amidst which 
she was bred. Tlie fidelity of her marine descriptions 
is remarkal)le. She lias published (1868) an excellent 
account, historical and descriptive, of the Isles. Her 
poems are vivid with touches that show the intimacy 
of her study of external nature. 



SONG. 

We sail toward evening's lonely star, 

That trembles in the tender blue ; 
One single cloud, a dusky bar 

Burnt with dull carmine through and through, 
Slow smouldering iu the summer sky, 

Lies low along the fading west ; 
How sweet to watch its .splendors die, 

Wave-cradled thus, and wind-caressed ! 

Tlie soft breeze freshens ; leaps the spray 

To kiss our cheeks with sudden cheer. 
Upon the dark edge of the bay 

Light-houses kindle far and near. 
And through the warm deeps of the sky 

Steal faiut star-clusters, while we rest 
In deep refreshment, thou and I, 

Wave-cradled thus, and wind-caressed. 

How like a dream are earth and heaven, 

Star-beam and darkness, sky and sea ; 
Thy face, pale in the shadowy even. 

Thy quiet eyes that gaze on me ! 
O realize the moment's charm. 

Thou dearest! We are at life's best, 
Folded iu God's encircling arm, 

AVave-cradled thus, and wind-caressed! 



THE S.VND-PIPEE. 

Across the narrow beach we flit, 

One little sand-piper and I; 
And fast I gather, bit by bit, 

The scattered drift-wood, bleached and dry. 
The wild waves reach their hands for it, 

The wild wind raves, the tide runs high. 
As up and down the beach we flit — 

Ouc little sand-piper and I. 

Above our heads the sullen clouds 
Scud black and swift across the sky ; 

Like silent ghosts, iu misty shrouds 
Stand out the white light-houses nigh. 

Almost as far as eye cau reach, 
I see the close-reefed vessels fly, 

As. fast wo flit along the beach- 
One little sand-piper and I. 

I watch him as he skims along. 

Uttering his sweet and mournful cry ; 

He starts not at my fitful song. 
Or flash of flutteriug drapery : 



CELIA THAXTER.—JJAUIUET P. SrOFFORD.— ELLEN LOUISE MOULTOX. 



863 



He has uo thought of auy wrong, 
He scans me with a fearless eye ; 

Staunch friends nre we, well-tried and strong 
This liltle sand-piper and I. 

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-uiglit, 

Wheu the loosed storm breaks furiously ? 
My drift-wood fire will burn so bright ! 

To what warm shelter canst thou tiy ? 
I do not fear for thee, though wroth 

The tempest rushes through the sky ; 
For are we not God's children both, 

Thou little sand-piper and I ? 



tjavrict |Jvcscctt Spoffori). 

AMERICAN 

Harriet Eliz;ibetli Prescott, born in Calais, Me., in 1835, 
was married iu 1865 to Richard S. Spoffortl, Esq., a law- 
yer, of Newburyport, Mass. Slie early gave promise of 
literary ability in a series of remarkable prose tales : " Sir 
Roland's Ghost" (1860); "The Amber Gods, and other 
Stories;" "Azarian;" "New England Legends;" "A 
Thief in the Night," etc. She has been a liberal contrib- 
utor to the magazines, and there have been several pub- 
lished collections of her prose writings. There is a fine 
enthusiasm lor all that is lovely in nature, Sashing out in 
many of her poems. 

A FOUR-O'CLOCK. 

Ah, happy day, refuse to go i' 
Hang in the heavens forever so I 
Forever in mid-afternoon, 
Ah, happy day of happy June.' 
Pour out thy suushiue on the hill, 
The piny wood with perfume fill, 
And breathe across the singing sea 
Land-scented breezes, that shall be 
Sweet as the gardens that tliey pa.ss. 
Where children tumble in the grass; 

Ah, happy day, refuse to go ! 
Hang iu the heavens forever so ! 
And long not for thy blushing rest 
In the soft bosom of the west. 
But bid gray evening get her back 
■\Vith all the stars npon her track ! 
Forget the dark, forget the dew. 
The mystery of the midnight blue. 
And only spread thy wide warm wings 
Wliile summer her enchantment flings ! 

All, happy day. refuse to go! 
Hang ;n the heavens forever so! 



Forever let thy tender mist 

Lie like dissolving amethyst 

Deep in the distaut dales, and shed 

Thy mellow glory overhead ! 

Yet wilt thou wander, — call the thrush, 

And have the wilds and waters hush 

To hear his passion-broken tune, 

Ah, happy day of happy June ! 



(Pllcu £ouisc illoultou. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs. Monlton, whose maiden name was Chandler, was 
born iu 1835 at Pomfret, Conn., and educated at .Mrs. Wil- 
lard's famed seminary. She began writing for the maga- 
zines at an early age, and when eighteen published a vol- 
ume entitled "This, That, and the Other," of which ten 
thousand copies were sold. She contributed largely to 
the principal American magazines, and was a correspond- 
ent of the A'ew Yoi-k Tribimc. She married Mr. Monlton, 
a well-known newspaper publisher of Boston. A volume 
other poems was published in London, and one iu Bos- 
ton (18T8). 



ALONE BY THE BAY. 

He is gone, O my heart, he is gone ; 

And the sea remains, and the sky ; 
And the skift's flit iu and out. 

And the white-winged yachts go by. 

And the waves run purple and green, 
And the sunshine glints and glows, 

And freshly acro.ss the Bay 

Tlie breath of the morning blows. 

I liked it better last night, 

When the dark shut down on the main. 
And the phantom fleet lay still. 

And I heard the waves complain. 

For the sadness that dwells iu my heart. 
And the rune of their endless woe. 

Their longing and void and despair, 
Kept time in their ebb and flow. 



IN TIME TO COME. 

The time will come full soon, I shall be gone, 
And you sit silent in the silent place. 
With the sad Autumn sunlight on your face : 
Remembering the loves that were your own. 
Haunted perchance by some familiar tone, — 



864 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BIUTISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



You will grow weary then for the dead days, 
And niiudtnl of tbcir sweet and bitter ways, 
Though passion into memory shall have grown. 
Tlien shall I with yonr other ghosts draw nigh. 
And whisper, as I pass, some former word, 
Some old endearment known in days gone by. 
Some tenderness that once your pulses stirred,— 
Wliich was it spoke to yon, the wind or I, 
I think you, musing, scarcely will have heard. 



Qiljcobovc (Liltou. 

AMERICAN. 

Tilton was bora in 1835 in the city of New Yorlc. He 
received a good education, and became early in life con- 
nected with the Iittlejxmlent, a widely circulated weekly 
paper. The connection lasted fifteen years. In 1871 he 
started a new weekly, The Gulden Affc, whicli did not meet 
tlie success it deserved. He is the author of" The Sex- 
ton's Tale, and otlier Poems," and has shown much ver- 
satility as a spirited writer both of prose and verse. 



SIR MAEMADUKE'S MUSINGS. 

I won a noble fame ; 

But, with a sudden frown, 
The people snatched my crown, 
And in the mire trod down 

My lofty name. 

I bore a bounteous purse. 
And beggars by the way 
Then blessed nie day by day ; 
But I, grown poor as they. 

Have now tbcir curse. 

I gained what men call friends ; 
Bnt now their lovo is hate. 
And I have learned too late 
How mated minds nnmate. 

And friendship ends. 

I clasped a woman's breast. 
As if her heart I knew, 
Or fancied would bo true ; 
Who proved, alas ! she, too, 

False like the rest. 

I am now all bereft, — 

As wheu some tower doth fall. 
With battlements and wall. 
And gate and bridge and all,— 

And nothing left. 



Bnt I account it worth 

All pangs of fair hopes crossed- 
AU loves and honors lost — 
To gain the heavens at cost 

Of losing earth. 

So. lest I be inclined 
To render ill for ill — 
Henceforth in me instill, 
O God! a sweet good will 

To all mankind. 



3ol)n ilanus |J'u\tt. 



Piatt, born in Milton, Ind., Marcli 1st, 1835, was edu- 
cated at Kcnyon College. He wrote verses for the 
LoidxviUe Journal, also for the Atlantic JfontMi/, before be 
was twenty-live. In conjunction with Mr. W. D. How- 
ells, be published, in 1800, "Poems of Two Friends;" in 
1864, "Nests, and other Poems," part of wliich were by 
his wife, Mrs. Sarah M. B, Piatt. In 1869 be published 
"Western Windows, and other Poems," dedicated to 
George D. Prentice; and in 18T1, " Landmarks, and oth- 
er Poems." His style is well individualized, and formed 
on no particular model. Mrs. Piatt li.as written several 
admirable little poems, generally conveying some pithy 
moral. 



THE FIKST TRVST. 

She pnlls a rose from her rose-tree, 
Kissing its soul to him, — 

Far over years, far over dreams 
And tides of chances dim. 

He plucks from his heart a jioem, 
A flower-sweet messenger, — 

Far over years, far over dreams, 
Flutters Its soul to her. 

These are the world-old lovers. 
Clasped in one twilight's gleam; 

Yet lie is bnt a dream to her, 
And she a poet's dream. 



THE MORNING STREET. 

FnoM " Westeen Windows." 

Alone I walk the morning street. 
Filled with the silence vague and sweet; 
All .^eems as strange, as still, as dead, 
As if unnumbered years had fled, 



JOHN JAMES PIATT.— FRANCES LAUGHTON MACE. 



86r> 



Letting the noisy Babel lie 
Breatbless ami dumb against the sky ; 
The light wind walks with me aloue 
Where the hot day flame-like was blown, 
Where the wheels roared, the dust was beat ; 
The dew is iu the morning street. 

Where are the restless throngs that pour 

Along this mighty corridor 

While the noon shines ? — the liiurying crowd 

Whose footsteps make the city loud, — 

The myriad faces, — hearts that beat 

No more in the deserted street ? 

Those footsteps iu their dreaming maze 

Cross thresholds of forgotten days ; 

Tliose faces brighten from the years 

Iu rising suus long set iu tears ; 

Those hearts, — fur in the Past they beat, 

Uuheard within the morning street. 

A city of the world's gray prime, 
Lost iu some desert far from Time, 
Where uoiseless ages, gliding through, 
Have only sifted sand and dew, — 
Yet a mysterious hand of man 
Lying on all the haunted plan. 
The passions of the human heart 
Quickening the marble breast of Art, — 
Were not more strange to one who first 
Upou its ghostly silence burst 
Thau this vast quiet, where the tide 
Of life, upheaved on either side. 
Hangs trembling, ready soon to beat 
With human waves the morning street. 

Ay, soon the glowing morning flood 
Breaks through the charm<5d solitude : 
This silent stone, to music won, 
Shall murnmr to the rising sun ; 
The busy place, iu dust and heat, 
Shall rush with wheels and swarm with feet ; 
The Arachne-threads of Purpose stream 
Unseen within the morning gleam ; 
The life shall move, the death be plaiu ; 
The bridal throng, the funeral train, 
Together, face to face, shall meet. 
And pass within the morning street. 



THE GIFT OF EMPTY HANDS. 

Mrs. Piatt. 
They were two princes doomed to death, 
Each loved his beauty and his breath ; 



" Leave us our life, and we will bring 
Fair gifts unto our lord, the king." 

They went together. In the dew 
A charmed bird before them flew. 
Through sun .and thorn one followed it ; 
Upou the other's arm it lit. 

A rose, whose faintest blush was worth 
All buds that ever blew on earth. 
One climbed the rocks to reach : ah, well. 
Into the other's breast it fell. 

Weird jewels, such as fairies wear. 
When moons go out, to light their hair, 
One tried to touch ou ghostly ground ; 
Gems of quick fire the other found. 

One with the dragon fought to gain 
The enchanted fruit, and fought iu vain; 
The other breathed the garden's air. 
And gathered precious apples there. 

Backward to tlie imperial gate 

One took his fortune, one his fate : 

One showed sweet gifts from sweetest lauds. 

The other torn and empty hands. 

At bird, and rose, and gem, and fruit. 
The king was sad, the king was mute ; 
At last ho slowly said, " My son, 
True treasure is not lightly won. 

" Your brother's haiuls, wherein you see 
Only these scars, sliow more to me 
Tlian if a kingdom's price I found 
In place of each forgotten wound." 



fraiucs £auiil)ton lllacc. 



Miss Laugliton, wlio by mari-i.igc (IS.5.5) became Mrs. 
Mace, W.13 born in the village of Orono, near Bangor, Me., 
Jan. 1.5th, 1836, where her futlier commenced practice as 
a physician, but soon removed to Bangor. She has writ- 
ten for ffdtycr's Magazine, the Atlantic MonlhJy. and otlier 
well-known periodicals. Her little poem of" Only Wait- 
ing" was written when she was eighteen, and first pub- 
lished in the Waterville (Me. ) Mail of Sept. 7tli, 18.54. It 
w'as introduced by the Rev. James MartincTU, of England, 
into bis collection of "Hymns," and he took jiains to 
have the fact of its autborsbip thoroughly investigated. 
The poem had passed into several collections, British 
and American, as anonymous. 



t?66 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



EASTER MORNING. 
I. 
Osteva! spirit of spriug-time, 

Awake from tby sluuibeis deep ! 
Arise! ami with bands that are glowing, 

Put ofl' the white garments of sleep ! 
Make thyself fair, O goddess ! 

lu new aud resplendent array, 
For the footsteps of Him who has risen 

Shall be heard in the dawn of day. 

Flushes the trailing arbutns 

Low under the forest leaves — 
A sign that the drow.sy goddess 

TIio breath of her Lord perceives. 
While He sutt'ered, her pulse beat numbly ; 

While He slept, she was still witli pain: 
But now He awakes — He lias risen — 

Her beauty shall bloom again. 

Oh hark I in tlio budding woodlands, 

Now far, now near, is heard 
The first prelusive warble 

Of rivulet and of bird. 
Oh listen! the .Jubilate 

From every bough is poured. 
And earth in the smile of spring-time 

Arises to greet her Lord ! 



Hadiant goddess, Aurora! 

Open the chambers of dawn ; 
Let the Hours like a garland of graces 

Eucirclo the chariot of morn. 
Thou dost lierald no longer Apollo, 

The god of the sunbeam aud lyre ; 
The pride of his empire is ended, 

Aud pale is his armor of fire. 

From a loftier height than Olymiins 

Light flows, from the Temple above, 
And the mists of old legends are scattered 

lu the dawu of the Kingdom of Love. 
Come forth from the cUuul-land of fable, 

For day in fall splendor uuike room — 
For a triumph that lost not its glory 

As it paused in the sepulchre's gloom. 

She comes! the bright goddess of morning, 

III crimson and purjile array ; 
Far down on the hill-tops she tosses 

The first golden lilies of day. 



On the mountains her sandals are glowing, 
O'er the -valleys she speeds ou the wing. 

Till earth is all rosy aud radiaut 
For the feet of the new-risen King. 



Open the gates of the Temple ; 

Spread branches of palm aud of bay ; 
Let not the spirits of nature 

Alone deck the Conqueror's way. 
While Spring from her death-sleep arises. 

And joyous His presence awaits. 
While Morning's smile lights up the heavens. 

Open the Beautiful Gates. 

He is here ! The long watches are over. 

The stone from the grave rolled away. 
'•We shall sleep," was the sigh of the midnight; 

•■ We shall rise !" is the song of to-day, 
O JIusic ! no longer lamenting, 

Ou pinions of tremulous flame 
Go soaring to meet the Beloved, 

And swell the new song of His fame ! 

Tlie altar is snowy with blossoms, 

The font is a vase of perfume, 
On pillar and chancel are twining 

Fresh garlauds of eloquent bloom. 
Clnist is risen ! with glad lips we utter, 

And far up the infinite height 
Archangels the pa!an re-echo. 

And crown Him with Lilies of Light ! 



INDIAN SUMMER. 

AVlii'U the hunter's moon is waning 

And hangs like a crimson bow, 
Aud the frosty'fields of morning 

Are white with a phantom snow, 
Who then is the beautiful spirit 

Tliat wandering smiles aud grieves 
.Mong the desolate hill-sides, 

And over the drifted leaves ? 

■She has strayed from the far-olf dwelling 

Of forgotten Indiau braves, 
Aud stolen wistfully earthward 

Over tlie path of graves ; 
She has left the cloudy gate-way 

Of the huntiug-gionnds ajar, 
To follow the trail of tlie summer 

Toward the morning-star! 



FlUNCES LAUGHTON MACE.— THOMAS BAILEY ALDBICH. 



867 



There's a rustle of soft, slow footsteps, 

The toss of a jiurple plume. 
And the glimmer of golden arrows 

Atbwart the hazy gloom. 
'Tis tlio smoke of the bappy wigwams 

That rciUleus our wintry sky. 
The scent of unfading forests 

That is dreamily lloatiug by. 

O shadow-sister of summer! 

Astray from the world of dreams, 
Thou wraitb of the bloom departed. 

Thou echo of spring-tide streams, 
Thou moonlight and starlight vision 

Of a day that will como no more. 
Would that our lovo might %t1u thee 

To dwell on this storm j" shore! 

Kut the roaming Indian goddess 

Stays not for onr tender sighs — 
She has beard the call of ber hunters 

Beyond the sunset skies ! 
liy her beaming arrows stricken, 

The last leaves fluttering fall. 
With a sigh and smile she has vauislied- 

Aud darkness is over all. 



ON'LY WAITIXG. 

Only waiting till the shadows 

Are a little longer grown. 
Only waiting till the glimmer 

Of the day's last beam is flown ; 
Till the nigbt of earth is faded 

From this heart once full of day. 
Till tlie dawn of Heaven is breaking 

Througb the twilight soft and gray. 

Only waiting till the reapers 

Have the last sheaf gathered home, 
For the summer-time bath faded, 

Aud the autumn winds are come. 
Quickly, reapers! gather quickly. 

The last ripe bours of my heart. 
For the bloom of life is withereil, 

And I hasten to dejiart. 

Only waiting till the angels 
Open wide the mystic gate, 

At whose feet I long have lingered, 
Weary, poor, aud desolate. 



Even now I bear their footsteps 
.\nd their voices far away — 

If they call me, I am waiting. 
Only waiting to obey. 

Only waiting till the shadows 
Are a little longer grown — 

Only waiting till the glimmer 
Of the day's last beam is flown. 

When from out the folded darkness 
Holy, deathless stars shall rise. 

By whose light raj' soul will gladly 
Wing ber passage to the skies. 



illjomas Sailcij ;Hli)vicl). 



Aldrich was born in Portsmouth, N. H., 183C. After 
trying mercantile pursuits in a New York counting- 
room, he gave his attention to literature; was connected 
with the Home Journal, and other periodicals, and be- 
came a frequent contributor to the leading magazines. 
Tic began to publish poems in 1S54. His "Baby Bell" 
(1858) showed that lie had not mistalvcn his vocation. 
Removing to Boston, he published a series of tales 
which attracted much attention, and were translated 
into French. They appeared originally in the Atlantic 
Jfoiithly. Mr. Aldiich has made two visits to Europe 
with his wife, and given evidence that they were not 
unprofitable in literary respects. His poetical vein is 
ricli, delicate, and tender; and tlie cultivated circle ho 
addresses is always enlarging. He published i7i ISSO 
"Tlie Stillwater Tragedy," a novel, in which, iu spite 
of its name, wit and humor prevail. 



PISCATAQUA RIVER. 

Thon singest by the gleamiug isles, 
By woods and fields of corn 

Thou singest, and the heaven smiles 
Upon my birthday morn. 

But I, within a city, I, 

So full of vague unrest, 
Would almost give my life to lie 

An hour upon tlij' breast ; 

To let the wherry listless go, 
And, wrapped iu dreamy joy. 

Dip aud surge idly to and fro, 
Like the red harbor-buoy. 

To sit in liappy Indolence, 
To rest upon the oars, 



»6!i 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BKITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Autl catcb the heavy earthy scents 
That blow from summer shores ; 

To see the rouudeil sun go down, 

And ^vith its parting fires 
Light up the windows of the town, 

And burn the tapering spires. 

And then to liear the muftied tolls 
From steeples slim and white, 

And watch, among the Isles of Shoals, 
The Beacon's orange light. 

O River! Howing to the maiu 

Through woods aud fields of corn, 

Hear thou my longing and my paiu 
This sunny birthday morn : 

Aud take this song, which sorrow shapes 

To music like thine own. 
And sing it to the cliffs and capes 

Aud crags where I am kuowu. 



BEFORE THE RAIN. 

We knew it would rain, for all the morn 

A spirit on slender ropes of mist 
Was lowering its golden buckets down 

luto the vajiory amethyst 

Of marshes, and swamps, aud dismal fens, — 
Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers. 

Dipping the jewels out of the sea. 

To sprinkle them over the land in .showers. 

We knew it would raiu, for the poplars showed 
The white of their leaves, tho amber grain 

Shrunk in the wind, — and the lightning now 
Is tangled iu tremulous skeins of rain ! 



AFTER THE RAIN. 

The raiu has ceased, and in my room 
The sunshine pours an airy flood ; 

And on the church's dizzy vane 

The ancient cross is bathed in blood. 

From out tho dripping ivy leaves, 
Antiquely carveu, gr.iy and high, 

A dormer, facing westward, looks 
Upon the village like au eye : 



Aud now it glimmers in the sun, 
A globe of gold, a disk, a speck ; 

And in the belfry sits a dove 

With x^nrple rijiples ou her neck. 



UNSUNG. 

As sweet as the breath that goes 
From the lips of tho white rose, 
As weird as the elfin lights 
That glimmer of frosty nights, 
As wild as tho winds that tear 
The curled red leaf in the air. 
Is the song I have never sung. 

In .slumber, a hundred times 

I've said the enchanted rhymes. 

But ere I open my eyes 

This ghost of a jjoem flies; 

Of the interfluent strains 

Not even a note remains : 

I know by my pulses' beat 

It was something wild and sweet, 

Aud my heart is strangely stirred 

By au unrcmembered word ! 

I strive, but I strive in vain. 
To recall the lost refrain. 
On some miraculous day 
Perhaps it will come and stay ; 
In some unimagined Spring 
I may find my voice, and sing 
The song I have never sung. 



SONNET. 

Enamored architect' of airy rhyme, 

Bnild as thon wilt ; heed not what each man says. 

Good souls, but innocent of dreamers' ways. 

Will come, and marvel why thou wastest time : 

Others, beholding how thy turrets climb 

'Twist theirs aud Leaven, will hate thee all their 

days ; 
But most beware of those who cmno to praise. 
O Wondersmith, O worker in sublime 
And heaven-sent dreams, let art bo all in all : 
Build as thon wilt, unspoiled by praise or blame, 
Build as thou wilt, and as the gods have given : 
Then, if at last tho airy structure fall. 
Dissolve, and vanish, — take thy.self no shame. 
They fail, and th('y alone, who have uot striven. 



WILLIAM iriXTEU. 



8&I 



lUilliam lUiutcr. 



AMERICAN. 

A native of Gloucester, Mass., "Winter was born July 
151b, 1830. He publislied a volume of poems before lie 
was twenty-one. For several years lie has been con- 
nected with the Neiv York Tribune as dramatic critic. An 
edition of his poems was republished in London in 1877. 
lu the spring of 1879 he read a poem called " The Pledge 
and the Deed" before the Society of the Army of the 
Potomac at Albany, which was received with great en- 
thusiasm. Of his "Orgia" he writes: "It is thorough- 
ly sincere — honestly expressive of my feelings about life 
at the time it was written, but wild as a white squall. 
All sorts of names have been signed to it in the newspa- 
pers; all sorts of misprints have been perpetrated on its 
text." A new and complete edition of Winter's poems 
in one volume was to ajjpear in 1881. 



THE BALLAD OF CONSTANCE. 

With diamond clew the grass was wet, 
'Twas ill the spring and gentlest weather, 

And all the birds of morning met, 
And carolled iu her heart together. 

The wind blew softly o'er the land, 
And softly kissed the joyous ocean ; 

He Tvalked beside her on the sand. 
And gave and won a heart's devotion. 

The thistle-down was in the breeze, 

With birds of passage homew.ard flying ; 

His fortune called him o'er the seas, 
And on the shore he left her sighing. 

She saw his bark glide down the bay, 

Through tears aud fears she could not banish ; 

She saw his white sails melt away ; 

She saw them fade ; she saw them vanish. 

And "Go," she said, "for winds are fair, 
And love and blessing round you hover ; 

When yon sail backward through the air. 
Then I will trust the word of lover." 

.Still ebbed, still flowed the tide of years, 

Now chilled with snows, now bright with roses, 

And many smiles were turned to tears, 
And sombre morns to radiant closes. 

And many ships came gliding by. 

With many a golden promise freighted ; 

But nevermore from sea or sky 

Came love to bless her heart that waited. 



Yet on, by tender patience led. 

Her sacred footsteps walked, unbidden, 

Wherever sorrow bows its head, 

Or want aud care and shame are hidden. 

Aud they who saw her snow-white hair, 
And dark, sad eyes, so deep with feeling, 

Breathed all at once the chancel air, 
And seemed fo hear the orgiin pe.aliug. 

Till once, at shut of autumn day, 

In marble chill she paused and harkened. 

With startled gaze, where far away 
The waste of sky aud ocean darkened. 

There, for a moment, faint aud wan, 
High up lu air, aud landward striving, 

Steru-fore, a spectral bark came on. 
Across the purple sunset driving. 

Then something out of night she knew. 

Some whisper heard, from heaven descended, 

Aud peacefully as falls the dew 
Her long and louely vigil euded. 

The violet and the bramble rose 

Make glad tlic grass that dreams above her : 
And freed from time and all its woes. 

She trusts again the word of lover. 



ORGIA. 

THE SONG OF A RCIXED M.\N. 

Who cares for nothing alone is free, — 
Sit down, good fellow, and drink with me. 

With a careless heart and a merry eye. 

He will laugh at the world as the world goes by. 

He laughs at power aud wealth aud fame ; 
He laughs at virtue, he langhs at shame ; 

He langhs at hope, and ho langhs at fear. 
And at memory's dead leaves, crisp and sere : 

He laughs at the future, cold aud dim, — 
Nor earth nor heaven is dear to him. 

Oh, that is the comrade fit for me : 
He cares for nothing, his .soul is free; 

Free as the soul of the fragrant wine : 
Sit down, good fellow, my heart is thine. 



870 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMIiRICAN FOETRY. 



For I liccd not custom, creed, nor law ; 
I care for nothing tbat ever I saw. 

Ill every city my cups I quatt", 

And over my liquor I riot and laugli. 

I langU like the cruel and turbulent wave : 

I laugh at the church, and I laugh at the grave. 

I laugh at joy, and ^vell I know 
That I merrily, merrily laugh at woe. 

I terrilily laugli, with an oath and a sneer, 
When I thiuk tliat the hour of death is near. 

For I know that Death is a guest divine, 

Who shall driuk my blood as I drink this wine. 

And Ho cares for nothing! a king is He I 
Come on, old fellow, and drink with me I 

Witli you I will drink to tho solemn Past, 
Though the cup that I drain should he my last. 

I will drink to the phantoms of love and truth ; 
To riiiued manhood and wasted youtli. 



My heart is burnt and blackened with pain, 
And a horrible darkness crushes my brain. 

I cannot see you. The end is iiigli ; 
But — we'll laugh together before I die. 

Through awful chasms I plunge and fall! 
I die,— that's all. 



THE GOLDEN SILENCE. 

What though I sing no other song ? 

What though I sjieak no other woid ? — 
Is silence shame ? Is patience wrong ? — 

At least, one song of mine was heard : 

One echo from the mountain air. 
One ocean niurniur, glad and free — 

One sign that nothing grand or fair 
lu all this world was lost to me. 

I will not wake the sleeping lyre ; 

I will not strain the chords of thought: 
Tho sweetest fruit of all desire 

Comes its own wav, and comes nusought. 



I will drink to the woman who wrought my woe, 
In the diamond morning of Long Ago ; 

To a heavenly face, in sweet repose : 

To tho lily's snow and the blood of the rose ; 

To tlie splendor, caught from orient skies, 
Tliat tlirilled in tlio dark of lier liazel eyes — 

Her large eyes, wild with the tire of the south — 
And the dewy wine of her warm, red mouth. 

I will driuk to the thouglit of a better time: 
To innocence, gone like a deatli-bell chime. 



Though all the bards of earth were dead, 
And all their music passed away, 

Wliat Nature wislies should be said 
She'll find the rightful voice to say ! 

Her heart is in the shimmering leaf, 
Tho drifting cloud, the lonely sky, 

And all we know of bliss or grief 
She speaks in forms tliat cannot die. 

Tlie monutain-peaks that shine afar. 
The silent star, the jiathless sea, 

Are living signs of all we are, 
And types of all we hope to be. 



I will drink to the shadow of coming doom ; 
To tho phantoms that wait in my lonely tomb. 

I will drink to my soul in its terrible mood. 
Dimly and soleiuuly understood. 

And, last of all, to the Monarch of Sin, 

Who has conquered that fortress and reigns within. 

My sight is fading, — it dies away, — 
I cannot tell — is it night or day. 



lllillii\m Srljuiciuli C!3ilbci-t. 

Gilbert, born in London, 1S36, won celebrity by lii^ 
participation in the burlesque musical drama of "Pina- 
fore" (1878), the libretto of which was his own conciqi- 
tion. The success of the piece at the principal theatres 
of the United States was something quite unexampled. 
It was followed by "The Pirates of Penzance" (187!l), 
another profitable hit. Tie luihlishcd in 1877 a volume 
of buinoious poetry. Before tliat he had produced 
" Original Plays," republished iu New York ; among 



WILLIAM SCHU'EA'CK GILBERT.— WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. 



871 



tlicm "The Wicked World, an Original Fairy Comedy," 
;iiul " Pygmalion and Galatea, an Original Mytbologieal 
Comedy." He produces his comic effects by a grotesque 
cxtravagauce, or by humorous nonsense, unraarred by 
coarseness. 



TO THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE. 

Roll on, tliou ball, roll on ! 
TliroiigU pathless realms of space 

Roll on ! 
What though I'm in a sorry case, ? 
What though I cannot meet my bills * 
What though I suffer toothache's ills ? 
What though I swallow countless pills ? 
Never you mind ! 
Roll on! 

Roll on, thou ball, roll on ! 
Through seas of inky air 

Roll on ! 
It's true I've got no shirts to wear ; 
It's true my butcher's bill is <lue ; 
It's true my prospects all look very blue ; 
But don't let that unsettle you ! 
Never you mind ! 
Roll on ! 

/( roUa on. 



MORTAL LOVE. 

From " The Wicked World." 
Seleue. a Fairy Queen, is tlie supposed speaker. 

With all their misery, with all their sin, 
With all the elements of wretchedness 
That teem on that unholy world of theirs, 
They have one great and ever-glorious gift, 
That compensates for all they have to bear — 
The gift of Love ! Kot as we use the word. 
To signify mere tranquil brotherhood ; 
But in some sense that is unknown to us. 
Their love bears like relation to our owu 
That the fierce beauty of the noonday sun 
Bears to the calm of a soft summer's eve. 
It nerves the wearied nmrtals with hot life. 
And bathes his soul In hazy happiness. 
The richest man is poor who hath it not. 
And he who hath it laughs at poverty. 
It hath no conqueror. When Death himself 
Has worked liis very worst, this love of theirs 
Lives still upon the loved one's memory. 
It is a strange enchantment, which invests 
The most unlovely things with loveliness. 



The maiden, fascinated by this spell. 
Sees everything as she would have it be : 
Her squalid cot becomes a princely home ; 
Its stunted shrubs are groves of stately elms ; 
The weedy brook that trickles past her door 
Is a broad river fringed with drooping trees : 
And of all marvels the most marvellous. 
The coarse unholy man who rules her love 
Is a bright being — pure as we are pure ; 
Wise in his folly — blameless in his sin ; 
The incarnation of a perfect soul ; 
A great and ever-glorious demi-god. 



lUilliam Dean fjoaiclls. 

AMERICAN. 

Born in Martinsville, Belmont County, O., in 1837, the 
son of a printer, Howells learned the business, and be- 
came editorially connected with several Ohio newspa- 
pers. In 1S60 he published, in conjunction with Mr. J. J. 
Piatt, a volume entitled "Poems of Two Friends." In 
ISfll he was Consul at Venice, where he resided till 1865. 
He published "Venetian Life" (1866); "Italian Jour- 
neys" (1867); "No Love Lost: a Poem " (1868) ; "Sub- 
urban Sketches" (1871); "Their Wedding Journey" 
(1872); "The Undiscovered Country" (1880). In 1870 
he became editor of the .itlantk Monthly. He has gained 
a wide reputatiou for the grace and purity of his prose 
style ; and has shown, in some of liis shorter poems, high 
lyrical capacities and an artist-like care. 



THANKSGIVING. 

Lord, for the erring thought 
Not into evil wrought: 
Lord, for the wicked will 
Betrayed and baffled still : 
For the heart from itself kept. 
Our thanksgiving accept. 

For ignorant hopes that were 
Broken to our blind prayer: 
For pain, death, sorrow, sent 
Unto our chastisement : 
For all loss of seeming good, 
Quicken our gratitude. 



THE MYSTERIES. 

Once on my mother's breast, a child, I crept, 

Holding my breath ; 
There, safe and sad, lay shuddering, and wept 
■ At the dark mystery of Death. 



H72 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Wearj' and weak, and worn vith all unrest, 

Spent with the strife, — 
O mother, let me weep upon thy breast 

At the sad mystery of Life ! 



2q\]\\ Burrougljs. 



AMERICAN. 

Burroughs was born April 3d, 1837, at Roxbury, N. Y. 
He has distinguished himself as a genial observer of nat- 
ural phenomena, and his hoolis about birds, flowers, and 
out-of-door life have a distinctive value, as coming from 
one at once a poet and a naturalist. He is the author 
of "Walt Whitman as Poet and Person" (1867); "Wake 
Robin" (1871); "Winter Sunshine" (1875); "Birds and 
Poets " (1877) ; " Locusts and Wild Honey " (1879). 



WAITING. 

Serene I fold my arms and wait, 
Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea : 

I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, 
For lo ! my own shall come to me. 

I stay my haste, I make delays, 
For what avails this eager pace ? 

I stand amid the eternal ways. 

And what is mine shall know my face. 

Asleep, awake, by night or day. 

The friends I seek are seeking me ; 

No wind can drive my bark astray, 
Nor change the tide of destiny. 

What matter if I stand alone ? 

I wait with joy the coming years ; 
My heart shall reap where it has sown. 

And garner up its fruit of tears. 

The waters know their own, and draw 
The brook that springs in yonder height : 

So flows the good with equal law 
Unto the soul of pure delight. 

The floweret nodding in the wind 

Is ready plighted to the bee ; 
And, maiden, why that look unkind ? 

For lo ! thy lover seeketh thee. 

The stars come nightly to the sky ; 

Tlie tidal wave unto the sea; 
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high 

Can kecx) my own away from me. 



^llgcrnon (Hljarlcs Suiinbttrnc. 

Swinburne, son of an English admiral, was bom at 
Holmwood, near Henley-on-Thames, in 18.37. His early 
education, begun in France, was continued at Eton. In 
1857 he entered a commoner of Baliol College, Oxford, 
but left without taking a degree. In his twenty-tliird 
year he published two plays, "The Queeu Mother" and 
"Rosamund." In 18()5 appeared his dramatic poem of 
" Atalanta in Calydon," thoroughly Greciun in form and 
spirit. The Edinburgh Review pronounced it " the prod- 
uce of an affluent apprehensive genius which, with or- 
dinary care and fair fortune, will take a foremost place 
in English literature." lu 1866 appeared a volume of 
"Poems and Ballads," which was considered so objec- 
tionable in its free and sensuous expressions, that, in 
obedience to the critical outcry against it, the edition 
was suppressed by the English publishers. Since then 
Swinburne has published "A Song of Italy" (1867) ; "Si- 
ena, a Poem " (186S) ; " Ode on the Proclamation of the 
French Republic " (1870) ; " Songs before Sunrise " (1871 ) ; 
"Bothwell, a Tragedy" (1874); "Songs of the Spring- 
tides" (1880). He is a genuine poet, both in tempera- 
ment and original vivacity of thougbt and expression. 
At times there is a marvellous charm, peculiarly his own, 
in his diction, which is at once mellitluous and vigorous. 
It will be noticed that he lias revived the old fashion 
of alliteration in many of his lines. Sometimes this is 
a defect, but not unfrequently it helps to sweeten the 
versification. 



AN INTEELUDE. 

In the greenest growth of the M.ay-time, 

1 rode ^\ here the woodi^ were wet. 
Between the dawn and the daytime ; 

The spring was glad that we met. 

There was sometliing the season wanted. 

Though the ways and the woods smelled sweet : 

The breath at your lips that panted. 
The pulse of the grass at your feet. 

You came, and the sun came after, 
And the green grew golden above ; 

And the flag-flowers lightened with laughter. 
And the meadow-sweet shook with love. 

Your feet in the fnll-grown grasses 
Moved soft as a weak wind blows; 

You passed me as April passes. 
With face made out of a rose. 

By the stream where the stems were slender, 
Yonr bright foot paused at the sedge ; 

It might be to watch the tender 

Light leaves in the springrtime hedge, 



ALGEHyON CBAULES SWIXBmXE. 



873 



Ou boughs tbat tUe sweet nioiith blanches 

With flowery frost of May : 
It might be a bird iu the branches, 

It might bo a thorn in the way. 

I waitetl to watch you linger 

With foot drawn back from the dew, 

Till a sunbeam straight like a linger 
Struck sharp through the- leaves at you. 

And a bird overhead sang FoUow, 
And a bird to the right sang Here; 

And the arch of the leaves was hollow, 
And the meaning of May was clear. 

I saw where the sun's hand pointed, 
I knew what the bird's note said; 

By the dawn and the dewfall anointed, 

You were queen by the gold ou your head. 

As the glimpse of a burnt-out ember 

Recalls a regret of the sun, 
I remember, forget, and remember 

What Love saw done and undone. 

I remember the way we parted. 

The d.ay and the way we met ; 
You hoped we were both broken-hearted. 

And knew we should both forget. 

And May with her world iu flower 
Seemed still to murmur and smile 

As you murmured and smiled for an hour ; 
I saw you turn at the stile. 

A band like a white wood-blossom 
You lifted, and waved, and passed. 

With head hung down to the bosom, 
And pale, as it seemed, at last. 

And the best and the worst of this is, 

That neither is most to blame, 
If you've forgotten my kisses 

Aud I've forgotten your name. 



LOVE AND DEATH. 

We have seen thee, O Love, thou art fair ; thou art 

goodly, O Love ; 
Thy wings make light in the air as I he wings of 

a dove. 



Thy feet are as winds that divide the stream of 

the sea; 
Earth is thy covering to hide thee, the garment of 

thee. 
Thou art swift and subtle and blind as a flame of 

fire ; 
Before thee the laughter, behind thee the tears of 

desire ; 
And twain go forth beside thee, a man with a maid ; 
Her eyes are the eyes of a bride whom delight makes 

afraid; [breath: 

As the breath iu the buds that stir is her bridal 
But Fate is the name of her; and his name is 

Death. 



A MATCH. 

If love were what the rose is. 

And I were like the leaf, 
Our lives would grow together 
In sad or singing weather, 
Blown fields or flowerfnl closes. 
Green pleasure or gray grief; 
If love were what the rose is. 
And I were like the leaf. 

If I were what the words are, 

And love were like the tune. 
With double sound and single 
Delight our lips would mingle, 
With kisses glad as birds are 

That get sweet raiu at noon ; 
If I were what the words are. 
And love were like the tuue. 

If you were life, my darling, 

Aud I, your love, were death, 
We'll shine and snow together 
Ere March made sweet the weather 
With datfodil and starling. 

And hours of fruitful breath ; 
If you were life, my darling. 
And I, your love, were death. 

If you were thrall to sorrow. 

And I were page to joy, 
We'd play for lives and seasons, 
With loving looks and treasons. 
And tears of night and morrow, 

And laughs of maid and boy; 
If you ^^•ero thrall to sorrow, 

And I were page to joy. 



874 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH JXD AMEEICAX POETRY. 



If von were April's lady, 

Aud I were loitl in May, 
We'd throw with leaves for hours, 
Aud draw for-days with flowers, 
Till day like night were shady, 

Aud uiglit were liriglit like day ; 
If you were April's lady. 
And I were lord in May. 

If you weio queen of pleasure. 

And I were king of pain, 
We'd huut dowu lovo together, 
Pluck out his flyiug-feather, 
Aud teach his feet a measure. 
And find his mouth a reiu ; 
If you were queen of pleasure. 
And I were king of pain. 



JForrcijtljc lllillson. 

AMERICAN. 

Willson (1837-1S67) was a native of Little Genesee, N. Y. 
"Tlic Old Sergeant, and other Poems," was the title ola 
volume from liis pen, published in Boston in 1867. " The 
Old Sergeant" lias in it more of the narrative and dra- 
matic element than of the poetic, but its pathos is gen- 
uine, and Willson fully believed in the possibility of the 
occnrrence he describes. He was himself an intuitional- 
ift, and the spirit-world seemed to him more real than 
this. In his poem of "The Voice" he describes himself 
as listening to the words of liis deceased wife, aud adds : 

"They fell and died npon my ear, 
As dew dies on the almospliere: 
Aud then au intense yearning thi-illcd 
My SnnI, that nil might he fnlfilled : 
'Where art thou, Blessed Spirit, wliere? 
Whose Voice is dew upon the air?' 
I looked around me aud above, 
And cried aloud, ' Wliorc art thou, Love ? 

let me see Ihy living eye, 

Aud clasp thy living liaiui, or die !' 

Again, upon the atmosphere, 

The self-same words fell: */ am here!' 

"'Here? Thou art here, Love !' 'I am here:' 
The echo died npon my ear: 

1 looked around me— everywhere: 
But, ah ! there was no mortal there ! 
The moonlight was upon the mart, 
Aud Awe and Wonder in my heart! 
I saw no form !— I only felt 
Heaven's Peace upon me as I knelt; 
Aud knew a Soul Beatified 

Was at that moment by my side! 
And there was .Silence in my ear. 
And Silence iu the atmosphere!" 

Like Oberlin, he was firm in the belief here poetically 
expressed, and claimed to have had frequent interviews 
with the partner so dear to him in life. 



THE OLD SERGEANT. 

"Come a little nearer, Doctor — Thatik you! let me 

take the cup! 
Draw your chair up — draw it closer — just another 

little sup I 
Maybe you may think I'm better, but I'm jiretty 

well used up — 
Doctor, you've done all you could do, but I'm just 

agoing up. 

"Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to; but it is no 
use to try." 

"Never say that," said the surgeon, as he smoth- 
ered dowu a sigh ; 

" It will never do, old comrade, for a soldier to say 
die !" 

" What you say will make no difference, Doctor, 
when you come to die. 

" Doctor, what has been the matter f" " Yoti were 

very faint, t'ney say ; 
You must try to get to sleep now." " Doctor, have 

I been away ?" 
"No, my venerable comrade." "Doctor, will you 

please to stay ? 
There is something I must tell yon, aud yon won't 

have loug to stay ! 

" I have got my marching orders, and am ready now 

to go; 
Doctor, did you saj' I faiuted ? — but it couldn't have 

been so — 
For as sure as I'm a sergeant, aud was wounded at 

Shiloh, 
I've this very night been back there — on the old 

field of Shiloh ! 

"You may think it^all delusion — all the sickness 

of the brain — 
If you do, you are mistaken, aud mistaken to my 

pain ; 
For npoti my dying honor, as I hope to live again, 
I have just been back to Shiloh, and all over it again. 

"This is all tliat I remember; the last time the 
Lighter came. 

And the lights had all been lowered, atul the noises 
much the same. 

He had not been gone five minutes before some- 
thing called my name — 

' ORDKItl.Y-SEnOEAXT-ROBF.UT-BURTON!'— just that 
way it called my name. 



FOECEYTHE WILLSOX. 



875 



" Then I thongbt who could have called me so dis- 
tinctly and so slow : 

It can't be the Lighter, surely, ho could not have 
spokeu so ; 

And I tried to answer, 'Here, sir!' but I couldn't 
make it go, 

For I couldn't move a muscle, and I couldn't make 
.it go! 

"Then I thought it all a nightmare — all a humbug 
and a bore ! 

It is just anotlier (jrapc-rinc, and it won't come any 
more ; 

But it came, sir, notwithstanding, just tbe sanio 
words as before, 

' Ordekly-Sergeant-Robkrt-Burton !' — more dis- 
tinctly than before! 

" That is i\ll that I remember till a sudden burst 
of light. 

And I stood beside the river, where we stood that 
Saturday night 

Waiting to be ferried over to the dark bluii's op- 
posite, 

Wlien the river seemed perdition, and all hell seem- 
ed opposite ! 

"And the same old palpitation came again with all 

its power. 
And I heard a bugle sounding as from heaven or 

a tower ; 
And the same mysterious voice said: 'It is — THE 

KLKVEXTH HOUR ! 
ORDEBLY-SeRGEAMT-RoBERT-BURTON — IT IS THE 

ELEVENTH HOUR!' 

"Dr. Austin!— what day is this?"— "It is Wednes- 
day night, yon know." 

"Yes! To-nuuTow will be New-year's, and a right 
good time below ! 

Wliat time is it. Dr. Austiu ?" — "Nearly twelve;" 
— "Then don't you go! 

Can it be that all this happeued — all this — not an 
hour ago! 

" There was where the gun-boats opened on the dark, 

rebellious host. 
And where Webster semicircled all his guns npon 

the coast — 
There were still the two log-houses, just the same, 

or else their ghost — 
\nd the same old transport came and took me over 

— or its ghost ! 



"And the whole field lay before me, all deserted far 

and wide — 
There was where they fell ou Prentiss — there 

McClernand met the 'tide ; 
There was where stern Slierniau rallied, and where 

Hurlburt's heroes died — 
Lower ttown, where Wallace charged them, and kept 



" There was where Lew Wallace showed tlieni he 

was of the caunie kiu — 
There was where old Nelson thundered, and where 

Rousseau waded in — 
There McCuok ' seut them to breakfast,' and we all 

began to Avin — 
There was where the grape-shot took me just as we 

began to win. 

"Now a shroud of snow and silence over everything 

was spread ; 
And but for this old blue mantle, aud the old hat 

on my head, 
I should not have even doubted, to this moment, I 

was dead ; 
For my footsteps were as silent as the snow upon 

the dead! 

"Death and silence! Death and silence! Starry 
silence overhead ! 

Aud behold a might}- tower, as if builded to the 
dead. 

To the heaven of the heavens lifted np its mighty 
head ! 

Till the Stars and Stripes of heaven all seemed wav- 
ing from its head! 

"Ronnd and mighty-based, it towered — up into the 

infinite ! 
And I knew no mortal mason could have built a 

shaft so bright : 
For it shone like solid sun.shiue; and .a winding 

stair of light 
Wound around it and around it till it wound clear 

out of sight ! 

"And behold, ,as I approached it -with a rapt and 

dazzled stare — 
Thinking that I saw old comrades just ascending 

the great stair — 
Suddenly the solemn cliallenge broke of 'Halt! .and 

who goes there!' 
' I'm a friend,' I said, ' if you are ' — ' Then .advance, 

sir, to the stair !' 



OT6 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BIUTISS AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



"I ailvauced — that seutry, Doctor, was ElijiiU Bal- 

lautyue — 
First of all to fall on Monday after we bad formed 

the Hue ! 
' Welcome, my old Sergeant, welcome ! Welcome by 

that countersign !' 
And be pointed to that scar there under this old 

cloak of mine ! 

"As he grasped my band, I shuddered — thinking 

only of the grave — 
But he smiled and pointed upward, with a bright 

and bloodless glave — 
' That's the way, sir, to head-quarters ' — ' What bead- 

qnarters ?' — ' Of the brave !' 
'But the great tower?' — 'That was builded of the 

great deeds of the brave!' 

" Then a sudden shame came o'er me at his uniform 

of light— 
At my own so old and tattered, and at his so new 

and bright ; 
' Ah !' said be, ' you have forgotten the new uniform 

to-night ! 
Hurry back, for you must be here at just twelve 

o'clock to-night!' 

"And the next thing I remember, you were sitting 
THERE, and 1 — 

Doctor, it is hard to leave you — Hark ! God bless 
you all! Good-bye! 

Doctor! please to give my musket and mj- knap- 
sack, when I die, 

To my son — my son that's coming — he won't get 
hero till I die! 

"Tell him his old father blessed him as he never 

did before — 
And to carry that old musket — Hark! a knock is 

at the door! 
Till the Union— see! it opens!"- "Father! father! 

speak once more !" 
"Bless you!" gasped the old gray Seigeant, and he 

lay and said no more! 

When the Surgeon gave the heir-son the old Ser- 
geant's last advice — 

And his musket and his knapsack — how the fire 
flashed in his eyes! — 

He is on the march this morning, and will march 
on till ho dies — [until he dies! 

He will save this bleeding country, or will fight 
ISCC. 



£uti3 i^amilton l)ooper. 

AMERICAN. 

A native of Pliiladelpliiii, daufiliter of B. M. Jones, Esq., 
a well-known merchant, Lucy gave her attention early 
to literature. Married to Robert M. Hooper, Esq., she 
published in 1864 a volume entitled " Poems, with Trans- 
lations fiom the German of Geibel and Others;" and for 
two years assisted in editing LippbicoWs Magazine. A sec- 
ond volume of her poems, coutaining some eighty pieces, 
appeared in 1871. 

ON AN OLD PORTRAIT. 

Eyes that outsmiled the morn, 

Behind your golden lashes, 
What are your fires now ? 
Ashes ! 

Cheeks that outbhished the rose, 

White arms and snowy bust, 
What is your beauty now ? 
Dust ! 



IN VAIN. 

Clasp closer, arms ; press closer, liijs, 

lu last and vain caressing ; 
For nevermore that pallid cheek 

Will crimsou 'ueath jour pressing. 
For these vain words and vainer tears 

She waited yester-even : 
She waits you now, — but in the lar 

Resplendent halls of heaveu. 

With patient eyes tixed on the door. 

She waited, boiling ever. 
Till death's dark wall rose cold between 

Her gaze and you forever. 
She heard your footsteps in the breeze. 

And in the wild-bee's humming : 
The last breath that she shaped to words 

Said softly, '' Is he coming f" 

Now silenced lies the gentlest heart 

That ever beat 'neath cover ; 
Safe, never to be wrung again 

By you, a fickle lover ! 
Your wrong to her knew never end 

Till earth's last bonds were riven ; 
Your memory rose cold between 

Her parting soul and heaven. 

Now vain your false and tardy grief, 
Vain your remorseful weeping ; 



LVCY HAMILTON HOOPER.— BRET HARTE. 



877 



For she, whom only you ileceiveil, 
Lies hushed in dreamless sleeping. 

Go : not beside that peaceful form, 
Should lying words he spoken ! 

Go, pray to God, " Be merciful, 
As she whose heart I've broken." 



THE KING'S RIDE. 

Above the city of Berlin 

Shines soft the summer day, 
And near the royal palace shout 

The school-boys at their play. 

Sudden the mighty pal.ace gates 

Unclasp their portals wide. 
And forth into the sunshine see 

A single horseman ride. 

A bent old man iu plain attire ; 

No glittering courtiers wait, 
No arm(5d guard attend the steps 

Of Frederick the Great ! 

The boys have spied him, and with shouts 

The summer breezes riug : 
The merry urchins haste to greet 

Their well-belov<5d king. 

Impeding e'en his horse's tread. 

Presses the joyous train ; 
And Prussia's despot frowns his best. 

And shakes his stick iu vain. 

The frowning look, the angry tone 
Are feigned, full well they know ; 

They do not fear his stick — that hand 
Ne'er struck a coward blow. 

" Be off to school, you boys !" he cries. 

" Ho ! ho !" the laughers say, 
"A iiretty king you not to know 

We've holiday to-day !" 

And so upon that summer day, 

These children at his side, 
The symbol of his nation's love, 

Did royal Frederick ride. 

O Kings ! your thrones are tottering now ! 

Dark frowns the brow of Fate ! 
When did you ride as rode that day 

King Frederick the Great ? 



13 ret fjartc. 

AMERICAN. 

Francis Bret Hartc, born in Albany, N. T., in 1837, was 
tlie son of a school-master, and partly of Dutch origin. 
When seventeen years old, he went with his widowed 
mother to California. Here he opened a school at the 
mines of Sonora,but, not prospering in it, qu.ilified him- 
self as a setter of types. In San Francisco he got a place 
ou the Oohlen Era; then engaged in The CaJiforniati, 
which was not a success. In it appeared his " Condensed 
Novels." He made his first decided hit in the Overland 
Monihhj, in his " Plain Language from Truthful James," 
a delectable bit of original humor. Returning to the At- 
lantic States, he published his " Luck of Roaring Camp, 
and other Talcs," in 1869; his " Poems " and "Condensed 
Novels," in 1870; his "East and West Poems," in 1872. 
Ho has since written a novel for Scribner's Maamine, and 
several articles for the Atlanlic Monthly. In 1879 he was 
appointed to the important Consulate at Glasgow. His 
various writings have won for him quite a reputation in 
England and Germ.any as well as in his own country. 



DOW'S FLAT. 

Dow's Flat. That's its name. 

And I reckon that you 
Are a stranger ? The same. 
Well, I thought it was true, 
For thar isn't a man on the river as can't spot the 
place at first view. 

It was called after Dow, — 

Which the same was an ass ; 
And as to the how 

Thet the thing came to pass, — 
Jest tie up your horse to that buckeye, and sit ye 
down here in the grass. 

You see this yer Dow 

Hed the worst kind of luck ; 
He slipped up somehow 

Ou each thing thet he struck. 
Why, ef he'd a-straddled that fence-rail, the derned 
thing 'ed get up aud buck. 

Ho mined ou the bar 

Till he couldn't pay rates ; 
He was smashed by a car, 

When he tunnelled with Bates ; 
And right on the top of his trouble kern his wife 
and five kids from the States. 

It was rough, mighty rough ; 
But the Boys they stood by, 



878 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



And tliey brought liim the stuff 
For a house, ou the sly ; 
Aud tliu. old woman, — she did washing, and took 
on wlicu no one was nigh. 

But this yer luck of Dow's 

Was so powerful mean, 
That the siiring near his house 
Dried riglit up ou the green : 
Aud he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary 
a drop to be seen. 

Tlicu the bar jietcred out. 

And the boys wouldn't stay ; 
Aud the chills got about, 
Aud his wife fell away ; 
But Dow in his well kept a-peggiug in his usual 
ridikilous way. 

One day, — it was June, — 

And a year ago jest. 
This Dow kem at noon 
To his work like tln^ rest. 
With a shovel and pielv on his shoulder, and a Der- 
ringer hid in his breast. 

He goes to tlie well, 

And he stands on the brink. 
And stops for a spell 

Jest to listen and think ; 
For the sun in his eyes (jest like this, sir!), you see, 
kinder made the cuss blink. 

His two ragged gals 

In the gulch were at play, 
Aud a gownd that was Sal's 
Kinder flapped on a bay : 
Not much for a man to be leaviii', but his all, — as 
I've heerd the folk.s say. 

And — that's .a peart hoss 

Thet you've got — ain't it, now ? 
What might be her cost t 

Eh ? Oh !— Well, then, Dow- 
Let's see, — well, that forty-foot grave wasn't his, 
sir, that day, .anyhow. 

For .a blow of his jiick 

Sorter caved in the side. 
And he looked and turned sick, 
Then he trembled and cried ; 
For you see the dern cuss had struck — ''Water?" — 
beg your parding, young man, there you lied ! 



It was gold, — in the quartz, — 

And it run all alike ; 
And I reckon five oughts 

Was the worth of that strike ; 
Aud that house with the coopilow's his'n — wliicli 
the same isn't bad for a Pike. 

Thet's why it's Dow's Flat ; 

Aud the tiling of it is 
That ho kinder got that 

Through sheer contrariness ; 
For 'twas Kuttr the derned cuss was seekin', and 
his luck made hiui certain to miss. 

That's so. TLar's your way ' 

To the left of yon tree ; 
^But — a — look h'yur, say, 

Won't you come up to tea ? 
No ? Well, then the next time you're passin' ; and 
ask after Dow, — aud that's mc! 



JIM. 



Say there I P'r'aps 
Some ou you chaps 

Might know Jim Wild 1 
Well, — no offence : 
Thar ain't no sense 

In gittin' riled ! 

Jim was my chum 

Up on the Bar : 
Tliat's why I come 

Down from up yar, 
Lookiii' for Jim. 
Thank ye, sir ! Ton 
Ain't of that crew, — 

Blessed if you are! 

Money? — Not much: 
That ain't my kind : 

I ain't no such. 

Rum? — I don't mind, 

Seein' it's you. 

Well, tliis yer Jim, 
Did you know him ? — 
Jess 'bout your size ; 
Same kind of eyes? — ■ 
Well, that is strange : 
Why, it's two year 
Since ho came hero 
Sick, for a change. 



BRET HASTE. 



879 



Well, liore's to us : 

EU? 
The h — you say! 

Dead ?— 
That little euss ? 



What makes you star, — 
You over thar f 
Can't a mau drop 
's glass iu yer shop 
But you must rai'' ? 
It wouldn't take 
D — niueli to break 
You and your bar. 

Dead ! 
Poor— little— Jim ! 
— Why, thar was me, 
Joues, aud Bob Lee, 
Harry and Beu, — 
No-accouut men : 
Then to take him ! 

Well, thar — Good-bye,^ 
No more, sir, — I — 

Eh? 
What's that you say ? — • 
Why, dern it ! — sho ! — 
No ? Yes ! By Jo ! 

Sold ! 
Sold ! Why, you limb, 
You ornery, 

Derned old 



PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES. 

Which I wish to remark — 

And my language is plain — 
That for ways that are dark. 

And for tricks that are vain, 
The heathen C'hiuee is peculiar. 

Which the same I would rise to exjjlaiu. 

All Sin was his name, 

And I shall not deny 
In regard to the same 

What that name might imply; 
But his smile it was pensive and childlike, 

As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. 

It was August the third, 

Aud quite soft were the skies ; 



Which it might bo inferred 

That Ah Sin was likewise, 
Yet he played it that day upon William 

Aud me in a way I despise. 

Which we had a small game, 

Aud Ah Sin took a hand ; 
It was euchro — the same 

He did not understand ; 
But he smiled as he sat at the table 

With the smile that was childlike aud bland. 

Yet the cards thcj- were stocked 

Iu a way that I grieve. 
And my fecliugs were shocked 

At the state of Nye's sleeve. 
Which was stnifed full of aces aud bowers, 

Aud the same with intent to deceive. 

But the bauds that were played 

By that heathen C'hiuee 
And the points th.at he made 

Were quite frightful to see. 
Till at last he put down a right bower. 

Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. 

Then I looked up at Nye, 

Aud he gazed upon me ; 
Aud he rose with a sigh, 

And said, " Can this be ? 
We are mined by Chinese cheap labor ;" 

And he went for that heathen Chinee. 

In the scene that ensued 

I did not take .a hand, 
Bnt the floor it was strewed 

Like the leaves on the strand 
With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding 

In the game "he did not understand.' 

In his sleeves, which were long. 

He had tweuty-four packs, 
Which was coming it strong. 

Yet I state but the facts ; 
And we found on his nails, which were taper, 

What is frequent in tapers — that's wax. 

Wliich is why I rem.ark — 

Aud my language is plain — 
That for ways that are dark, 

And for tricks that are vain, 
The heathen Chinee is peculiar. 

Which the same I am free to maintain. 



6ti0 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BUITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Samuel Stilliuau illonant. 

AMERICAN. 

Ml'. Conant was born iu Waterville, Me., in 1831. Af- 
ter receiving a college education iu tliis country, he speut 
several years abroad, principally at the universities of 
Berlin, Heidelberg, and Munich. On his return to this 
country Mr. Conant became connected with the press 
of New York, and devoted himself to the profession of 
a journalist. In 1870 he published a translation of " The 
Circassian Boy," a metrical romance by the Russian poet 
Lermontotr. He has contributed frequently to the peri- 
odical literature of the day. 



RELEASE. 

As one who leaves a prison cell, 

And looks, with glad though dazzled eye, 
Ouce moi'o ou wood aud field and sky, 

Aud feels again the quickeuiug spell 

Of Nature thrill through every veiu, 
I leave my former self behind, 
Aud, free ouco more in heart aud mind, 

Shake off the old, corroding ohaiu. 

Free from my Past — a jailer dread — 
Aud with the Present clasping hands. 
Beneath fair skies, through sunny lands. 

Which memory's ghosts ue'er haunt, I tread. 

The paius aud griefs of other days 
May, shadow-like, pursue me yet ; 
But toward tlio sou my face is set, 

His gohleu light on all uiy w.ays. 



A VIGIL. 

The hands of my watch point to midnight. 

My firo burns low ; 
But my pulse runs like the morning, 

My heart all aglow. 

My darling, my maiden, is nested 
And wrapped from the chill, 

Aud slumber lies down on her eyelids, 
Pure, light, and Btill ; 

She needs not the watch-care of angeLs 
To keep off fear and ill. 

The llirobbing of lier heart is over 
A sweet, virgin i)rayer ; 



The thoughts of her heart, like incense. 

Fill the chaste aud silent air ; 
Aud how can evil, or fear of it. 

Enter in there ? 



THE SAUCY EOGUE. 

From the German. 

There is a saucy rogue, well known 
To youth and gray-beard, maid and crone — 
A boy, with eyes that mirth bespeak, 
AVith curly locks aud dimpled cheek ; 
Ho has a sly, demurish air. 

But, maiden fair, 

Take care, take care ! 
His dart may wound you, unaware ! 

With bow aud arrows in bis hand 
He wanders up and down the land ; 
'Tis jolly sport to aim a dart 
At some poor maiden's fluttering heart: 
She wonders what has hurt her there. 

Ah, maiden fair. 

Take care, take care ! 
His dart may wound you, unaware! 

Her nimble hands the distaff ply; 
A gallant soldier-lad rides by : 
He gives her such a loving glance 
Her heart stands still, as iu a trance. 
And death-pale sinks the maiden fair. 

Quick, mother, there. 

Give heed, take care. 
Else you may lose her, unaware • 

Who stauds there laughing at the door ? 
That rogue, who triumphs thus once more! 
Both lad and n'laiden he has hit. 
And laughs as though his siiles would split. 
And so ho sports him everywhere ; 

Now here, now there ; 

He mocks your care ; 
Yon fall his victim, unaware. 

Now who so masterful and brave 
To catch and hold this saucy kuave ? 
Whoever binds him strong aud fast. 
His name aud deed shall always last. 
But, if this dangerous feat you dare. 

Beware ! take care 

Lest ill you fare ! 
The rogue may catch you unaware ! 



HENRY M. ALDEN. 



881 



f)cmji fll. milieu. 



AMERICAN. 

Born on Mount Tabor, near Danby, Vt., in 1836. In 
18B3-'64 he delivered an interesting course of lectures 
at the Lowell Institute, Boston, on "The Structure of 
Paganism." Mr. Aklen has written but few poems, but 
those few are of a very high order. They evince the 
possession of thoughtl'ul insight and uuusual power of 
philosophic conteniplatiou. 



THE ANCIENT "LADY OF SORROW." 

The worship of the Mndoiinn, or Mater Dolorosa— " Om Lady 
of Sorrow"— is not cimtined to the Roniiin Catholic faith; it 
was an iinpoi-taut feature iu nil the ancient Pagan systems of 
reli.iJ:ion, even ihe most primitive. In the Sacred Mysteries of 
Egypt and of Greece her worship was the distinctive and prom- 
inent element. In the latter her name was Achtheia, or Sor- 
row. Under the name of Demeter, by which she was generally 
known arauug the Greeks, she, like the Egyptian Isis, typify- 
ing the Earth, was represented as sympathizing with the sor- 
rowing children of Earth, both as a bountiful mother, bestow- 
ing upon them her fruits and golden harvests, and in her more 
gloonry aspects — as in autumnal decay, iu tempests, and wiutiy 
desolation — as sighing over human frailty, and over the wintry 
deserts of the human he.irt. The worship connected with this 
tradition was vague and symbolical, having no well-detined 
body of doctrine as to sin, salvation, or a future life. Day and 
Ni.:,'ht, Summer and Winter, Birth and De;itli, sis shown in Nat- 
ure, were seized upon as symbols of vaguely understood truths. 

Her closiug eyelids mock the light ; 
Her cold, pale lips are sealed quite ; 
Before her face of spotle.ss white 

A mystic veil is drawu. 
Our Lady hides herself iu night ; 
Iu shadows hath she her delight ; 

She will uot see the dawu ! 

The morning leaps across the jilain — 
It glories iu a, proiuise vaiu ; 
At noon the day begius to wane, 

With its sad proi)hecy ; 
At eve the shadows come again: 
Our Lady finds no vest from paiu, 

No answer to her cry. 

Iu Spring she doth her Winter wait ; 
The Autumn shadoweth forth her fate ; 
Thus, cue hy one, years iterate 

Her solcmti tragedy. 
Before her pass iu solemu .state 
All shapes that come, or soou or late. 

Of this world's misery. 

What is, or shall he, or hath heen, 
This Lady is ; and she hath seen, 
56 



Like frailest leaves, the tribes of men 
Come forth, and quickly die. 

Therefore our Lady hath no rest ; 

For, close beneath her suow-white breast, 
Her weary children lie. 

She taketh on her all our grief; 

Her Passion passeth all relief; 

In vain she holds the poppy leaf — 

Iu vain her lotus crown. 
Even fabled Lethe hath no rest, 
No solace for her troubled breast. 

And no oblivion. 

"Childhood and youth are vain," she saith, 
" Since all things ripen unto death ; 
The flower is blasted by the breath 

That calls it from the earth. 
And yet," she saith, "this thing is sure — 
There is no life but shall endure, 

And death is only birth. 

" From death or birth no powers defend. 
And thus from grade to grade we tend. 
By resurrections without end. 

Unto some final peace. 
But distant is that peace," she saith ; 
Yet eagerly awaiteth Death, 

Expectiug her release. 

" O Rest," she saith, " that will not come, 
Not even when our lips are dumb. 
Not even when onr limbs are numb, 

Aiul graves are growing green ! 
O Death, that, coming on apace, 
Dost look so kindly iu the face, 

Thou wear'st a treach'rous mien !" 

But still she gives the shadow place — 
Onr Lady, with the saddest grace, 
Doth yield her to his feigued embrace, 

And to his treachery ! 
Ye must not draw aside her veil ; 
Ve must not hear her dyiug wail ; 

Ye must not see her die ! 

Bnt, hark ! from out the stillness rise 
Low-mnrnuired niytlis and prophecies, 
And chants that tremble to the skies — • 

Miserere Domine ! 
They, trembling, lose themselves in rest. 
Soothing the anguish of her breast — 

Miserere Domine ! 



882 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



llobcvt Puijicr Joiice. 

A native of Glcnoslicen, Limerick Count}-, Ireland, 
Joyce was born in 1837. He was educated eliietly in 
Dublin, and, entering Queen's University, became first 
scholar in matlieraatics. He \^oi his degree of doctor in 
medicine in 1863, and of master in surgery in 1865. Re- 
moving to Boston, U. S. A., in 1866, he established him- 
self there as a physician. He published, in 1868, "Le- 
gends of the Wars in Ireland;" in 1871, "Irish Fireside 
Tales;" in 1873, "Ballads of Irish Cliivalry, Songs, and 
Poems;" in 1876, "Deirdre," a charming specimen of 
narrative verse ; in 1879, "Blanid," another poetical suc- 
cess, showing remarkable fiicility in the use of poetical 
diction. Notwithstanding his fruitful literary labors, 
accomplished mostly in moments of relaxation and lei- 
sure, Dr. Joyce has attained high success in his profession. 



FAIR GWENDOLINE KSD HER DOVE. 
I. 

"Come hither, come hither, thou snowy dove, 

Spread out thy white wings fast and free; 
And fly over moorland, and hill, aud grove, 

Till thou reach the castle of gay Tralee. 
Sir Gerald bides iu the northern tower, 

While heather is purple aud leaves are green ; 
Go, bid him come to tliy lady's bower, 

For the love of his own dear Gwendoline! 



"Come hither, come hither, thou lily-white dove, 

Spread out thy white wings fast and free; 
When tlion'st given Sir Gerald my troth and love, 

In the nortliern turret of gay Tralee — 
Then speed tliy flight to Duukerron gate, 

While heather is purple and leaves are green ; 
And tell its lord of thy lady's hate, 

That he'll ne'er look more on young Gwendoline." 



Away, away went the faithle.ss dove. 

Away over castle aud mount and tree. 
Till he lighted Dnnkerrou's gate above. 

Not the northern turret of gay Tralee : 
" Sir Donald, my lady hath lauds and power. 

While heather is purple auti leaves are green. 
And she bids thee come to her far-off bower 

For the love of thine own dear Gwendoline !" 



Away, away went the false, false dove. 
Nor rested by castle, or mount, or tree, 

Till ho lighted a corbeil stone above. 
On the northern turret of gay Tralee: 



" Sir Gerald, my lady hates thee sore. 

While heather is purple aud leaves are green, 

Wliilo the streams dance dowu the hills; no more 
Shalt thou look on the face of fair Gwendoline!" 



" Thou liest, thou liest, O faithless dove ! 

I'll take my good steed speedily, 
And hie to the bower of my lady-love. 

And ask at its door if she's false to me ; 
I'll ne'er believe but her heart is true. 

While heather is purple and leaves are green !" 
And never a hridle-rein he drew- 

Till he rode to the bower of his Gwendoline. 



Dnnkerrou's lord came by the gate — 

A stout and a deadly foe was he — 
Aud with lance in rest aud with frown of hate 

lie rode at Sir Gerald of fair Tralee. 
Sir Gerald bent o'er his saddle-bow. 

While heather is x^urple aud leaves are green. 
Struck his lance through the heart of his bravest foe, 

For the love of his own dear Gweudoline. 



" Fair Gwendoline, 'twas a faithless dove. 

Yet I knew thou wert ever true to me ; 
'Twas his words were lies, and thy troth to prove 

I rode o'er the niouutaius from fair Tralee !" 
He's clasped his arms round that lady gaj-. 

While heather is purple aud leaves are greeu. 
And the summer-tide saw their wedding-day — 

That trusting knight and fair Gwendoliue. 



THE BANKS OF ANNER. 

In purple robes old Sliavnamou 

Towers monarch of the mountains. 
The first to catch the smiles of dawn. 

With all his woods and fountains ; — 
His streams dance down by tower and town. 

Hut none since Time began her. 
Met mortal sight so pure aud bright 

As wiudiug, wandering Anuer. 

In hill-side's gleam or woodland's gloom. 

O'er fairy height and hollow, 
Upon her banks gay flowerets bloom, 

Where'er her course I follow. 
Aiul halls of pride tower o'er her tide, 

And gleaming bridges span her, 



BOBERT DWYElt JOTCE.—FITZ-HUGH LVDLOW. 



t^So 



As, langliiiig gay, slie winds away, 
The gentle, uuiimiuiiig Auuer. 

There galhmt meu, for freedom born, 

AVith friendly grasp will meet you ; 
There lovely maids, as bright as morn, 

With sunny smiles will greet you ; 
And there they strove to raise, above 

The Red, Green Ireland's banner, — 
There yet its fold they'll see xiurollcd 

Upon the banks of Anner. 

'Tis there we'll stand, with bosoms jiroud. 

True soldiers of our sire-land. 
When freedom's wind blows strong and loiul. 

And floats the flag of Ireland. 
Let tyrants quake, and doubly shake 

Each traitor and trepanuer. 
When once we raise our camp-fire's blaze 

Upon the banks of Auner. 

O God ! be with the good old days. 

The days so light and airy. 
When to blithe frieuds I saug my lays 

In gallant, gay Tipperary ; 
When fair maids' sighs and witching eyes 

Made my young heart the planner 
Of castles rare, built in the air, 

Upon the banks of Auuer! 

The morning snn may fail to show 

His light the earth illnmiug ; 
Old Sliavnamou to blush aud glow 

lu autumn's j)urple blooming; 
And shamrock's greeu no more be seen, 

And breezes cease to fan her, 
Ere I forget the friends I met 

Upon the banks of Anner! 



GLENARA. 

Oh, fair shines the sun on Glenara, 
And calm rest his beams on Glenara ; 

But, oh, there's a light 

Far dearer, more bright, 
Illumines my soul iu Glenara, 
The light of thine eyes in Glenara. 

Aud sweet sings the stream of Gleuara, 
Glancing down through the woods like an arrow ; 

But a sound far more sweet 

Glads my heart when we meet 



In the green summer woods of Gleuara, — 
Thy voice by the wave oi Cilcnara. 

And oh, ever thus in Gleu.ara, 

Till we sleep iu our graves by Glenara, 

May thy voice sound as free 

And as kindly to me, 
And thine eyes beam as fond iu Glenara, 
Iu the greeu summer woods of Glenara. 



Jit^.tjugl) £ui)loai. 



Liullow (1837-1870) was a native of Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 
He wrote articles in prose and verse for the magazines, 
in which he showed flue natural abilities, if not original 
genius. Unfortunately, he was addicted to the use of 
opiates. He wrote a remarkable work, entitled "The 
Hasheesh Eater," portraying vividly the pleasures and 
pains attending the use of that drug. In his "Heart of 
the Continent" he gives a graphic description of a jour-, 
ney across the great Western plains. His short stories 
arc among the best of their kind. 



TOO LATE. 

"All! si la jenuesse savait— si l.-i vieillesse pouvait!'' 

There sat au old man on a rock, 

Aud unceasing bewailed him of Fate, — 
That concern where we all must take stock, 

Tliough our vote has no hearing or weight ; 
Aud the old man sang him an old, ohl song, — 
Never saug voice so clear and stioug 
That it could drown the old man's long. 
For he saug the song, "Too late! too late!" 

"When we waut, wo have for our pains 

The promise that if we but wait 
Till the want has burnt out of our braius. 

Every means shall be preseut to sate ; 
While we send for the napkin, the soup gets cold. 
While the bonnet is trimming, the face grows old, 
When we've matched our buttons, the pattern is sold, 

Aud everything comes too late — too late! 

"When strawberries seemed liLe red heavens, 

Terrapin stew a wild dream. 
When my brain was at sixes aud sevens. 

If my mother had ' folks ' aud ice-cream, 
Then I gazed with a lickerish hunger 
At the restaurant man and fruit-monger : — 
But oh, how I wished I were youuger [stream ! 

Wheu the goodies all came in a stream — in a 



8^4 



CrCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



"I've a splendid blood-liorse, and — a liver 

That it jars into torture to trot ; 
My row-boat's the gem of the river, — 

Gont inalios every knuckle a knot ! 
I can buy boundless credits on Paris and Kome, 
But no palate for menus, no eyes for a dome — 
Tliose belonged to the youth who must tarry at home, 

AVlieu no Iiome but an attic he'd got — he'd got. 

"How I longed, in that lonest of garrets, 

Where the tiles baked my brains all July, 
For ground to sow two pecks >of carrots, 

Two pigs of my own iu a sty, 
A rose-bush — a little thatched cottage — 
Two spoons — love — a basin of pottage ! — 
Now iu freestone I sit — and my dotage — 

With a woman's chair empty close by — close by ! 

"Ah! now, though I sit on a rock, 

I have shared one seat with the great; 
I have sat — knowing naught of the clock — 

On love's high throne of state ; 

But the lips Ihat kissed, and the arms that caressed, 

To a mouth grown stern with delay were pressed. 

And circled a breast that their clasp had blessed 

Had they only not come too late — too late !" 



^vtljur illunlnj. 



Munby, a native of England, was born about the year 
1837. He published in 1805 a volume of poems entitled 
"Verses, Old and New." His "Doris : a Pastoral," is re- 
markable for the melodious flow of the versification and 
tlie ingenious arrangement of the rliymes : the third line 
of the first stanzii beiuK rhythmically related to the third 
line of the next, etc. He lias been a contributor to some 
of the best London ni.ngnzincs, and has shown in his pro- 
ductions that he is a literary artist as well as a poet. 



AUTUMN. 

Come, then, witli all thy grave beatitudes, 
Tliou soother of the heart and of the brain. 

Autumn ! whose ample loveliness includes 
The pleasure and the pain 

Of all that is majestic iu despair 

Or beautiful iu failure. Hast thou failed ? 

The winds of heaven among thy branches bare 
Have wrestled and juevailcd. 

Yet, the fallen bough shall warm a winter hearth ; 
The lost leaves kiss each other as they fall ; 



The ripened fruits are garnered off the earth ; 
Thou hast not failed at all ! 

Nay — thou hast neither failure nor success : 
Thou wearest still thy lustrous languid wreath 

With such sweet temper, that its hues express 
No thought to thee of death. 

Serene iu loss, iu glory, too, serene, 

All things to thee seem most indififerent ; 

Thou ait as one who knows not what they meat]. 
Or knows and is content. 

So yon fair tree, pure crimson to the core, 
Burns like a sunset 'mid its company 

Of g(dden limes; and cares for death no more 
Than if it could not die. 



DORIS: A PASTORAL. 

I sat with Doris, the shepherd-maiden ; 

Her crook was laden with wreathdd flowers : 
I sat and wooed her, through sunlight wheeling 

And shadows stealing, for hours and hours. 

And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses 
Wild sunnner-roses of sweet iierfume. 

The while I sued her, kept hushed, and hearkened. 
Till shades had darkened from gloss to gloom. 

She touched my shoulder with fearful finger: 
She said, " We linger, we must not stay ; 

My flock's in danger, my sheep will ■\vamler ; 
Behold them yonder, how far they stray !" 

I answered bolder, "Nay, let me hear you. 
And still be near you, and still adore ! 

No wolf nor stranger will touch one yearling. 
Ah! stay, my darling, a moment nuu-e !" 

She whispered, sighing, "There will be sorrow 
Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day ; 

My f(dd unguarded, my flock unfolded, 
I shall be scolded and sent aw.ny." 

Said I, denying, "If they do miss yon, 

They ought to kiss you when you get home : 

And well rewarded by friend and neighbor 
Sliould be the la1)or from which you come." 

"Tlioy might remember," she answered, meekly. 
"That lambs are weakly, aud sheep are wild: 



AnTRVE 21UXBT.— ABRAHAM PERRY MILLER. 



885 



But if tliey love me, it's iioue so fervent : 
I am a servaut, aud uot a child." 

Tlien each hot ember glowed quick witliiu me, 
And love did win me to swift reply : 

" Ah ! do hut prove me ; and none shall bind you, 
Nor fray nor find yon, until I die!" 

She blushed and started : I stood awaiting. 

As if debating in dreams divine; 
But I did brave tliem ; I told her plainly 

She doubted vainly, — she must be mine. 

So we, twin-hearted, from all the valley 
Did rouse and rally her nibbling ewe.s ; 

And homeward drave them, wo two together. 
Through blooming heather and gleaming dews. 

That simple duty fresh grace did lend her, 

My Doris tender, my Doris true ; 
That I, her warder, did always bless her. 

And often press her to take her due. 

And now in beauty she fills my dwelling. 
With love excelling, and undefiled; 

And lovo doth guard her, both fast and fervent. 
No more a servant, nor yet a child. 



vlbraijam ^Jcrnj illillcr. 



A native of Fairfield County, Oliio, lliller was born 
Oct. 1.5th, 1837. Educated at the University of Virijinia, 
he chose the occupation of a journalist ; and in 1880 was 
a resident of Worthlngton, Minn., where he edited The 
Advance, the comity newspaper. One of his poems, ex- 
tending to five hundred lines, entitled "Consolation, a 
Poetic Epistle to a Young Poet," though in the old he- 
roic measure, wliieli modern poets seem to avoid, is rich 
in passages indicating true poetic feeling and power of 
expression. 



Rocks, icebergs, mountains, capped with luminous 

snow. 
And hundred-towered cities, moving slow ! 
And then, with banners round the West unfurled, 
Tlie great red Sun went down behind the worUl. 



A SUMMER AFTERNOON. 

From "Consolation." 

All through the afternoon the dreamy day 
Swam listless o'er the earth, aud far away 
The lazy clouds went loitering round the sky. 
Or sat far up and dozed on mouut.iius high ; 
The green trees drooped, the pauting cattle lay 
In the warm shade and fought the flies away. 
Along the -world's far rim and down the sky. 
Cloud-panoramas loomed aud glided by ; 



THE DIVINE REFUGE. 

FR03I "Consolation," 

loving God of Nature! who through all 
Hast never yet betrayed me to a fall, — 
While, following creeds of men, I weut astray, 
And in distressiug mazes lost my way; 

But turning back to Thee, I found Thee true. 
And sweet as woman's love, and fresh as dew, — • 
Henceforth on Thee, and Thee alone, I rest, 
Nor warring sects shall tear me from Thy breast. 
While others doubt and wrangle o'er their creeds, 

1 rest in Thee, and satisfy my needs. 



TURN TO THE HELPER. 

Froji "Consolation."* 

As when a little child, returned from Jilay, 
Finds the door closed and latched across its way, 
Against the door, with infant push and strain. 
It gathers all its strength and strives iu vain ; — 
Unseen, within a loving father stands 
And lifts the iron latch with easy hands; 
Then, as he lightly draws the door aside. 
He hides behiud it, while, with baby pride, — 
And face aglow, iu struts the little one. 
Flushed aud rejoiced to think what it has done, — 
So, when men find, across life's rugged way, 
Strong doors of trouble barred from day to day, 
Aud strive with all their power of knees and hands, — 
Unseen within their heavenly Father stands 
And lifts each iron latch, while men pass through. 
Flushed aud rejoiced to think what they cau do ! 

Turn to the Helper, unto whom thou art 
More near aud dear than to thy mother's heart, — 
Who is more near to thee than is the blood 
That warms thy bosom with its purple flood — 
Wlio by a word cau change the mental state, 
And make a burden light, however great ! 

O loving Power! that, dwelling deep within, 
Con.soIes our spirits in their woe and sin : — 
When days were dark and all the world went wrong. 
Nor anj' heart was left for prayer or song — 



886 



CY'CLOrxEDIA OF BIUTISU AXD AilERICJX POETRY. 



When bitter memory, o'er aud o'er agaiu, 
Revolvetl the -wrongs eudured from fellow-men ; 
Aucl showed how hopes decayed and bore no frnit, 
•And He who placed ns here was deaf and ninte : — 
If then we turned on God in angry wise, 
And scanned His dealings with reproachful eyes, 
Questioned His goodness, aud, in foolish wrath, 
Called Hope a lie and ridiculed our Faith, — 
Did we not find, in such an evil hour, 
Tliat far within us dwelt this Loving Power ? 
No wrathful God without to smite us down. 
Or turn his face away with angry frown ; 
But in the bitter heart a smile began. 
Grew, all at once, within and upward ran, 
Broke out upon the face — and, for awhile, 
Despite all bitterness, we had to smile! 
Because God's spirit that within ns lay. 
Simply rose up aud smiled our wi-ath away I 
This love endures tlirongh all things, without end, 
And every soul has one Ahnightj' Friend, 
Whose angels watch and t(^nd it from its birth. 
And heaven becomes the servant of the earth ! 
AVhate'er befall, our spirits live and move 
In one vast ocean of Eternal Love ! 



THE DISAPFOINTED LOVEK. 

Fnosi ''Consolation." 

How many men have passed the flames to prove 
That there are better things than woman's love I 
And yet when Lpve is scorned and made our grief. 
Where shall we tly for comfort and relief? 
Now that thine own is spurned and undertrod. 
Fly thou to Nature, Poetry, and God ; — 
Nay, fly to Love itself, and Love shall be 
Its own strong healer, aud sliall set thee free. 



Cljavlcs Dimitvn. 



Dimitry, a sou of Professor Alexander DImitry, was 
born iu Wasliiugton, D. C, in 1838. A graduate of 
Georgetown Collet;e, he has been connected witli the 
periodical press, both in New York and at the Soutli, 
and lias published tlic following novels: "Guilty or Not 
Guilty" (18&4); "Angela's Cln-istmas" (180.5); "TheAl- 
derly Tragedy" (1866); "The House in Balfour Street" 
(1SG9). His "Viva Italia" is well adapted to dramatic 
etfect iu the recitation. 



KEEP F-AITH IN LOVE. 

From "Consolation.*' 

Keep faith in Love, the cure of every curse — 
The strange, sweet wonder of the universe! 
God loves a Lover, and while time sliall roll, 
This wonder, Love, shall save the human Soul ! 
Love is the heart's condition : youth aud age, 
Alike are subject to the tender rage ; 
Age crowns the head witli venerable snow. 
But Life and Love forever mated go; 
Along life's far frontier the agiSd move. 
One foot beyoud, and uothing left hut Love! 
And when the Soul its mortal part resigns. 
The perfect world of Lovo around it shiues ! 



VIVA ITALIA. 

ON THE AUSiniAN DEIWUTURE FROM ITALY. 

Haste ! open the lattice, Giulia, 

Aud wheel nie my chair where the sun 
May fall on my face while I welcome 

The sound of the life-giving gun ! 
The Austrian leaves with the morning, 
Aud Venice hath freedom to-day — 
"Viva! Evivva Italia! 
Viva il Re !" 

Would God that I only were younger, 

To stand with the rest on the street, 
To fling up my caji ou the mola. 

And the tricolor banner to greet ! 
The goudolas, girl — they are passing ! 
And what do the gondoliers say ? — 
"Viva! Evivva Italia! 
Viva il Re !" 

Oh cursed be these years and this weakness 

That shackle me here in my chair, 
When the people's loud clamor is rending 

The ehiiius that once made their despair! 
So young wheu the Corsicau sold us ! 
So old when the Furies repay ! 
"Viva! Evviva Italia! 
Viva il Ke I" 

Not these were the cries when our fatliers 

The gonfalon gave to the breeze, 
Wheu Doges sate solemn iu council. 

And Dandolo harried the seas! 
But the years of the future are ours. 
To humble the pride of the gray — 
'•Viva! Evivva Italia! 
Viva il Ke !" 

Bring, girl, from the dust of yon clo.set 
The sword that your aucestor bore 



CHARLES DIMITRY.— EMILY JR. PAGE. 



837 



When Genoa's prowess was humbled, 

Her gallej-s beat back from our sbore ! 
O j;reat Coutareno ! your ashes 
To Freedom are given to-day ! 
"Viva! Evivva Italia! 
Viva il Re !" 

What! tears in your eyes, my Giulia? 

Yoa weep -nhea yonr couutry is free? 
You mourn for your Austrian lover. 

Whose face never more you shall see ? 
Kneel, girl, kneel beside me and whisper, 
While to Heaven for vengeance you pray, 
"Viva! Evivva Italia! 
Viva il Re !" 

Sliiime, shame on the -weakness that held you, 

And shame on the heart that was won ! 
Xo blood of the gonfalouiere 

Shall mingle -with blood of the Ilun ! 
Swear hate to the name of the spoiler, 
Swear lealty to Venice, and say, 
"Viva! Evivva Italia! 
Viva il Re!" 

Hark ! heard you the gun from the mola ! 

And hear you the welcoming cheer! 
Our army is coming, Giulia, 

The friends of our Venice are near! 
Ring out from your old Campanile, 
Freed bells from San Marco, to-day, 
"Viva! Evivva Italia! 
Viva il Re !" 



(Jrmilj) U. iJagc. 

AMERICAN. 
Miss Page (183S-1S60) was a native of Bradford, Vt. 
She was a toll -gatherer's daughter, and her poem of 
" The Old Canoe," written when she was eighteen years 
of aae, is a pen-picture of an actual scene near the old 
bridge just back of her home. She wrote some fugitive 
pieces for M. M. Ballou's Boston publications, but died 
young. " The Old Canoe " was extensively copied, and 
at one time credited to Eliza Cook. The image of the 
"useless paddles" crossed over the railing "like the 
folded hands when the work is done," is a true stroke 
of genius. 

THE OLD CANOE. 

Where the rocks are gray, and the shore is steep. 
And the waters below look dark and deep, 
Where the rugged pine, in its lonely pride. 
Leans gloomily over the murky tide ; 



Where the reeds and rushes are long and rank. 
And the -weeds grow thick on the winding bank ; 
Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through, 
Lies at its moorings the old canoe. 

The useless paddles are idly dropped, 

Like a sea-bird's wing that the storm has lopped, 

And cro.ssed ou the railing, one o'er one, 

Like the folded hands -when the -work is done ; 

While busily back and forth between 

The spider stretches his silvery screen, 

And the solemn owl, with his dull " too-hoo," 

Settles down on the side of the old canoe. 

The stern half sunk in the slimy -n-ave, 

Rots slowly away in its living grave. 

And the green moss creeps o'er its dull decay. 

Hiding the mouldering dust away, 

Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower, 

Or the ivy that mantles the falling tower; 

While many a blossom of loveliest hue 

Springs up o'er the stem of the old canoe. 

The currentless waters are dead .and still — 

But the light wind plays with the boat at -will, 

And lazily in and out again 

It floats the length of its rusty chain. 

Like the weary march of the hands of time, 

That meet and part at the noontide chime. 

And the shore is kissed at each turn anew 

By the dripping bow of the old canoe. 

Oh, many a time, with a careless hand, 
I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand. 
And paddled itdo-wu where the stream runs quick — 
Where the -ivhirls are wild and the eddies are 

thick— 
And laughed as I leaned o'er the rocking side, 
And looked below in the broken tide, 
To see that the faces and boats were two 
That were mirrored back from the old canoe. 

But now, as I lean o'er the cnirahling side. 

And look below in the sluggish tide, 

The face that I see there is graver grown, 

And the laugh that I hear has a soberer tone. 

And the hands that lent to the light skiff wings 

Have grown familiar with sterner things. 

But I love to think of the hours that flew 

As I rooked where the whirls their white spray 

threw, 
Ere the blossom waved, or the green grass grew. 
O'er the mouldering stern of the old canoe. 



888 



CYCLOl'JEDIA OF BRITISH AXV JMEItlCAX I'OETRT. 



:^bba (PooIli lHoolson. 



^Irs. Woolson, a native ofWindham, Ale., wao born in 
lijSS, and educated at tlie Poi-tland High Seliool. Slie 
is the wife of Mr. M. 'tt'oolsoa, a teacher in the English 
High School, Boston. Her " Carpe Diem " is one of the 
few realistic love-poems as true to nature iu the senti- 
ment as to art in the construction. 



CARrE DIEM. 

Ab, Jennie tlear, 'tis half a jear 

Since we sang late and long, my love ; 
As home o'er tlusky tieltLs we came, 
While Venus lit lier temler flame 
In silent plains above. 

I scarcely knew if rain or dew 

Had made tbe grass so fresb and sweet ; 
I only felt tbe misty gloom 
Was fdled with scent of bidden bloom 

That bent beneath our feet. 

In songs we tried onr hearts to hide, 
And each to crnsh a voiceless i)ain ; 
With bitter force my love returned, 
But dared not hope that pa,ssion burned 
Where once it met disdain. 

Thus singing still we reached the bill, 
And on it faced a breeze of June ; 

White rolled tlie mist along the lea ; 

But eastward flashed a throbbing sea 
Beneath the rising moou. 

Yonv lips apart, as if your heart 

Had something it would say to mine, 
I saw you with your di'eaniy glance 
Far sent, in some delicious trance, 
Beyond the silver shine. 

The hour supreme, that in my dream 

Should bring me bliss for aye, was come 
But though my heart was tit to break, 
The scornful words tliat once you spake 
Smote all its pleadings dumb. 

No note or word the silence stirred. 

As we resumed onr homeward tread ; 
Below we heard the cattle browse, 
And wakeful birds within the boughs 
Move softly overhead. 



The hour was late when at the gate 
We lingered ere we spake adieu ; 

Yonr white hand plucked from near the door 

A lily's queenly cuii, and tore 
Each waxen leaf in two. 

My hope grew bold, and I bad told 
Anew my love, my fate had known; 

But then a quick Good-night I heard, t 

A sudden whirring like a bird, 
And there I stood alone. 

Thus love-bereft my heart was left, 

At swinging of that cruel door ; 
So shut the gates of Paradise 
On timid fools who dare not twice 
Ask bliss denied before. 

Yes, Jennie, dear, 'tis half a year, 

But all my doubts, my tears are flown ; 
For did I not on yesternight 
Read once again your love aright, 
And dare proclaim my own f 



Daoib (5i-aj). 

In 1SC2 appeared a small volume, " The Luggie, and 
other Poems," by David Gray (1S38-1SG1), son of a hand- 
loom weaver at Merkland, Scotland. The Lnggie is a 
mere unpretending rivulet, flowing into one of the tril)- 
utaries of the Clyde; but Gray was horn on its banks, 
and loved its every aspect. He died early of eousump- 
tiou. James Hedderwick, Lord Houghton, and Robert 
Buchanan have written tributes to his memory. In the 
near view of death lie continued to find his solace in 
giving expression to his ijoctic fancies. 



WINTRY WEATHER. 

O Winter, wilt then uever, never go? 

O Summer, but I weary for thy coming. 

Longing once more to hear the Lnggie flow, 

And frugal bees, laboriously humming. 

Now the east wind diseases the iutirm. 

And I must crouch in corners from rough weather; 

Sometimes a winter sunset is a charm — 

When the fired clouds, compacted, blaze together, 

And the large sun dips red behind the bills. 

I, from my window, can behold this pleasure ; 

And the eternal moon, what time she tills 

Her orb w itii argent, treading a soft measure, 

With queenly motions of a bridal mood, 

Through the white spaces of iuiiuitude. 



DAVID GRAY.— MART CLEMMER. 



889 



DIE DOWN, O DISMAL DAY. 

Die ilowu, O dismal day, and let me live ; 
And come, bine deeps, magnirieeutly strewn 
With colored clonds — large, ligbt, and fngitive — 
By upper winds tlirongli pompous motions blown. 
Now it is death in life — a vapor dense 
Creeps round my window, till I cannot see 
The far snow-shining mountains, and the glens 
Shagging the mountain-tops. O God! make free 
This barren, shackled earth, so deadly cold — 
Breathe gently forth thy Spring, till Winter flies 
In rude amazement, fearful and yet bold, 
While she performs her customed charities. 
I weigh the loaded hours till life is bare — 
God, for one clear day, a snowdrop, and sweet air ! 



IF IT MUST BE. 

If it must be — if it must be, O God ! 

That I die young, and make no further moans ; 

That, underneath the unresiicctive sod, 

In unescutoheoned privacy, my bones 

Shall crumble soon; — then give me strength to bear 

The last convulsive throe of too sweet breath ! 

I tremble from the edge of life, to dare 

The dark and fatal leap, having no faith. 

No glorious yearning for the Aiiocalypse ; 

But like a child that in the night-time cries 

For light, I cry ; forgetting the eclipse 

Of knowledge and our human destinies. — 

O peevish and uncertain Soul ! obej' 

The law of life in patience till the Day. 



AN OCTOBER MUSING. 

Ere the last stack is housed, and woods are bare 

And the vermilion fruitage of the brier 

Is soaked in mist, or shrivelled up with frost, — 

Ere warm spring uests are coldly to be seen 

Teuantless but for rain and the cold snow, 

While yet there is a loveliness abroad — 

The frail and indescribable loveliness 

Of a fair form, life with reluctance leaves. 

Being then only powerful, — while the earth 

Wears sackcloth in her great prophetic grief: — 

Tlieu the reflective, melancholy soul 

Aimlessly -wandering with slow-falling feet 

The heathery solitude, in hope to assuage 

The cunning humor of his malady. 

Loses his painful bitterness, and feels 

His own si)ecitic sorrows one by one 

Taken up in the huge dolor of all things,— 



Oil, the sweet melancholy of the time. 

When gently, ere the heart appeals, the year 

Sliines in the fatal beauty of decay ! 

When the sun sinlcs enlarged on Carroubeu, 

Nakedly visible, without a cloud, 

And faintly from the faint eternal blue 

(Tliat dim sweet harebell color!) comes the star 

Which evening wears, when Luggie flows in mist, 

And in the cottage windows one by one. 

With sudden twinkle, household lamps are lit — 

Wluit noiseless falling of the faded leaf! 



llltxrj) (UlcinnuT, 

AMERICAN. 

Mary Clemmer, tlie daughter of Abi'am Clemmer, was 
born in Utica, N. Y., and educated at tlie Academy in 
Westtiekl, Mass. Her ancestors on both sides for cen- 
turies were "unworldly, bookish, deeply religious per- 
sons ;" and she seems to have inherited their best traits. 
She began her literary career as a newspaper correspond- 
ent, and became one of the most accomplished of tlie 
Washington letter-writers. She is the author of "Ten 
Years in Washington" (1872); "A Memorial of Alice 
and Phebe Gary ;" and " His Two Wives," a novel. Her 
style is at once facile, fluent, and brilliant. Her emo- 
tional nature is plainly tluxt of the born poet. She lias 
contributed largely to the Imlcpciident and other well- 
known journals. 



WAITING. 
I wait. 

Till from my veil<5,d brows shall fall 

This baftliug cloud, this wearying thrall. 

Which holds me now from knowing all ; 

Until my sjiirit sight shall see 

Into all Being's mystery. 

See what it really is to be ! 

I wait. 

While robbing days in mockery fling 

Such cruel loss athwart my spring, 

And life flags on with broken wing ; 

Believing that a kindlier fate 

The patient soul will compensate 

For all it loses, ere too late. 

I wait! 

For surely every scanty seed 

I plant in weakness and in need 

Will blossom in perfected deed ! 

Mine eyes shall see its affluent crown, 

Its fragrant fruitage, dropping down 

Care's lowly levels bare and brown ! 



890 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



I ^Tait, 

Till in white Death's trauquillity 
Shall softly fall away from uie 
This weary flesh's lufirmity, 
That I in larger light may learn 
The larger truth I would iliscern, 
The larger love for which I yearn. 

I wait! 

The summer of the soul is long, 

Its harvests yet shall round me throng 

In perfect pomp of snu and song. 

In stormless mornings yet to be 

I'll pluck from life's fnll-fruited tree 

The joy to-day denied to me. 



A PERFECT DAY. 

Go, glorious day ! 

Here while you pass I make this sign ; 

Earth swiuging ou her sileut way 

Will bear me back unto this hour divine, 
And I will softly say: "Once thou wert mine. 

"Wert mine, O perfect day! 

The light unknown soaring from sea and shore, 

The forest's eager blaze. 

The flaming torches that the autumn bore, 
The fusing suuset seas, when storms were o'er. 

"Were mine the brooding airs, 

The pulsing music of the weedy brooks, 

The jewelled iishes and the mossy lairs, 

Wherein shy creatures, with their free, bright 

looks. 
Taught blessiSd lessons never found iu books. 

"All mine the peace of God, 

When it was joy enough to breathe aud be, 

The peace of Nature oozing from her sod. 

When face to face with her the soul was free, 
Aud far the false, wild strife it fain would flee." 

Stay, beauteous day! 

Yet why luay I J Thy lot, like mine, to fade; 
Thy light, like yonder monntaiu's golden haze. 

Must merge into the morrow's misty shade. 
And I, an exile lu the alien street, 
Still gazing back, yearn toward the vision fleet. 

"Once thou wert mine!" I'll say, 

Aud comfort so my heart as with old wine. 



Poor pilgrims! oft we walk the self-same way, 
To weep its change, to kneel before the shrine 

The heart once builded to a happy day, 

W^hen dear it died. I'll say : " O day divine, 
Life presses sore ; but once, once thou wert mine." 



NANTASKET. 

Fair is thy face, Nantasket, 

And fair thy curving shores, — 
The peering spires of villages. 

The boatmau's dipping oars ; — 
The lonely ledge of Miuot, 

Where the watchman tends his light, 
And sets its perilous beacon 

A star in the stormiest night. 

Along thy vast sea highways 

The great ships slide from sight, 
And flocks of wiugdd phantoms 

Flit by like birds in flight. 
Over the toijpling sea-wall 

The home-bound dories float; — 
I see the patient fisherman 

Bend in his anchored boat. 

I am alone with nature. 

With the rare September day; 
The lifting hills above me 

With golden-rod are gay. 
Across the fields of ether 

Flit butterflies at play ; 
And cones of garnet sumach 

Glow down the country way. 

The autumn dandelion 

Beside the roadside burns ; 
Above the lich«ued bowlders 

Quiver the plninf>d ferns : 
The cream-white silk of the milk-weed 

Floats from its sea-green pod ; 
From out the mossy rock-seams 

Flashes the golden-rod. 

The woodbine's scarlet b.anners 

Flaunt from their towers of stone ; 
The wan, wild morning-glory 

Dies by the road alone : 
By the hill-path to the sea-side 

Wave myriad azure bells ; 
Over the grassy vam parts 

Bend milky immortelles. 



MJET CLEMMER. 



891 



Within the sea-waslieil meadow 

The wild grapo climbs the wall ; 
From oft' the o'cr-ripo chestnuts 

The browu burrs softly fall ; — 
I hear iu the woods of Hingham 

The mellow caw of the crow, 
Till I seem iu the woods of Wachuset 

Iu August's sumptuous glow. 

The lingering marguerites Icau 

Along the way-side bars ; 
The taugled green of the thicket 

Glows with the asters' stars ; 
Beside the brook the geutiau 

Closes its fringed eyes, 
And waits the enticing glorj- 

Of October's yellow skies. 

T'.ie tiny boom of the beetle 

Smites the shining rocks below; 
The gauzy oar of the dragou-fly 

Is beating to and fro. 
The lovely ghost of the thistle 

Goes sailing softly by : 
Glad iu its second summer 

Hums the awakened fly. 

I see the tall reeds shiver 

Beside the salt-sea marge ; 
I see the sea-bird glimmer 

Far out on airy barge. 
The cumulate cry of the cricket 

Pierces the amber uoou ; 
Over and through it Ocean 

Chants his pervasive rune. 

F.air is the earth behind me, 

Vast is the sea before ; 
Afar in the misty mirage 

Glistens another sbore : 
Is it a realm euchauted? 

It cannot be more fair 
Thau this nook of Nature's kingdom 

With its spell of sjjace and air. 

Lo ! Over the sapphire ocean 

Trembles a bridge of flame — 
To the burning core of the sunset — 

To the city too fair to name, 
Till a ray of its inner glory 

Streams to this lower sea, 
And we see ivith human vision 

What Heaven itself may be. 



ALONE WITH GOD. 

Alone with God ! day's craven cares 

Have crowded onward unawares ; 

The soul is left to breathe her prayers. 

Alono ■with God ! I bare my breast. 
Come in, come in, O holy guest. 
Give rest, thy rest, of rest the best ! 

Alouc with God! how deep a calm 
Steals o'er me, sweet as music's balm, 
When seraphs sing a seraph's psalm. 

Alone with God ! no human eye 
Is here, with eager look to pry 
Into the meaning of each sigh. 

Alone with God ! no jealous glare 

Now stings me with its torturing stare; 

No human malice says beware! 

Alono with God ! from earth's rude crowd, 
With jostling steps and laughter loud. 
My better soul I need not shroud. 

Alone with God ! He only knows 

If sorrow's ocean overflows 

The silent spring from whence it rose. 

Alone with God! Ho mercy lends; 
Life's fainting hope, life's meagre ends, 
Life's dwarfing pain he comprehends. 

Alone with God ! Ho feeleth well 

The soul's iient life that will o'erswell ; 

The life-long want no words may tell ; 

Alone with God ! still nearer bend ; 

Oh, tender Father, condescend 

Iu this my need, to be my friend. 

Alone with God! with suppliant mien 
Upon thy pitying bieast I lean. 
No less because thou art unseen. 

Alone with God ! safe in thy arms 
Oh shield me from life's wild alarms, 
Oh save me from life's fearful harms. 

Alone with God! Oh sweet to me 
This cover to whose shades I flee, 
To breathe repose in thee — in thee. 



8>2 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISS AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



iUrs. CJinnm Qluttlc. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs. Tiittle, whose maiden name was Reed, was bora 
ill Braceville, Tnuiibiill County, 0., in 1839. Well edu- 
cated at a Methodist seminary, she early developed a 
taste for literature, and published two volumes of poems. 
She is the author of several popular soni;s, whieh have 
been set to music by James G. Clark and other well- 
known composers. As an elocutionist and public read- 
er, she has won a high reputation at the West. She is 
the wife of Hudson Tuttle (born 1836), who to the pur- 
suits of a farmer, resident at his ancestral home, Berlin 
Heif;hts, Ohio, unites the studies of a philosopher. He 
is the author of several works, parti}' intuitional, and 
partly scieutifie, some of whieh have been republished 
in England and Germany, and have had a wide circula- 
tion in America. Mrs. Tuttle's little poem, "The First 
Fledgling," is not one of her best or most elaborate po- 
ems, but it will carry its delicate pathos to many a true 
mother's heart. 



THE FIRST FLEDGLING. 

It seems so lonely in tlie nest, 

Since one dear bird is flowu, 
To fa.shion, with its cbo.seu mate, 

A home-nest of its own. 
We miss tlio twitter and tlie stir, 

The eager stretching wings, 
The Hashing eyes, the ready song, 

And — oh, so many things ! 

We find it hard to understand 

The changes wrought by years ; 
How our own sprightly little girl 

A stately wife appears. 
It seems to us she still should bo 

Among her dolls and toy,s, 
Making the farm-liouse sound agaiu 

With " Little Tomboy's " noise. 

Wlieu berries ripen in the sun, 

Wo miss her fingers ligbt, 
Who used to heap them up for tea, 

Dusted with sugar white. 
They never more will taste as fresh 

As when she brought them in, 
Her face ablusli with rosiuess 

From sunny brow to chin. 

The autunui peaches always turned 
Their reddest cheek to her; 

She know the ferneries of the woods 
Aud where the wild-flowers were, 



And somehow since she left the nest, 

We miss her busy hand 
As gatherer aud garnisher. 

Whoever else has planned. 

If little Gold-locks asks of me, 

"When will my sister come? 
Will it be very, very long ?" 

I seem as one struck dumb. 
But when her brother bites his lip 

And turns to hide a te.ar, 
I answer, with a flashing smile, 

" Not long, I hope, my dear." 

She flutters back more bright witli joy 

Thau when she flew away. 
And we are happy — only this — 

She never more will stay. 
A bird of transit, tarrying 

Not long in the old nest, 
We scarce could bear it, save we know 

God's holy laws are best. 



iJaincG Uijbcr Uauiiall. 

AMERICAN. 

Randall is the author of one of the most spirited lyr- 
ics of the Civil War. It bears date Pointe Coupee.La., 
April tiOth, 1861. He is a native of Baltimore, born in 
ISSy, and was educated at the Catholic college in George- 
towu, D. C. He edited a newspaper in Louisiana, but at 
the close of the war settled in Georgia. Fortunately for 
the interests of human liberty throughout the world, 
"My Maryland" did not answer the poet's appeal; but 
the "Northern scum" can now join in hearty recogni- 
tion of the lyrical fervor he has displayed. 



-MARYLAND. 

The despot's heel is on thy shore, 

Maryland ! 
His torch is at thy temple door, 

Maryland ! 
Avenge tho patriotic gore 
That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 
And be tho battle-queen of yore, 

Maryland ! my Maryland ! 

Hark to thy wandering sou's appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My mother State ! to thee I kneel, 

Maryland ! 
For life aud death, for woo aud weal. 



JAMES RYDER RANDALL.— JOHN HAT. 



893 



Thy peerless cliivalry reveal, 
Aiul gird tliy beauteous liuibs willi steel, 
Maryland ! my Maryland ! 

Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy beaming sword sball never rust, 

Maryland ! 
Eemember Carroll's sacred trust ; 
Remember Howard's warlike thrust ; 
And all thy sliimberers with the just, 

Maryland ! my Maryland ! 

Come ! 'tis the red dawn of the day, 

Maryland ! 
Come ! with thy iiauoplied ari-ay, 

Maryland ! 
With Kinggold's spirit for the fray, 
With AVatson's blood at Monterey, 
With fearless Lnwe, and dashing May, 

Maryland ! my Maryland ! 

Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come ! for thy dalliance docs thee wrong, 

Maryland ! 
Come to thine own heroic throng, 
That stalks with Liberty along, 
And give a new key' to thy song, 

Maryland ! my Maryland ! 

Dear Mother ! burst the tyrant's chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia should not call in vain, 

Maryland ! 
She meets her sisters on the plain : 
"Sic semper " Ws the proud refrain. 
That baffles minions back amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise in majesty again, 

Maryland ! my Marj-land ! 

I see the blush upon thy cheek, 

Maryland ! 
But thon wast ever bravely meek, 

Maryland ! 
But lo ! there surges forth a shriek, 
From hill to hill, from creek to creek, 
Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 

Maryland ! my Maryland ! 



' A pnimin;^ allii.sion to *' The Star-spangled Banner," written 
by Key of Baltiniure. 



Thon wilt not yield tlie Vandal toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thon wilt not crook to his control, 

Slaryland ! 
Better the tire upon thee roll. 
Better the blade, the shot, the bowl, 
Thau crucifixion of the soul, 

Maryland! my Maryland! 

I hear the distant thunder hum, 

Maryland ! 
The old Line's bugle, tife, and drum, 

Maryland ! 
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb ; 
Huzza ! she spurns the Northern scum ! 
She breathes — she burns! — she'll come, she'll coine! 

Maryland! my Maryland! 



JJol) 



n f)aij. 

AMERICAN. 



Colonel John Hay, author of " Pike County Ballad?, 
and other Poems " (1871), also of " Castilian Days," was 
born in Salem, Indiana, in 1839. He received in 1879 the 
appointment of Under-Secretary of State, and became a 
resident of Washim;ton, D. C. Some of his humorous 
verses have been widely copied. 



A TRIUMPH OF ORDER. 

A squad of regular infantry, 

In the Commune's closing days, 
Had captured a crowd of rebels 

By the wall of Pere-la-chaise. 

Tliere were desperate men, wild women. 

And dark-eyed Amazon girls, 
And one little boy, with a peach-down cheek 

And yellow clustering curls. 

The captain seized the little waif. 
And said, " What dost thou here ?" 

" Sapristi, Citizen captain ! 
I'm a Communist, my dear!" 

"Very well! Then you die with the others!" 

"Very well! That's my atfair! 
But first let me take to my mother, 

Who lives by the wine-shop there, 

" My father's watch. You see it, 
A gay old thing, is it not ? 



894 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH ASD AMIiEICAX POETRY. 



It would please the old lady to Lave it, 
Tlieu I'll come back here, and be sbot." 

" That is the last we shall see of him," 

The grizzled captain griuued. 
As the little man skimmed down the hill, 

Like a swallow down the wind. 

For the joy of killing had lost its zest 

In the glut of those awful days, 
And Death writhed gorged like a greedy snake 

From the Arch to Pere-la-Chaise. 

But before the last platoon had tired, 
The child's shrill voice was heard ! 

"Iloup-la! the old girl made such a row, 
I feared I should break my word." 

Against the bullet-pitted wall 

He took his place with the rest, 
A button was lost from his ragged blouse. 

Which showed his soft, white breast. 

'• Now blaze away, ray children ! 

With your little cue — two — three!" 
The C'hassepots tore the stout young heart, 

And saved Society ! 



MY CASTLE IN SPAIN. 

There was never a castle seen 

So fair as mine in Spain : 
It stands embowered in greeu. 
Crowning the gentle slope 
Of a hill by tfte Xenil's shore. 
And at eve its shade flaunts o'er 

The storied Vega plain. 
And its towers are hid in the mists of Hope ; 

And I toil through years of pain 



In visions wild and sweet 
Sometimes its courts I greet ; 

Sometimes in joy its shining halls 
I tread with favored feet; 
But never my eyes in the light of day 

Were blessed with its ivied walls, 
Where the marble white and the gr.inite gray 
Turn gold alike when the sunbeams play, 

When the soft day dimly falls. 

I know in its dusky rooms 
Are treasures rich and rare ; 



The spoil of Eastern looms, 

Aud whatever of bright and fair 
Painters divine have won 

From the vaidt of Italy's air ; 
White gods in Phidian stone 

People the haunted glooms ; 
Aud the song of iunnortal singers 
Like a fragrant memory lingers, 

I know, in the echoing rooms. 

But nothing of these, my soul ! 

Nor castle, nor treasures, nor skies, 
Nor the waves of the river that roll, 

With a cadence faint and sweet, 

In peace by its marble feet — 
Nothing of these is the goal 

For which my whole heart sighs. 
'Tis the pearl gives worth to the shell— 

The pearl I would die to gain ; 
For there does my Lady dwell. 
My love that I love so well — 

The Queen whose gracious reign 

Makes glatl my Castle in Spain. 

Her face so purely fair 

Sheds light in the shaded places. 

And the spell of her maiden graces 
Holds charmed the happy air. 
A breath of purity 

Forever before her flies. 
And ill things cease to bo 

In the glance of her honest eyes. 
Around her jiathway flutter. 

Where her dear feet wander free 

In youth's pure majesty. 

The wings of the vague desires; 
But the thought that love would utter 
In reverence expires. 

Not yet! not yet shall I see 

That face, which shiues like a star 
O'er my storm-swept life afar, 

Transfigured with love for me. 

Toiling, forgetting, and learning. 
With labor and vigils and prayers. 
Pure heart and resolute will, 
At last I shall climb the Hill, 
And breathe the enchanted airs 

Where the light of my life is burning. 
Most lovely aud fair and free ; 

AVhere alone in her youth and beauty, 

And bound by her fate's sweet duty, 
Uucouscious she waits for me. 



HELEN S. COXA XT. 



fi'Jb 



ilcUn 5. (Eonaiit. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs. Conant was born in Methuen, Mass., in 1839. Her 
first booli, "Tbe Butterfly -hunters," was published in 
ISGG. She has since written " Tlie Primer of German Lit- 
erature" antl"Tlie Primer of Spanish Literature," each 
enriched with many original translations. Mrs. Conant is 
a frequent contributor to American periodical literature. 



FROM THE SPANISH OF CALDEROX. 

An ancient sage, ouco ou a time, they say, 
Who lived remote, away from mortal sight, 
Snstained his feeble life as best ho might 
With herbs and berries gathered by the way. 
" Can any other one," said he, ouo day, 
" So poor, so destitute, as I be found ?" 
And when he turned his head to look around 
He saw the answer: creeping slowly there 
Came an old man who gathered up with care 
The herbs which he had cast upou the ground. 



ALAS! 

From the SpAMsn of Heredia. 

How many wait alone. 

Sighing for that sweet hour 
When love with subtle power 

Shall claim its owu. 

And if tbe maiden fair 
Her faithlessness discover, 
Then shall the hapless lover 

Cry in despair. 

Love, thou hast flying feet I 

Thj- hands are hot and burning, 
And few, unto thee turning. 

Shall find thee sweet ! 

Yet though thy pleasures pass, 
The heart in sad seclusion 
Still gnard.s its foud illu.sion. 

Alas ! alas ! 



SPANISH SONG. 

On lips of blooming yonth 
There trembles many a sigh, 

AVhich lives to breathe a truth. 
Then silently to die. 

Thou, who art my desire. 
Thy languishing sweet love 
In sighs upou thy litis shall oft expire. 



I love the .sapphire glory 

Of those starry depths above. 

Where I read the old, old story 
Of human hope and love ; 

I love the shining star. 
But when I gaze on thee, 
The fire of thine eyes is brighter far. 

Tlie fleeting, fleeting hours. 

Which ne'er return again, 
Leave oidy faded flowers 

And weary days of pain ; 
Delight recedes from view, 

And uever more may pass 
Sweet words of tenderness hetweeu us two. 

The gentle breeze which plays 

Ou tbe water murmuringly, 
Aud the silvery, trembling rays 

Of the moon on the midnight sea — 
Ay ! all have passed away. 

Have faded far from me, 
Like the love which lasted only one sweet day. 



MEETING. 
From the Spanish of Emilio Bello. 

Slany years have floated by 
Since we parted, she and I. 
Now together here we stand. 
Bye to eye and hand to hand. 

I can hear her trembling sighs, 
See the sweetness ia her eyes. 
Silently I hold and press 
Her soft hand with tenderness. 

Silence, who shall fathom thee ? 
Who reveal the mystery 
Hidden between loving eyes. 
Burning hands, aud auswering sighs i 



GERMAN LOVE SONG. 

Thou art the rest, the languor sweet ! 
Thou my desire ! thou my retreat ! 
I consecrate my heart to thee. 
Thy home through all eternity ! 

Come in to me, and shut the door 
So fast that none shall enter more ; 
Fill all my soul with dear delight ; 
Oh, tarry with me day aud night 1 



B96 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



!Hu6tiu Pobsou. 

Bora in England in 1840, Dobson has -written "Vign- 
ettes in Rhyme and Vers de Soci(5t(5," which reached 
a third edition in 1877. That same year he published 
" Proverbs in Porcelain, and other Verses." An edition 
of his poems, edited by Edmund C. Stcdman, was pub- 
lished (1880) in New York, and well deserves the editor's 
discriminating jiraise. Mr. Dobson is one of a recent 
class of English poets who have reproduced the old 
French forms of verse in the rondeau, virelai, villanelle, 
ballade, etc. Mark the Ingenious multiplication of the 
rhymes in the first three poems we quote. 



"MORE POETS YET!" 

"More Poets yet!" — I bear liim say, 
Arming his heavy hand to slay ; — 

" Despite my skill and ' swashing blow,' 
They seem to sprout where'er I go ; — 
I killed a host but yesterday !" 

Slash on, O Hercules! You may: 
Your task 's at best a Hydra-fray : 

And though you cut, not less will grow 
Sloro Poets yet ! 

Too arrogant ! For who shall stay 
The first blind motions of the May f 

Who shall out-blot the morning glow f — 
Or stem the full heart's overflow ? 
Who ? There will rise, till Time decay, 
More Poets yet ! 



THE PRODIGALS. 

" Princes ! — and you, most valorous, 

Xobles and Barons of all degrees! 
Hearken awhile to the jirayer of us, — 

Prodigals driven of destinies! 

Nothing wo ask or of gold or fees ; 
Harry us uot with the hounds, we pray ; 

Lo, — for the surcote's hem we seize ; — 
Give us — ah ! give us — but Yesterday I" 

"Dames most delicate, amorous ! 

Daraosels blithe as the belted bees! 
Beggars arc wo that pray thee thus, — 

Beggars outworn of miseries ! 

Nothing we ask of the things that please ; 
Weary are we, and old, and gray ; 

Lo, — for we clutch and we clasp your knees,- 
Give us — ah! give us — but Yesterday!" 



" Damosels — Dames, be piteous !" 

(But the dames rode fast by the roadway trees.) 
" Hear us, O Knights magnanimous !" 

(But the knights pricked ou in their panoplies.) 

Nothing they gat of hope or ease. 
But only to beat on the breast and say : — 

"Life we drank to the dregs and lees; 
Give us — ah! give us — but Yesterday!" 



Youth, take heed to the prayer of these ! 

Many there be by the dusty way, — 
Many that cry to the rocks and seas, 

"Give us — ah! give us — but Yesterday 



YOU BID ME TRY. 



Afteh Voitcbe. 



You bid me try. Blue-eyes, to write 

A Rondeau. W^hat !— forthwith ?— to-night f 

Reflect. Some skill I have, 'tis true ; 

But thirteen lines, — and rhymed ou two, — 
"Refrain," as well. Ah, hajdess jilight! 

Still, there are five lines, — ranged ariglit. 
These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright 
My easy Muse. They did till you — 
1 OH bid me try ! 

Tiiat makes them nine. The port's in sight ;- 
'Tis all because your eyes are bright ! 
Now just a pair to end with "oo," — 
When maids command, what can't we do ! 
Behold!— the Rondeau, tasteful, light. 
You bid me trv ! 



A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS. 

When Spring comes laughing, by vale and hill, 
By wind-flower walking, and daffodil, — 
Sing stars of morning, sing morning skies. 
Sing blue of speedwell, and my I-ove's eyes. 

When comes the Summer, fnll-leaved and strong. 
And gay birds gossip, the orchard long,— 
Sing hid, sweet honey, that no bee sips ; 
Sing red, red roses, and my Love's lips. 

When Aiitnmu scatters the leaves again. 

And piled sheaves bury the broad-wheeled waiu, — 



AUSTIN DOBSON.— HENRY AMES BLOOD. 



897 



Sing flutes of harvest, 'svliero men rejoice ; 
Slug rounds of reapers, and my Love's voice. 

But when comes Wiuter, with hail and storm. 
And red fire roaring, and ingle warm, — 
Sing first sad going of friends tliat part ; 
Then sing glad meeting, and my Love's heart. 



CHANSONETTE. 

Once at the angelus (ere I was dead), 
Angels all glorious camo to my bed — 
Angels in blue and white, crowned on the head. 

One was the friend I left stark in the snow ; 
One was the wife that died long, long ago ; 
One was the love I lost, — how could she know ? 

One had my mother's eyes, wistful and mild ; 
One had my father's face ; one was a child ; 
All of tLem beut to me — bent down and smiled. 



THE CHILD MUSICIAN. 

Tlie Boaton Advertiser of Jaunnry 14th, 1S74, mentions the 
case of a boy called "the baby violinist" who died "the other 
day at the age of six." At a time when he shonid have been 
iu bed he was made to jjlay before large audiences music which 
excited and thrilled him. lie looked exhausted one day, and 
the manager told him to stay at home. That night as the lad 
lay iu bed with his father the latter heard him say: "Merciful 
God, make room for a little fellow 1'' — and with this strange 
and touching prayer the baby violinist died I The incident 
doubtless suggested Dobsou's poem. 

He had played for his lordship's levi^e. 
He had i>layed for her ladyship's whim, 

Till the poor little head was heavy, 
And the poor little braiu would swim. 

And the face grew pe.iked aud eerie. 
And tlie large eyes strange and bright. 

And they said — too late — " He is weary ! 
He shall rest for at least to-night !" 

But at dawn, when the birds were waking, 
As they watched in the silent room. 

With a sound of a strained cord breaking, 
A something snapped iu the gloom, 

'Twas a string of his violoncello. 
And they heard him stir in bed — 

" Make room for a tired little fellow, 
Kind God!'' was the last that he said. 
57 



tjcnrj) ;3lincs 33looir. 



A native of Temple, N. H., born about 1S40, Mr. Blood 
graduated at Dartiuoutb College, and, after a few years 
spent in keepinji; school, accepted a situation in tUc State 
Department at Washington. A volume of his poems has 
been stereotyped, and the specimens we liave seen sliow 
that our literature will gain by the publication. 



PRO MORTUIS. 

For the dead aud for the dying ; 

For the dead that once were living, 
And the living that are dying. 

Pray I to the All-forgiving. ■ 

For the dead who yester journeyed ; 

For the living who to-morrow. 
Through the valley of the Sh.adow, 

Must all bear the world's great sorrow ; 

For the immortal, wlio, in silence, 
Have already crossed the portal ; 

For the mortal who, in sadness. 
Soon shall follow the immortal ; — • 

Keep thine arms round all, O Father! — 
Round lamenting aud lamented; 

Round the living aud repenting. 

Round the dead who have repented. 

Keep thine arms round all, O Father! 

That are left or that are takeu ; 
For they all are needy, whether 

The forsaking or forsaken. 



THE LAST VISITOR. 

"Who is it knocks this stormy night? 
Be very careful of the light !" 
Tlie good-mau said to his wife, 

Aud the good-wife went to the door ; 
But never again in all his life 
Will the good-man see her more. 

For he who knocked that niglit was Death, 
And the light went out with a little breath; 
And the good-mau will mi.ss liis wife. 

Till he, too, goes to the door, 
Wlien Death will carry him up to Life, 
To behold her ftico once more. 



898 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Uobcvt Kclln lUccliS. 

AMERICAN. 

A native of New York city (born in 1840), Weeks 
graduated from Yale College in 1863, and from the Law 
School of Colunibia College in ISW. lie has published 
•'Poems" (1866); "Episodes and Lyric Pieces" (1870) 
— works full of high promise. 



WINTER SUNRISE. 

When I consider, as I'm forced to do, 

The many eanses of uiy discontent, 

And count my failures, and remember too 

How many hopes the failures represent ; 

The hope of se'eing what I have uot seen, 

The hope of winning what I have not won. 

The hope of being what I have not heen, 

The hope of doing what I have uot done; 

When I remember and consider these — 

Against my Past, my Present seems to lie 

As hare and black as yonder barren trees 

Against the brightness of the morning sky. 

Whose golden expectation puts to shame 

The lurking hopes to which they still lay claim. 



AD FINEM. 

I would not have believed it then, 

If any one had told me so, — - 
"Ere you shall see his face again, 

A year and more shall go :" — 
And let them come again to-day 

To jiity me and prophesy, 
And I will face them .all, and say 

To all of them. You lie ; 

False prophets all, you lie, yon lie! 

I will believe no word but his; 
Will say December is July, 

That autumn April is, — 
Rather than s.ay he has forgot. 

Or will not come who bade me wait. 
Who wait him, and accu.sc him not 

Of being very late. 

Ho said that he would conio in Spring, 
And I believed- — believe him now. 

Though all the birds have ceased to sing. 
And bare is every bough ! 

For spring is not till he appear. 
Winter is uot when ho is nigh — 



The only Lord of all my year, 
For whom I live — and die ! 



lUUliain Cljauuing Gannett. 

AMERICAN. 

Gannett, the son of a clergyman, was born in Boston 
in 1840. He graduated at Harvard in 1800, and from the 
Theological School in 1868, having meanwhile taught 
school a year at Newport, R. I. For two years he was 
pastor of a church in Milwaukee, Wis. ; since which he 
has resided chiefly in Boston. He has contributed ser- 
mons, lectures, and addresses to the mag.azines, and has 
written hymns and poems, showing an original vein. 



LISTENING FOR GOD. 

I hear it often in the dark, 

I hear it in the light, — 
Where is the voice that calls to me 

With such a quiet might ? 
It seems but echo to my thought, 

And yet beyond the stars ; 
It seems a heart-beat in a hush, 

And yet the planet jars. 

Oh, m.ay it be that far withiu 

My inmost soul there lies 
A spirit-sky, that opens with 

Tho.se voices of surprise ? 
And can it be, by night and day. 

That firmament serene 
Is jnst the heaven where God himself, 

The Father, dwells uuseen ? 

O God within, so close to me 

That every thought is plain, 
Bo judge, be -friend, be Father still, 

And in thy he.aveu reign ! 
Thy heaven is mine, — my very soul ! 

Thy words are sweet and strong; 
They fill my inward silences 

With music and with song. 

They send me challenges to right, 

And loud rebuke my ill ; 
They ring my bells of victory. 

They breathe my " Peace, be still !" 
They ever seem to say, " Aly child. 

Why seek me so all day ? 
Now journey inward to thyself. 

And listen by the way." 



GEORGE MCKNIGHT. 



Si)0 



(5corge illcHnigljt. 

AMERICAN. 

McKnight, a native of Sterling, Cayuga Count}', N. T., 
was born in 1S40, and has always resiiled in liis native 
town, wliere lie is a practising physician. In 1S77 he 
published on his own account a volume of 131 pages, 
eutitled " Fii-m Ground: Thoughts on Life and Faith." 
In 1878 a revised edition, under the title of " Life and 
Faith," was issued, with the imprint of Henry Holt & 
Co., New York. It consists chiefly of a scries of son- 
nets, lofty in tone and sentiment, and artistic in struct- 
ure according to the Petrarchan model. Each one is the 
embodiment of some richly suggestive thought, showing 
that the author's range of meditation is in the higher 
ethical and devotional region. With all its earnest grav- 
ity, the tone of these productions is always healthful, 
hopeful, and cheerful. 



" THOUGH NAUGHT THEY MAY TO OTHERS 
BE." 

If in these thoughts of mine that now assuage 

The tedium of the toilsome life I live, 

The few who chance to notice should perceive 

Nothing their lasting interest to engage, 

Aud quickly cease to turn the farther Jiage, — 

It were a shameful thing if I should grieve. 

For if kind Destiny has chosen to give 

To other niiuds, in many a clime and age, 

Days brighter than my hours, should I repine ? 

And what if hj an over-hasty glance 

Some import be not heeded, or, perchance, 

Too dim a light upon the pages shiue ? 

Would I be wronged, even though the wealth I own, 

Aud not the less enjoy, were all unknown ? 



PERPETUAL YOUTH. 

"And ever beautiful and young remains 
Whom the divine ambrosia sustains." 

The days of youth ! The days of glad life-gain ! 
How bright in retrospection they appear! 
Y'et standing iu my manhood's stature here, 
I ask not Time his fleet hours to refrain. 
The joyauce of those days may yet remain. 
Fly on, swift seasons! Not with grief or fear 
I see your speed increase from year to year ; — ■ 
The soul may still its buoyant youth retain ! 
May, if supplied with its celestial food, 
Forever keep so young it will not cease 
To grow in strength, in stature to increase 
Through all its days, whate'er their multitude. 
Aud lo ! ambrosia plentifully grows [goes. 

On many a field through which thought, culling, 



SCORN. 

"Which Wisdom holds unlawful ever." 

If on a child of Nature thou bestow 

A scoruful thought, a grievous punishment 

Is thine ; for now no longer evident 

Are loving looks Nature was wont to show : 

Yet alters not her favor toward tliee so ; — 

Not really does she thy scorn resent ; 

Her heart is too full of divine content 

To feel the troubling passions mortals know. 

'Tis thou, by harboriug unjust, disdain 

Within thy selfish bosom, who hast marred 

The beaming tenderness of her regard. 

Thy sympathy with her is less, iu vain 

Ls now each kindly look of hersj each smile 

Of favor thou didst oft enjoy erewhile. 



OPPORTUNITY. 

Has thy pursuit of knowledge been confined 

Within a narrow range by jjennry. 

And by the hands' hard toil required of thee ? 

Oh, sorely tried! But if God had designed 

A strong, divinely gifted human mind 

Shonhl in the world appear, and grow to be 

A grand exemplar of humanity. 

Perhaps His wisdom, provident and kind. 

Seeking a time and place upon the earth. 

Wherein such noble life might grow and bear 

Its perfect fruitage, beautiful and rare. 

Would choose and foreordain, tried soul, a birth 

Like that assigned to thee ! Oli, squander not 

The opportunity given in tby lot ! 



TRIUMPH. 

Though hard surroundings, like unsparing foes. 
Against thee have prevailed, a victory 
May yet be thine, and noble life may be 
The trophy which thy triumph will disclose. 
The world's great prizes thou must yield to those 
Of better fortune ! Yield them willingly : 
By so much more thy virtue shall be free 
From trammels selfish cares on it impose. 
Famed, far-oft" landscapes thou shalt never view : — 
Submit : the bliss denied thee do not crave ; 
And thy attentive soul a sight may have 
Of the omnipresent Beautiful aud True, 
So clear, 'twill bring thee nearer to thy God, 
Thau if thou songht'st His wouders far abroad. 



900 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



IN UNISON. 

May nevevmoro a selfisli -nisb of mine 

Grow to a deed, unless a greater caio 

For others' -welfare iu the iucltemeiit share. 

O Nature, let uiy purposes coinbiue, 

Henceforth, iu conscious unison ivilli thine, — 

To spread abroad God's gladness, and declare 

In living form what is forever fair. 

Meekly to labor in thy great design, 

Oh, let uiy little life be given whole! 

If so, by action or by snfiering, 

Joy to niy fellow-creatures I may bring. 

Or, in the lowly likeness of my soul, 

To beautiful creation's countless store 

One form of beauty m.ay be added more. 



"THE GLORY OP THE LORD SHALL EN- 
DURE FOREVER." 

The forces that prevail eternally, 

And those that seem to quickly vanish hence, 

Are cm.an.ations from Omnipotence 

Of self-conserving, ceaseless energy : 

And whatso iu the changeless entity 

Of God originates, partaketh theuce 

Of the divine, essential permanence : — 

Whatever is because He is, shall be. 

Oh, then to strengthen trust, thyself assure. 

In every fearful, every doubting mood, 

From God came forth the Beautiful and Good ; 

And as the Eternal Glory shall endure. 

They iu His ehangelessness shall still abide 

Unwasted, 'mid destruction far and -nide. 



THE TEST OF TRUTH. 

If ye have precious truths that yet remain 
Unknown to me, oh teach me them ! Each way 
Into my soul I open wide, that they 
May enter straightway, and belief constrain. 
But urge not fear of loss nor hope of gain 
To rouse my will, and move it to essay 
To shape my soul's belief, or tinge one ray 
Of Nature's light ! All wilful faith must pain 
The Genius of true Faith, who asks as.seut. 
Not even to dearest truths, until the hour 
Arrives of their belief-compelling power; 
In order that the force they will have spent 
In wrestling with our unbelief, at length 
May bo transformed into believing strength. 



EUTHANASIA. 

Seeing our lives by Nature now are led 

In an apijointed way so tenderly ; 

So often lured by Hope's expectancy ; 

So seldom driven by scourging pain and dread ; 

And though by destiny still limited 

Insuperably, our pleasant paths seem free : — 

May we not trust it ever thus shall be ? 

That when we come the lonely vale to tread, 

Leading away into the uukuowu night. 

Our Mother then, kindly persuasive still, 

Shall gently temper the reluctant will? 

So, haply, we shall feel a str.ange delight, 

Even that dreary way to travel o'er, 

And the mysterious realm beyond explore. 



CONSUMMATION. 
" The grniul results of Time." 

'Twas needful that with life of low degree. 
But slowly rising, long the earth should teem 
Ere man was born ; and still the guiding scheme 
Seemed not to rest iu full maturity: 
For Nature since has so assidiu)iisly 
Cherished his growth in spirit, it would seem 
That lofty hnuiau souls, in her esteem. 
Are the best trophies of her husbandry. 
And now, as if she nearcd her final aim, 
She sheds upon them with conspicuous care 
Each fruitful influence, th.at they may bear 
Great and pure thoughts and deeds of uoblo fame ; — 
As if her crowning joy were to transmute 
The sum of Time's results into soul-fruit. 



CLEAP ASSURANCE. 

Not as it looks will be thy coming state : 
It falsely looms to both thy hopes and fears. 
Unwise is he, with prying eye who peers 
'Neath the unturned pages of the book of fate. 
Yet whether good or evil hours await 
Thy coming in the far successive years. 
Thou inay'st foreknow, by that which now appears,- 
It well may daunt thee, or with joy elate. 
For iu thy heart's aft'ections thou can'st see 
What thou becomest as the days go by : 
Think not by skilled device to modify 
The strict fultilment of the high decree. 
That more and more like the sublime or low 
Ideals thou dost cherish, thou shalt grow. 



GEORGE McEXIGHT. — JOHN WHITE CHAD WICK. 



901 



LIVE WHILE YOU LIVE. 

A view of present life is all thou liast ! 
Obliviou's cloud, like a Iiigli-reacbing wall, 
Couceals tLy former being, and a pall 
Hangs o'er the gate tbrongh which tbou'lt soon 

have i>assed. 
Dost chafe, ill these close bounds imprisoned fast? 
Perhaps thy spirit's memory needs, withal, 
Such limits, lest vague dimuess should befall 
Its records of a life-duration vast ; 
And artfully thy sight may be coufiued 
While thou art dwelling ou this earthly isle. 
That its exceeding beauty may, the while, 
Infuse itself witliiu thy growing mind, 
And fit thee, in some future state sublime, 
Haply, to grasp a wider range of time.' 



MEMENTO MOEI. 

Look, soul, how swiftly all things onward tend ! 

.Such universal haste betokens need 

In Destiny's design of pressing speed : 

Speed thou, stay not until thou reach the end! 

Upon the haste of Time there may depend 

Some far-olf good. Thou chihl of Time, give heed, 

Tliat with a willing heart and ready deed, 

To Time's great haste thy dole of speed thou leud ! 

Though beauteous seeues thy onward steps would 

stay. 
Press forward toward the Goal that beekous thee — • 
The uuimagiued possibility 
Of all the mighty future to assay ! 
And when thou drawest ne.ar thy hour to die, 
Rejoice that one accomplishment is nigh. 



GIFTS. 

"Who makcth Ihee to differ?" 

Brother, my arm is weaker far than thine ; 
And thou, mj' brother, in each common view 
Of Nature canst discern some beauteous hue 
Too delicate to thrill such braiu as mine. 
And yet, O brothers both, by many a sign 
God shows for me as warm love as for you : 
With equal care His light aud rain and dew 
Clierish the sturdy tree and clingiug vine. 

1 We nre reminded by this sonnet of ;i reinaik which the 
Chevalier Bunsen made at a party where there liad been some 
astonishing experiments in clairvoyance. "But wliat, then, 
were our eyes given ns for?" aslied Bioomtield. "To limit our 
visiou, my lord," Bnusen instantly replied.— E. S. 



Be thou not inoud of thy more massive brawn ! 
Nor tliou, because within thj' brain each thread. 
Through which the thonght-imlsatious pass aud 

spread 
From cell to cell, has been more tensely drawn ! 
God's forces made yon what yon are, why then 
Should you expect the reverence of men ? 



KINSHIP. 

" So light, yet sure, the bond that binds the world." 

I found beside a meadow brooklet bright. 
Spring flowers whose tranquil beauty seemed to give 
Glad answers as to whence aud why we live. 
With pleased del.ay I lingered while I might. 
Because I thought when they were out of sight. 
No more of joy from them I should receive. 
But now I know absence cannot bereave 
Their loveliness of power to give delight. 
For still my soul with theirs sweet couver.se holds. 
Through sense more intimate and blessed than see- 
ing ; 
A bond of kiudred that includes .all being. 
Our lives in conscious union now infolds. 
Aud oh, to me it is enough of bliss 
To know I am, and that such beauty is. 



3o\}n llll)ite (Tljabroick. 

AMERICAN. 

Cliadwick was bora in 1840 in Marhlclic.id, Xfass. He 
.studied at the Exeter, N. H., Academy, and graduated 
from the Cambridge Divinity School in 1864. He has 
contributed various papers to Harper's and other mag- 
azines, aud is the author of a vohunc of poems, published 
1874. He is settled over a Unitarian congregation in 
Brooklyn, N. T. As a controversial writer of radical 
tcndcucies he is well known. 



AULD LANG-SYNE. 

It singeth low in every heart, 

We hear it each and all, — 
A song of those who .answer not, 

However we maj' call ; 
They throng the silence of the breast, 

Wo see them as of yore, — 
The kind, the brave, the true, the swoet, 

Who walk with ns no more. 

'Tis hard to take the burden up. 
When these have laid it down; 



;(()•> 



CYCLOPMDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEUICAX POETRY. 



Tbey briglitened all the joy of life, 

They softeueil every frown ; 
But oh, 'tis good to tliink of them, 

When we are tempted sore ! 
Thanks be to God that gucli have been, 

Although they are no more ! 

More home-like seems the vast unknown, 

Since they have entered tbere ; 
To follow them were not so liard. 

Wherever they may fare ; 
They cannot be where God is not. 

On any sea or shore : 
Wbate'er betides, Thy love abides, 

Our God, for evermore. 



BY THE SEA-SHORE. 

The curv&l strand 

Of cool, gray sand 
Lies like a sickle by the sea ; 

The tide is low, 

But soft and slow 
Is creeping higher up the lea. 

Tlie beach-birds fleet, 

With twinkling feet. 
Hurry and scurry to and fro. 

And siji, and chat 

Of this and that 
Wliich you and I may never know. 



That haste away 
To meet each snowy-bosomed crest, 

Enrich the shore 

With fleeting store 
Of art-defying arabesque. 

Each higlicr wave 

Doth touch and lave 
A million pebbles smooth and bright ; 

Straightway they grow 

A beauteous show. 
With hues unknown before bedight. 

lligli up tlie beach, 

Far out of reach 
Of common tides that ebb and flow, 

Tlie drift-wood's heap 

Doth record keep 
Of storms that perished long ago. 



Nor storms alone : 

I hear the moan 
Of voices choked by dashing brine. 

When sunken rock 

Or tempest shock 
Crushed the good vessel's oaken spine. 

Where ends the beach. 

The clifts upreach 
Tlieir liclicn-wrinkled foreheads old ; 

And here I rest 

While all the west 
Grows brighter with the sun.set's gold. 

Far out at sea 

The ships that flee 
Along the dim horizon's line. 

Their sails unfold 

Like cloth of gold, 
Transfigured by that light divine. 

A calm more deep, 

As 'twere asleep. 
Upon the weary ocean falls ; 

So low it sighs. 

Its muruuir dies. 
While shrill the boding cricket calls. 

peace and rest ! 
Upon the breast 

Of God himself I seem to lean : 

No break, no bar 

Of sun or star : 
Just God and I, with uanght between. 

Oh, when some day 
In vain I pray 
For days like this to come again, 

1 shallr rejoice 

Witli heart and voice 
That one such day has ever been. 



CAKPE DIEM. 

O soul of mine, how few and short the years 

Ere thou shalt go the way of all thy kind, 

And here no more thy joy or sorrow find 

At any fount of happiness or tears! 

Yea, and how soon shall all that thee endears 

To any heart that beats with love for thee 

Be everywhere forgotten utterly. 

With all thy loves and joys, and hopes and fears! 



GEORGE WEXTZ.—MART ilAPES DODGE. 



903 



But, O my soul, because these things are so, 
Bo thou not cheated of to-day's delight, 
When the iiight cometh, it may well be uight; 
Xow it is day. See that no minute's glow 
Of all the shining hours unheeded goes, 
No fount of rightful joy by thee untasted flows. 



(!?corae lllcnt?. 



A native and resident of Baltimore, Wentz studied 
medicine, and became a practising physician. He is tlie 
author of "Tlie Lady of the Sea," a poem of some length, 
founded on an Orkney legend, and originally published 
in The Southern Mapazbie for 1873. His shorter lyrical 
pieces are suggestive of a profound poetical sensibilit}', 
with the gift of giving utterance to it at times in con- 
densed and beautiful forms. 



"SWEET SPIRIT, HEAR MY PRAYER." 

Of all the human-helping songs to God 
That swell npon the dim cathedral's air, 

Most helpful seems to me this song of all : 
"Sweet Spirit, hear my prayer!" 

There is a supplication in the sound ; 

And on a llight of Music's solemn sigh, 
Jfy weary soul, earth-sick and full of care, 

Mounts upward to the sky. 

A clear soprano, like a mounting bird, 

Soars o'er the organ's deep vibrating tone, 

To bear to her the lovingness I feel. 
But may not i)lead aloue. 

For she, a spirit, from her lofty place 
Doth oft her sympathetic ear incline, 

To hear a mortal's word, and stills her heart 
To hear the beat of mine. 

The tender jileading of the song remains, 
While priest and altar fade upon the air, 

And all the dome is worshipful with her 
Whose spirit hears my prayer. 



NO DEATH. 

There is no death ; the common end 
Of life and growth wo comprehend. 
Is not of forms that cease, but mend : 
It is not death, but change. 



When wastes the seed the sower sows 
Beneath the clog of winter snows. 
The autumn harvest plainly shows 

It was not death, but change. 

When Science weighs and counts the strands 

lu economic Nature's bands. 

She re-collects them in her hands 

To show uo loss fiom change. 

They do not die, our darling ones ; 
From falling leaves to burning suns. 
Through worlds on worlds the legend runs, — 
It is not death, but change. 

When stills the heart, and dims the eye, 
Anel round our couch friends wonder why 
The signs have ceased they know us by, 
It is not death, but change. 



Jllarn illapcs Doligc. 



Mrs. Dodge, a daughter of the late Professor Mapes, 
has published various successful works for the young; 
also a volume of poems, entitled "Along the Way, and 
other Poems," from the press of Scribuer & Co. (1879). 
She is widely known as editress of The St. Xicholas Macj- 
azine for young persons, and resides in the city of New 
York. 

IN THE CANON. 

Intent the conscious mountains stood, 

The friendly blossoms nodded, 
As through the cation's lonely wood 

We two in silence plodded. 
A something owned our presence good ; 

The very breeze that stirred onr hair 
Whispered a gentle greeting ; 

A grand, free courtesy was there, 

A welcome, from the summit bare 
Down to the brook's entreating. 

Stray warblers in the branches dark 

Shot through the leafy passes, 
While the long note of meadow-lark 

Rose from the neighboring grasses ; 
The yellow lupines, spark on spark, 

From the more open woodland way, 
Fla.shed through the sunlight faiutly ; 

A wind-blown little flower, once gay, 

Looked up between its petals gray 
And smiled a message saintly. 



904 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BIUTISS AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



The giaut ledges, red aud seamed, 

The clear, blue skj', tree-fietted ; 
The Diottk'd light that round us streamed, 

The brooklet, vexed aud petted ; 
The bees that buzzed, the guats that dreamed, 

The fiittiug, gauzy thiugs of Juue ; 
The plaiu, far-otf, like misty oceau. 

Or, cloud-laud bound, a fair lagoon, — 

They sang within us like a tuucj 

They swayed us like a dream of motion. 

The hours went loitering to the West, 

The shadows lengthened slowly ; 
The radiant snow on mountain-crest 

Made all the distance holy. 
Near by, the earth lay full of rest, 

The sleepy foot-hills, one by one, 
Dimpled their way to twilight ; 

And ere the perfect day was done 

There came long gleams of tinted sun. 
Through heaven's crimson skylight. 

Slowly crept ou the listening night. 

The sinking moon shone pale aud slender; 

We hailed the cotton-woods, in sight. 

The home-roof gleaming near and tender, 

Guiding our quickened steps aright. 
Soon darkened all the mighty hills, 

The gods were sitting there in shadow ; 
Lulled were the noisy woodland rills. 
Silent the silvery woodland trills. — 
'Twas starlight over Colorado ! 



SHADOW EVIDENCE. 

Swift o'er the suuny grass, 
I saw a shadow pass 

With subtle charm ; 
So fpiiclc, so full of life, 
With thrilling joy so rife, 
I started, lest unkuown. 
My step — ere it was flown, — 

Had done it harm. 

Wliy look up to the blue ? 
Tlio bird was gone, I knew. 
Far out of sight. 
Steady and keen of wing. 
The slight, impassioned thing, 
Intent on a goal unknown. 
Had held its course alone 
In silent flight. 



Dear little bird, aud fleet, 
Flinging down at my feet 

Sliadow for song : 
More sure am I of thee — 
Unseen, unheard by me — 
Thau of some thiugs felt and known. 
And guarded as my own, 

All my lil'e long. 



THE TWO MYSTERIES. 

"lu the middle of the room, in its white cofBu, lay the de.itl 
cliild, a nejjhew of the poet. Near it, in a great chiiir, sat Walt 
Whitman, snrrounded by little ones, and holding a beantifnl lit- 
tle girl ou his lap. She looked wonderingly at the spectacle of 
death, and then inquiringly into t!it old man's face. * Yon don't 
know what it is, dp you, my dear?' said he, and added, 'We dou't 
either.' " 

We know not wluit it is, dear, 

Tliis sleep so deep and still ; 
Tlie folded hands, the awful calm. 

The cheek so pale aud chill ; 
The lids that will not lift again, 

Though we may call and call ; 
The strange white solitude of peace 

That settles over all. 

We know not what it means, dear, 

This desolate heart-pain ; 
This dread to take our daily waj', . 

And walk in it again ; 
We know not to what other sphere 

Tiie loved who leave us go, 
Nor why we're left to wonder still, 

Nor why we do not know. 

But this we know : our loved and dead, 

If they should come this day — 
Should come and-ask us, " What is life ?" 

Not one of us could say. 
Life is a mystery as deep 

As ever death can be ; 
Yet oh ! how de.ar it is to us, — 

This life we live and see ! 

Then might they say — these vanished ones — 

And blessed is the thought! — 
" So death is sweet to us, beloved. 

Though we may show you naught ; 
We may not to the quick reveal 

The mystery of death — 
Ye caniu)t tell us, if yo would, 

The mystery of breath." 



MAIiY MAFES DODGE.— KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.— ZADEL BARNES GUSTAFSON. 



905 



The child who cntei's life comes not 

Willi knowledge or inteut, 
So those who enter death must go 

As little children sent. 
Nothing is known. Bnt I believe 

That God is overhead ; 
And as life is to the living, 

So death is to the dead. 



NOW THE NOISY WINDS ARE STILL. 

Now the noisy winds are still ; 
April's coming np the hill! 
All the spring is in her train, 
Led hy shining ranks of rain ; 

Pit, pat, patter, clatter. 

Sudden sun, and clatter, patter! — • 
First the blue, and then the shower ; 
Bursting bud, and smiling flower; 
Brooks set free with tinkling ring ; 
Birds too full of song to sing ; 
Crisp old leaves astir with pride, 
Where the timid violets hide, — 
All things ready with a will, — 
April's coming up the hill ! 



Kate Putnam ©sgoolr. 

AMERICAN. 

Born at Frycburg, Me., in ISiO, Miss Osgood has con- 
tributed to tlic m.igazines a number of poems worthy 
of being collected into a volume. Her little ballad of 
"Driving Home the Cows" has a homely pathos that 
goes straight to its mark. 



DRIVING HOME THE COWS. 

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass 
He turned them into the river-lane ; 

One after another he let thcni pass. 
Thou fastened the meadow bars again. 

Under the willows, and over the hill. 
He patiently followed their sober pace ; 

The merry whistle for once was still. 

And somethiug shadowed the suuuy face. 

Only a boy ! and his father had said 
He never could let bis youngest go : 

Two already were lying dead 

Uuder the feet of the trampling foe. 



But after the evening work was done, 

And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp. 

Over his shoulder he slung his gnu 

And stealthily followed the foot-iiath damp. 

Across the clover, and through the wheat. 
With resolute heart and purpose grim. 

Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet 
And the blind bat's flitting startled him. 

Thrico since then had the lanes been white, 
Aud the orchards sweet with apple-bloom ; 

Aud now, when the cows came back at night, 
The feeble father drove them home. 

For news had come to the lonely farm 

That three were lying where two had lain : 

And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm 
Could never lean on a son's again. 

Tlie summer day grew cool and late. 

He went for the cows when the work was done ; 
But down the lane, as he opened the gate. 

He saw them coming one by one : 

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 

Shaking their horns in the evening wind: 

Cropping the buttercups out of the grass — 
But who was it following close behind ? 

Loosely swung in the idle air 

The empty sleeve of army blue ; 
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, 

Looked out a face that the father knew. 

For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, 
Aud yield their dead uuto life agaiu ; 

And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn 
In golden glory at last may wane. 

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes ; 

For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb: 
And under the silent evening skies 

Together they followed the cattle home. 



Habtl Banus (!}'ustafson. 

AMERICAN. 

The author of " Meg : a Pastoral, and other Poems " 
(Boston : Lee & Shepharrt, 1879), is one of the younaest 
of our American poets (born March 9tli, 1841). The 
reader of her poems is impressed, iu some of them by 



906 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEUICAK POETRY. 



their idyllic charm, ia others by their dramatic force, 
and iu all by their generous sympathy and nobility of 
sentiment. Simultaneously with her own volume above 
mentioned, there was issued by the same lionse, and ed- 
ited by her, the collected i:ioems of Maria Brooks (" Maria 
del Oceidente "). 



ZLOBAXE.' 

As swayeth in the summer wind 
The close and stalwart grain, 

So moved the serried Zulu shields 
That day ou wild Zlubane ; 

The white shield of the husband, 
Who liath twice need of life. 

The black shield of the young chief, 
■\Vho hath not yet a wife. 

Unrecking harm, the Britisli lay, 

Secure as if tliey slept, 
While close ou front and either flank 

The live black crescent crept ; 

Tlicu burst their wild and frightful cry 

Upon the Britisli ears. 
With whir of bullets, glare of shields, 

Aud flash of Zulu spears. 

They gathered as a cloud, swift rolled, 

'Twixt sun and summer scene. 
They thickened down as the locusts 



Uprose the British ; iu the shock 
Reeled but an instant ; then. 

Shoulder to shoulder, faced the foe, 
And met their doom like men. 

But one was there whose heart was torn 

Iu a more awful strife ; 
He had the soldier's steady nerve. 

And calm disdaiu of life, — 

Yet now, half turning from the fray. 

Knee smiting against knee. 
He scanned the hills, if yet were left 

An open way to lice. 



^ Zlobaue is the name of the mountain which wns taken by 
Ftonn from the Zulus by the Uriti<«h forces ou the morninir of 
the 25th of March, 181'.). Ou the top of this moinitaiu the victo- 
rious Kiiglish troops, who liad unsaddled their horst'S and cast 
themselves down to rest, were puriirised and surronnded by the 
Zulus, or the British corps only one ca])t:iiu and six men es- 
caped. This ballad relates au iucldeut of the day. 



Not for himself. His little son. 
Scarce thirteen summers born, 

AVith hair that shone upon bis brows 
Like tassels of the corn. 

And lips yet curled iu that sweet pout 
Shaped by the mother's breast. 

Stood by his side, aud silently 
To his bravo father pressed. 

The horse stood nigh ; the father kissed 

Aud tossed the boy astride. 
" Farewell !'' he cried, " and for thy life, 

That way, my darling, ride!" 

Scarce touched the saddle ere the boy 
Leaped lightly to the ground, 

Aud smote the hor.se upon its flank, 
That with a quivering bouud 

It spr.ang and galloped for the hills. 

With one sonorous neigh ; 
Tlie fire flashed where its spurning feet 

Clanged o'er the stony way. 

So, shod with fear, fled like the wind. 

From where in ancient fray 
Rome grappled Tuscnlnm, the slain 

Mamilius' charger gray. 

'• Father, I'll die with you !" The sire. 

As this ho saw and heard, 
Turned, aud stood breathless iu the joy 

And paug that knows no word. 

Once each, as do long knitted friends. 

Upon the other smiled, 
Aud then — he -had but time to give 

A weapon to the child 

Ere, leaping o'er the British dead, 

The supple Zulus drew 
The cruel assegais, and first 

The younger hero slew. 

Still grew the father's heart, his eye 
Bright with unflickering flamo : 

Five Zulus bit the dust iu death 
By his uublenching aim. 

Then, covered with uncounted wounds. 
He sauk beside his child. 



ZADEL BASSES GUSTAFSON.— ROBERT BUCHANAN. 



907 



And tbey wlio foiiiuT tliem say, iu death 
Each ou the other smiled. 

7^ * -.^ ^ * 

Tluis England, for thy iust of jiower ! 

The lilood of striving men, — 
Once more outpoured — cries unto God 

From Zlobane's height and glen ! 



THE FACTORY-BOY.' 

" Come, poor child !" say the Flowers ; 

" We have made you a little bed ; 
Come, lie with us iu the showers 

The summer clouds will shed. 
Don't work for so many hours : 

Come hither and play instead !" 
" Come !" whispers the waving Grass : 
"I will cool your feet as you pass; 

The Daisies will cool your head." 

Aud " Come, come, come !" is sighing 

The River against the wall ; 
But " Stay !" iu grim replying. 

The wheels roar over all. 
By hill and field and river. 

That hold tlio child in thrall, 
He sees the long light quiver, 

And hears faint voices call. 

Bright shapes flit near iu numbers ; 

They lead his soul away: 
"Oh, hush, hush, hush ! he slumbers!" 

He dreams he hears them say. 

Aud, just for one strained instant. 

He dreams he hears the wheels, 
But smiles to feel the flowers, 

And down among them kneels. 
Over his weary ankles 

A rippling runlet steals, 
And all about his shoulders 

The daisies dauee iu reels. 

Up to his cheeks and temples 

Sweet blossoms blush aud press, 
Aud softest summer zephyrs 

Leau o'er in light caress. 
Sleep iu her mantle folds him, 

As shadows fold the hill. 
Deep in her trance she holds him, 

Aud the great wheels are still ! 

' From " Where is the Child !" in Harper's Magazine. 



liobcrt Ducljanan. 



A native of Scotland, Buchanan was born in 1841, and 
educated at the High School and University of Glasgow, 
lie published a volume of poems called " Undertones" 
iu 1800; "Idyls oflnvcrburn" (1865); "Loudon Poems" 
(ISeO) ; " The Drama of Kings " (1871) ; " Celtic Mystics " 
(1877), etc. Fluent, versatile, and facile in his style, he 
lias made his mark as a poet of no ordinary power. As 
he has youth on his side, he may live to surpass all that 
lie has yet done. His poems are published by Roberts 
Brothers, Boston. 

DYING. 

" O liairn, when I am dead, 

How shall ye keep frae harm ? 
What hand will gie ye bread ? 

What fire will keep ye warm? 
How shall ye dwell ou earth awa' frae me ?" 

"O mither, dinna dee!" 

" bairn, by night or day 

I hear nae sounds ava'. 
But voices of winds that blaw, 

Aud the voices of ghaists that say. 
Come aw.V ! come .awa' ! 
The Lord that made the wind and made the sea. 
Is hard ou my bairu aud me, 
And I melt in his breath like snaw." 
" O mither, dinna dee I" 

" O bairn, it is but closing up the een, 
Aud lyiug down never to rise again. 
Mauy a strong man's sleeping hae I seen, — 

There is nae paiu ! 
I'm weary, weary, aud I scarce kcu why ; 
My summer has gone by, 
Aud sweet were sleep, but for the sake o' thee." 
"O mither, dinua dee!" 



HERMIONE ; OR, DIFFERENCES ADJUSTED. 

Wherever I wander, up and about. 
This is the puzzle I can't make out — 
Because I care little for hooks, no doubt : 

I have a wife, and she is wise, 

Deep iu philosophy, strong in Greek ; 

Spectacles shadow her pretty eyes. 
Coteries rustle to hear her speak ; 

She writes a little — for love, not fame ; 

Has published a book with a dreary name ; 
Aud yet (God bless her!) is mild and meek. 



908 



CXCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



And how I happeued to nvoo and wed 

A wife so pretty and wise withal 
Is part of the puzzle that fills my head — 
Plagnes me at daytime, racks me in bed, 

Haunts me and makes me apjiear so small. 
Tlie only answer that I can see 
Is — I could not have married Hermiono 
(That is her fine wise name), but she 
Stooped in her wisdom and married me. 

For I am a fellow of no degree, 

Given to romping and jollity ; 

The Latin they thrashed into me at school 

The world and its fights have thrashed away; 
At figures alone I am no fool. 

And in city circles I say my say, 
But I am a dunce at twenty-nine, 
And the kind of study that I think fine 
Is a chapter of Dickens, a sheet of the Times, 

When I lounge, after work, in my easy chair ; 
Punch for humor, and Praed for rhymes, 

And the butterfly mols blown here and there 

By the idle breath of the social air. 

A little French is my only gift, 
Wherewith at times I can make a sliift, 
Guessing at meanings to flutter over 
A filagree tale in a paper cover. 

Hermione, my Ilermione ! 

What could your wisdom perceive in me? 

And Hermione, my Hermione! 

How does it happen at all that we 

Love one another so utterly ? 

Well, I have a bright-eyed boy of two, 

A darling who cries with lung and tongue, about 
As fine a fellow, I swear to you. 

As ever poet of sentiment sung about! 
And my lady-wife, with serious eyes, 
Brightens and lightens when he is nigh. 
And looks, although she is deep and wise, 
As foolish and happy as he or I! 
And I have the courage just theu, you see. 
To kiss the lips of Hermione — 
Those learned lips that the learned praise — 
And to clasp her close as iu sillier days ; 
To talk and joke iu a frolic vein, 

To tell her my stories of things aud men ; 
And it lujver strikes me that I'm profane. 
For she huighs, and blushes, and kisses again. 

And, presto! ily goes her wisdom then! 
For boy claps hands and is up on her breast. 

Roaring to see her so bright with mirth. 



And I know she deems me (oh, the jest !) 
The cleverest fellow on all the earth ! 

And Hermione, my Hermione, 

Nurses her boy and defers to me ; 

Does not seem to see I'm small — 

Even to think me a dunce at all! 

Aud wherever I wander, up and about. 

Here is the puzzle I can't make ont — 

That Hermione, my Hermione, 

In spite of her Greek and philosophy, 

When sporting at ;night with her boy and me. 

Seems sweeter and wiser, I assever — 

Sweeter and wiser, and far more clever, 

And makes me feel more foolish thau ever, 

Through her childish, girlish, joyous grace, 

And the silly pride iu her learned face ! 

That is the puzzle I can't make out- 
Because I cai-e little for books, no doubt ; 
But the puxzle is i^leasaut, I know not why ; 

For whenever I think of it, night or morn, 
I thank my God she is wise, and I 

The happiest fool that was ever born ! 



LAXGLEY LANE. 

In all the laud, range up, range down. 

Is there ever a place so pleasant and sweet 
As Laugley Lane iu London town, 

Just out of the bustle of square and street ? 
Little white cottages all in a row. 
Gardens where bachelors'-bnttons grow. 

Swallows' nests in roof and wall, 
Aud np above the still blue sky. 
Where the woolly white clouds go sailing by, — 

I seem to be able to see it all ! 

For now, in summer, I take my chair. 

And sit outside iu the suu, and hear 
The distant murmur of street and square, 

Aud the swallows and sparrows chirping near; 
And Fanny, who lives just over the way. 
Comes running m.auy a time each day 

With her little hand's touch so warm and kind. 
And I smile and talk, with the sun on my 

cheek. 
And the little live hand seems to stir and speak — 

For Fanny is dumb and I am blind. 

Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she 

Has fine black ringlets and dark eyes clear, 



nOBERT BUCHAXAX.—MINOT JUDSON SAVAGE. 



t'09 



And I am older by summers three — 

Why should we hold cue another so dear? 

Because she cauuot utter a word, 

Nor hear the music of bee or bird, 

The water-cart's splash or the milkmau's call! 

Because I have never seen the sky, 

Nor the little singers that hum and fly — 
Yet know she is gazing upon tlioni all! 

For the suu is shining, tlie swallows fly, 

The bees and the blueflies murmur low, 
And I hear the water-cart go by, 

With its cool splash-splash down the dusty row ; 
And the little one close at my side perceives 
Jline eyes upraised to the cottage eaves, 

Where birds are chirping in summer shine, 
And I hear, though I cannot look, and she, 
Though she cannot hear, can the singers see — 

And the little soft lingers ilutter in mine ! 

Hath not the dear little hand a tongue. 

When it stirs on my palm for the love of me? 
Do I not know she is pretty and young? 

Hath not my soul an eyo to see ? — 
'Tis pleasure to make one's bosom stir, 
To wonder how things appear to her, 

That I only hear as they pass around ; 
And as long as we sit in the music and light. 
She is happy to keep God's sight, 

And / am happy to keep God's sound. 

Why, I know her face, though I am blind — 

I made it of music long ago : 
Strange large eyes and dark hair twined 

Round the pensive light of a brow of snow : 
And when I sit by my little one. 
And hold her hand and talk in the sun. 

And hear the music that haunts the place, 
I know she is raising her eyes to me, 
And guessing how gentle my voice must be. 

And seeing the music upon my face. 

Though, if ever the Lord should grant me a prayer, 

(I know the fancy is only vain,) 
I should pray, — ^jnst once, when the weather is 
fair, — 

To see little Fanny and Langley Lane ;. 
Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear 
The voice of the friend that she holds so dear. 

The song of the birds, the hum of the street — 
It is better to be as we have been — 
Each keeping up something, unheard, unseen. 

To make God's heaven more strange and sweet ! 



Ah ! life is pleasant in Langley Laue ! 

There is always something sweet to heat. 
Chirping of birds or patter of rain ! 

And Fanny, my little one, always near ! 
And though I am weakly, and can't live long, 
And Fanny, my darling, is far from strong. 

And though we can never married be — • 
What then ? — since we hold one another so dear, 
For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear. 

And the pleasure that only one can see? 



TO TEIFLEES. 

From " Faces on the Wall." 

Go, triflers with God's secret. Far, oh far 

Be your thin monotone, your brows flower-crowned. 

Your backward-looking faces ; for ye mar 

The pregnant time with silly sooth of sound. 

With flowers around the feverish temjUes bound. 

And withering in the close air of the feast. 

Take all the summer pleasures ye have found. 

While Circe-charraed ye turn to bird and beast. 

Meantime I sit apart, a lonely wight 

On this bare rock amid this fitfnl Sea, 

And in the wind and rain I try to light 

A little lamp that may a Beacon be. 

Whereby poor ship-folk, driving through the night. 

May gain the Ocean-course, and think of me ! 



flVmot JIubson Saoagc. 



A native of Norridgewock, Me., Savage was born June 
10th, l&il, and iri-adiiated at the Bangor Tlieological Sem- 
inary in 1864. Trained in the Orthodox Church, he began 
to preach in October of that year in a school-house in 
San Mateo, Cal. In 1873 he left orthodo.xy, and w.as pas- 
tor over the Third Unitarian Church in Cliicago, wliere 
he remained one year, when he was called to tlie pulpit 
in Boston, where he has presided (1880) six years. He is 
the author of "Christianity the Science of Manhood" 
(1873); "The Religion ofEvolution" (1876); "Light on 
the Cloud" (1879); "Bluffton: a Story of To-day," "Life 
Questions," "The Morals of Evolution," "Talks about 
Jesus" (1880), etc. There has been also for several years 
a weekly issue of liis sermons. 



LIFE FROM DEATH. 

Had one ne'er seen the miracle 
Of May-time from December born. 

Who would have dared the talo to tell 
That 'neatb ice-ridges slept the corn ? 



910 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BEITISB AXD AMEUICAN POETRY. 



White death lies deep upon the hills, 
Aud moauiugs through the tree-tops go; 

The exulting wind, with breath that chills, 
Shouts triumph to the uurestiug snow. 

My study window shows me where 

On hard-fought lields the summer died ; 

Its banners now are striiiped and bare 
Of even autumn's fading pride. 

Yet, ou the gust that surges by, 
1 read a i)ietured promise ; soon 

Tlie storm of earth and frowu of sky 
Will melt into luxuriant June. 



LIFE IN DEATH. 

New being is from being ceased ; 

No life is but by death; 
Something's expiring everywhere 

To give some other breath. 

There's not a flower that glads the .spring 

But blooms upon the grave 
Of its dead parent seed, o'er which 

Its forms of beauty wave. 

The oak, that like an aucient tower 
Stands massive ou the he.ath. 

Looks out upon a living world. 
But strikes its roots in death. 

The cattle on a thousaud hills 
Clip the sweet herbs that grow 

Rank from the soil enriched by herds 
Sleeping long years below. 

To-day is but a structui-e built 

Upon dead yesterday ; 
And Progress hews her temple-stones 

From wrecks of old decay. 

Tlien mouru not death : 'tis but a stair 

Built with divinest art. 
Up which the deathless footsteps climb 

Of loved ones who depart. 



LIGHT ON THE CLOUD. 

There's never au .always cloudless skj, 
There's never a vale so fair, 



But over it sometimes shadows lie 
In a chill and songless air. 

But never a cloud o'erhuug the day. 

And flung its shadows down, 
But ou its heaven-sido gleamed some ray, 

Forming a sunshine crown. 

It is dark on ouly the downward side : 
Though rage the tempest loud. 

And scatter its terrors far and wide, 
There's light njiou the cloud. 

Aud often, when it traileth low. 

Shutting the landscape out, 
Aud only the chilly east-wiuds blow 

From the foggy seas of doubt. 

There'll come a time, near the setting sun. 
When the joys of life seem few, 

A rift will break in the eveuing dun. 
And the golden light stream through. 

And the soul a glorious bridge will make 

Out of the golden bars, 
Aud all its priceless treasures take 

Where shine the eternal stars. 



3ol]ii vli)Liinaiton Sijmonbs. 

One of the new Victorian poets, Symonds has written 
verses that show unquestionable power in dealing with 
tlie great problems of life and death. He is the author 
of "Studies of the Greek Poetry, in Two Series," which 
appeared in 1870, aud was republished by Harper & 
Brothers; "Sketches in Italy and Greece" (1879); 
"Sketches and Studies in Italy" (1879); "Sonnets of 
Michael Angclo Buonarotti and Tomaso Campanella" 
(1878); "Many Moods, a Volume of Verse" (1S78); 
"New and Old, a Volume of Verse " (1880). The poems 
have been republished by James R.Osgood & Co., Bos- 
ton. In the Preface to "Many Moods," Symonds spealis 
of liimself as "condemned by ill-health to long exile, and 
de]irived of the resources of serious study." The themes 
of the volume are Love, Fricndsliip, Death, and Sleep; 
and the fresh thoughtfulness with which tliey arc treated 
distinguishes the book as one of the rare productions of 
the day. His poems on Greek themes in "New and 
Old" sliow higli scholarly culture. 



IN THE MEXTONE GRAVEYARD. 

Between the circling mountains and the sea 

Rest thou. — Pure spirit, spirit whoso work is done. 
Here to the earth whato'er was left of thee 



JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. 



911 



Mortal, we reuder. But beyond the sun 
And utmost stars, who knows what life begun 
Even now, nor ever to be ended, bright 
With clearest effluence of unclouded light, 

Greets thee undazzled ? — Lo ! this place of tombs 
With rose- wreaths and with clematis and vine. 

And violets that smile in winter, blooms: 

Sun, moon, and stars in sweet procession shine 
Above thy shadeless grave: the waves divine 

Gleam like a silver shield beneath ; the bare 

Broad hills o'erhead, defining the free air, 

Enclose a temple of the sheltering skies 

To roof thee. Noon and eve and lustrous night. 

The sunset thou didst love, the strong sunrise 
That filled thy sonl erewhile with strange delight, 
Still on thy sleeping clay shed kisses bright ; 

But thou — oh, not for thee these waning powers 

Of morn and evening, these poor i)aliug flowers. 

These narrowing limits of sea, sky, and earth ! 
For in thy tombless city of the dead 

Sunrising and sunsetting, and the mirth 
Of spring-time and of summer, and our red 
Rose-wreaths are swallowed in the streams that 

Supreme of Light iuefl'able from Him, [spread 

Matched witli whose least of rays our sun is dim. 

Oh, blessed ! It is for us, not thee, we grieve ! 
Yet even so, ye voices, and yon tide 

Of souls innnmerous that imnting heave 

To rhythmic pulses of God's heart, and hide 
Beneath your myriad booming breakers wide 

The universal Life invisible. 

Give praise ! Behold, the void that was so still 

Breaks into singing, and the desert cries — 

Praise, praise to Thee ! praise for Thy servant 
Death, 

The healer and deliverer! from his eyes 

Flows life that cannot die ; yea, with his breath 
The dross of weary earth he winnoweth. 

Leaving all pure and perfect things to be 

Merged in the soul of Thine immensitj' ! 

Praise, Lord, yea, praise for this our brother Death ! 
Though also for the fair mysterious veil 

Of life that from Thy radiance severeth 

Our mortal sight, for these faint blossoms frail 
Of joy on earth we cherish, for the pale 

Light of the circling years, wo praise Thee too : — 

Since thus as in a web Thy spirit through 



The phantom world is woven : — Yet thrice praise 
For him who frees us ! Surely we shall gain. 

As guerdon for the exile of these days. 

Oneness with Thee; and as the drops of rain, 
Cast from the sobbing cloud in summer's pain, 

Eesume their rest in ocean, even so we. 

Lost for awhile, shall find ourselves in Thee. 



FROM "SONNETS ON THE THOUGHT OF 
DEATH." 

III. 
Deeji calleth unto deep : the Infinite 
Within us to the Infinite without 
Cries with an inextinguishable shout. 
In spite of all we do to stifie it. 
Therefore Death in the coming gloom hath lit 
A torch for Love to fly to. Dread and Doubt 
Vanish like broken armies in the rout 
When the swords splinter and the hauberks split. 
But in the interval of crossing spears 
There is a stagnant dark, where all things seem 
By frauds encompassed and confused with fears : 
Herein we live our common lives, and dream ; 
Yet even here, remembering Love, we may 
Look with calm ej"es for Death to summon day. 



Can dissolution build? Shall death amend 
Chaos on chaos hurled of human hope, 
Co-ordinate our eftorts with our scope, 
And in white light the hues of conflict blend? — 
Alas ! we know not where our footsteps tend ; 
High overhead the unascended cope 
Is lost in ether, while we blindly grope 
'Mid mist-wreaths that the warring thunders rend. — 
Somehow, we know not how; somewhere, but where 
We know not ; by some hand, we know not whose, 
Joy must absorb the whole wide world's despair. 
This we call Faith : but if we dare impose 
Form on this faith, we shall but beat the air, 
Or build foundations on the baseless ooze. 



Onward forever flows the tide of Life, 
Still broadening, gathering to itself the riUs 
That made dim music in the primal hills, 
And tossing crested waves of joy and strife. 
We watch it rising where no seeds are rife, 
But fire the elemental vortex fills ; 
Through plant and beast it streams, till human wills 
Unfold the sanctities of human life. 



912 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN I'OETRY. 



riirtlier vic seo uot. But here faith joins hands 
With reason : life that onward came to us 
From simple to more complex, still must flow 
Forward and forward througli far wider lands : — 
If thought hegins with man, the lumiuous 
Kingdom of mind beyond him still must grow. 



Is there then liope that thou and I shall he 

Saved from the ruin of the ravcu6ns years, 

Ami jilaced, though late, at last among our peers. 

On the firm heights of immortality ? 

Nay, not so. Thought may buru eternally, 

And beacon through teu thousand broadeuing 

spheres, 
Using our lives like wood that disappears 
In the fierce flame it feeds continually. 
Thus we may serve to l)uild the cosmic soul 
As moments in its being : but to deem 
That we shall therefore grow to grasp the whole, 
Or last as separate atoms in the stream 
Of Life transcendent, were a beauteous dream. 
Too fi-ail to bear stern reason's strong control. 



Yet Hope, cast back on Feeliug, argues thus :^ 

If thought be highest in the scale we see, 

That thought is also personality, 

Conscious of self, aspiring, emulous. 

Growth furthermore means goodness : naught in ns 

Abides and flourishes, unless it be 

Tempered for life by love's vitality. 

Evil is everywhere deciduous. 

Shall then the universal Thought, pure mind, 

Pure growth, pure good, he found impersonal ? 

And if a Persou, dare we think or call 

Him cruel, to his members so unkind 

As to permit our agony, nor bind 

Each flower Death iilucks into Life's coronal ? 



One saith, "The world's a stage: I took my seat; 

I saw the show ; and now 'tis time to rise." 

Another saith, "I came with eager eyes 

Into life's banquet-hall to drink and cat ; 

The hour hath struck when I must shoe my feet, 

And gird me for the way that deathward lies." 

Another saith, " Life is a bird that flies 

From dark through light to darkness, arrowy-fleet." 

One show ; one feast ; one flight ; — must that be all ? 

Could we unlearn this longing, could we cry, 

"Thanks for our part in life's fair festival! 

We know uot whence we came, we know uot why 



We go, nor where ; but God is over all !" 
It would not then be terrible to die. 



Hush, heart of mine ! Nor jest, nor blasphemy 

Beseems the strengthless creature of an hour! 

Wed resignation rather ; dread the power, 

Whate'er it be, that rules thy destiny. 

Nay, learn to love ; love irresistibly ! 

With obstinate reiteration shower 

Praises and prayers, thy spirit's dearest dower. 

On the mute altar of that deity ! 

They work no wrong who worship: they arc pure 

Who seek God even in the sightless blue : 

And they have hope of victory who endure. — 

This mortal life, like a dark avenue. 

Is leading thee iierchance to light secure, 

And limitless horizons clear to view. 



THE WILL. 

Blame not the times in which we live. 
Nor Fortune frail and fugitive ; 
Blame not thy parents, nor the rule 
Of vice or wrong once learned at school ; 
But blame thyself, O man ! 

Althongh both heaven and earth combined 
To mould thy flesh and form tby mind. 
Though every thought, word, action, will. 
Was framed by powers beyond thee, still 
TLou art thyself, O man ! 

And self to take or leave is free. 
Feeling its own sufticiency : 
In spite of science, spite of tate, 
The judge within thee soon or late 
Will blame but thee, man ! 

Say not, " I would, but could not — He 
Should bear the blame, who fashioned me- 
Call yon mere change of motive choice !" 
Scoruing such pleas, the inner voice 

Cries, "Thine the deed, O man!" 



BEATI ILLI. 

Blessed is the man whose heart and hands are pure! 
He liath no sickness that he shall not cure. 
No sorrow that he may not well endure : 
His feet are steadfast and his hope is sure. 



JOHN A. SYilONDS.— EDMUND ARMSTRONG.— MRS. AUGUSTA WEBSTER. 



913 



Ob, blessed is lie who ne'er liath sold liis sonl, 
Whose will is perfect, and whose word is whole, 
Who hath not jiaid to coiiimou-sense the toll 
Of self-disgrace, nor owned the world's control ! 

Through clonds and shadows of the darkest night 
He will not lose a gliminering of the light, 
Nor, though the snu of day be shronded qnite, 
Swerve from the narrow path to left or right. 



(fiimunL) ;?lvm5tvoug. 

Armstrong (1841-186.5) was a native of Ireland, and a 
graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, wliore lie was Presi- 
dent of the Undergraduates' Philosophical Society. At 
one time an avowed holder of sceptical views in regard 
to immortality and the divine purpose of life, he lived to 
recaut and disavow his former opinions, but died at the 
early age of twenty-four. A volume of his poems was 
published by Edward Moxon ifc Co., London, in 1806, 
They show that the poetical clement in his nature was 
too strong for the sceptical. 



FEOM DARKNESS TO LIGHT. 

Friend of my sonl, for ns no more 
The sea of dark negation booms 

Upon a strange and shadowy shore — 
An ocean vexed with glooms ; 

Whereon, iu trembling barks forlorn. 
We tossed npou the waves of donbt. 
Our compa.ss gone, onr starlight out, 

Our shrouds and cordage torn. 

Onr conr.se is on another sea ; 

Beneath a radiant arch of day ; 
While bursts of noble harmony 

Inspire us on our way ; 
Subdiiiug to a trustful calm 

Our spirits amid surge and wind. 

And flowing on the anxious mind 
Like gusts of healing balm. 



illrs. i^lugusttt lUcbstcr. 

Mrs. Webster, born in England about 1841, published 
in 1866 "A Woman Sold, and other Poems," also 
" Dramatic Studies " and "The Auspicious Day" (1872). 
There are several other works from her pen. One of 
her critics says: "She has a dramatic faculty unusual 
with women, a versatile range, much penetration of 
thought, and is remarkably free from the dangerous 
mannerisms of modern verse." 
58 



TO BLOOM IS THEN TO WANE. 

Too .soon so fair, fair lilies; 
To bloom is then to wane ; 

The folded bud has still 

To-morrows at its will, 
Blown flowers can never blow agaiu. 

Too soon so bright, bright noontide ; 

The sun that now is high 
Will heucofortU only sink 
Toward the western brink ; 

Day that's at prime begins to die. 

Too soon so rich, ripe summer, 
For autumn tracks thee fast ; 

Lo, death-marks ou the leaf! 

Sweet summer, and my grief; 
For summer come is summer jiast. 

Too soon, too soon, lost summer ; 

Some hours and thou art o'er. 
Ah ! death is part of birth : 
Summer leaves not the earth. 

But last year's summer lives no more. 



THE GIFT. 

happy glow! O sun-bathed tree! 
O golden-lighted river! 

A love-gift has been given me. 
And which of you is giver? 

1 came upon you something sad. 
Musing a mournful measure, 

Now all my heart in mo is glad 
With a quick sense of pleasure. 

I came upon yon with a heart 
Half sick of lifa's vexed story. 

And now it grows of you a part. 
Steeped in your golden glory. 

A smile into my heart h.as crept 
And laughs through all my being; 

New joy into my life has leapt, 
A joy of only seeing! 

O happy glow! O sun-liathed tree! 

O golden-lighted river! 
A love-gift has been given me, 

And which of you is giver ? 



914 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Soaquin llliilcr. 



AMERICAN. 

Miller was bora in 1841 in Indiana. Wlicn he was 
tliirteen, liis parents emigrated to Oregon overland, and 
settled in the Willamette Valley. After some rough ad- 
ventures in the mining districts of California, he studied 
law, was admitted to praetice, and in 1866 was elected 
county judge. Having published a small volume of 
poems, one of which bore the title of "Joaquin," he 
adopted that name instead of his original one of Cincin- 
natus Heine Miller. In 1870 he went to Europe, and in 
London found a publisher for his "Songs of the Sier- 
ras," whicli quickly gave him a reputation abroad and at 
home. He has since published " The Ship in the Desert, 
a Poem," and " Songs of Italy " (1878). 



LONGINGS FOR HOME. 

Could I but return to luy woods once more, 

And dwell iu their depths as I have dwelt, 

Kneel in their mosses as I have knelt, 

Sit where the cool white rivers run, 

Away from the world and half hid from the sun, 

Hear -nind in the woods of mj' storm-torn shore. 

Glad to the heart with listening, — 

It seems to me that I then could sing, 

And sing as I never have sung before. 

I miss, how wholly I miss my wood, 

My matchless, magiiiticeut, dark-leaved firs, 

That climb uji the terrible heights of Hoo<l, 

Where only the breath of white heaven stirs! 

These Alps they are barren ; wrapped in storms, 

Formless masses of Titan forms, 

They loom like ruins of a grandeur gone, 

And lonesome as death to look upon. 

O God ! ouco more iu my life to hear 

The voice of a wood that is loud and alive, 

That stirs with its being like a vast bee-hive! 

And oh, once more in my life to see 

The great bright eyes of tlie antlered deer ; 

To sing with the birds that sing for me, 

To tread where only the red man trod. 

To say no word, but listen to God ! 



PALATINE HILL. 

A wolf-like stream without a sonnd 
Steals by and hides beneath the shore, 
Its awful secrets evermore 

Within its sullen bosom bound. 



And this was Rome, that shrieked for room 
To stretch her limbs! A hill of caves 
For half-wild beasts and hairy slaves ; 

And gypsies tent within her tomb ! 

Two lone palms on the PaUatine, 
Two rows of cypress black and tall, 
With white roots set in C'sesar's Hall, — 

A garden, convent, and sweet shrine. 

Tall cedars on a broken wall. 
That look away toward Lebanon, 
And seem to mourn for grandeur gone : 

A wolf, an ow], — and that is all. 



LOVE ME, LOVE. 

Love me, love, but breathe it low. 

Soft as summer weather ; 
If you love me, tell me so. 

As we sit together, 
Sweet and still as roses blow — 
Love me, love, but breathe it low. 

Tell me only with your eyes. 
Words are cheap as water, 
If you love me, looks and sighs 

Tell my mother's daughter 
More than all the world may know- 
Love me, love, but breathe it low. 

Words for others, storm and snow, 
Wind and changeful weather — 

Let the shallow waters flow 
Foaming on together ; 

But love is still and deep, and oh! 

Love me, love, but breathe it low. 



illavic R. £ticostc. 

Miss Lacostc, horn about the year 1843, was a resident 
of SavauualijGa. (1803), at the time she wrote the charm- 
ing little poem of "Somebody's Darling." Without her 
consent, it was first published, with her name attached, 
iu the Southern Churchman. It has since been copied 
into American and English collections, school-books, 
and ncwspajiers, with her name ; so that her wish to re- 
main anonymous seems to be now impracticable. Her 
residence (1880) was Baltimore, and her occupation that 
of a teacher. In a letter to us (1880), she writes: "I 
am tlioroughly French, and desire .always to he identi- 
fied with France; to be known and considered ever as a 
Frenchwoman. * * * I cannot be considered an authoress 



MARIE R. LACOSTE.—MAY BILEY SMITH. 



915 



at nil, and resi2;n all claim to the title." Tlie patriotism 
of Miss Lacostc is wortliy of all praise; but if she did 
not wish to be regarded as an authoress, and a much 
esteemed one, she ought never to have written "Some- 
body's Darling." The marvel is tliat the vein from 
which came this felicitous little poem has not been 
more productively worlced. 



SOMEBODY'S DARLING. 

Into a ward of tlie wliitewasbed walls, 

Where tbe dead and dying lay, 
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, 

Somebody's Darling was borue one day — 
Somebody's Darling, so young and so brave, 

Wearing yet on bis pale, sweet face, 
Soon to be bid by the dnst of the grave, 

Tbo lingering light of his boyhood's grace. 

Matted and damp are tbe cnrls of gold. 

Kissing the snow of that fair young brow ; 
Pale are the lips of delicate mould — 

Somebody's Darling is dying now. 
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow 

Brush all the waiulering waves of gold, 
Cross his hands on his bosom now, 

Somebody's Darling is still and cold. 

Kiss him once for somebody's sake. 

Murmur a prayer soft and low ; 
One bright curl from its fair mates take, 

They were somebody's pride, you know : 
Somebody's baud had rested there, — 

Was it a motlier's soft and white? 
And have the lips of a sister fair 

Been baptized in those waves of light? 

God knows best ; he has somebody's love ; 

Somebody's heart eushriued bim there ; 
Somebody wafted his name above 

Night and morn on the wings of prayer. 
Somebody wept wheu be marched away, 

Looking so handsome, brave, and grand ; 
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay. 

Somebody clung to his parting hand. 

Somebody's waiting and watching for him — 

Yearuing to hold him again to the heart ; 
And there he lies with his blue eyes dim, 

And the smiling childlike lips apart. 
Tenderly bury the fair young dead. 

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear ; 
Carve on the wooden slab at his head, — 

" Somebody's Darling slumbers here." 



iHaii Hilcn Smitlj. 



May Louise Riley was boi-n iu Brighton, a suburb of 
Rochester, N. Y., in 1843, and became by marriage Mrs. 
Albert Smith, and a resident of Chicago. She has been 
a writer from her youth, and a frequent contributor to 
newspapers and magazines. She excels iu homely ar.d 
pathetic themes, and some of her poems have been wide- 
ly copied. 



IF. 

If, sitting with this little, worn-out shoe 
And scarlet stocking lying on my knee, 

I knew the little feet had pattered through 

The pearl-set gates that lie 'twixt Heaven and me, 

I could be rccouciled and happy, too, 

And look with glad eyes toward the jasper sea. 

If in the morning, wheu the song of birds 
Reminds me of a music far more sweet, 

I listen for his pretty, broken words. 
And for the music of his dimpled feet, 

I could be almost happy, though I heard 
No answer, aud but saw his vacant seat. 

I could be glad if, when the day is done. 
And all its cares aud heartaches laid away, 

I could look westward to the hidden sun, 

Aud, with a heart full of sweet yearnings, say — 

" To-night I'm nearer to my little one 
By just tlie travel of a single day." 

If I could know those little feet were shod 
In sandals wrought of light in better lauds, 

Aud that the footprints of a tender God 

Ran side by side with him, in golden sands, 

I could bow cheerfully aud kiss the rod. 
Since Benuy was iu wiser, safer hands. 

If he were dead, I would not sit to-day 

And stain with tears the wee sock on my knee ; 

I would not kiss the tiny shoe and say — 
" Bring back again my little boy to me !" 

I would be i^atient, knowing 'twas God's way, 
And wait to meet him o'er death's silent sea. 

But oh ! to know the feet, once pure and white, 
The haunts of vice had boldly ventured in ! 

The hands that should have battled for the right 
Had been wrung crimson iu the clasp of sin ! 

And should he knock at Heaven's gate to-night. 
To fear my boy could hardly enter iu ! 



916 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



|Jljilip 33onvkc lllarston. 

Marston, one of the young English poets of tlie latter 
half of tbe nineteenth century, is the son of John West- 
land Marston (born 1830), author of "The Patrieian's 
Daughter," and other plays; whose dramatic and poet- 
ical works were published in a collected form in 1876. 
Philip is said to be blind, though not from birth, lie 
has published " Song-tide, and other Poems" (1871), and 
"All in All: Poems and Sonnets" (1874). He has also 
contributed to LipjHitcoWs and other American maga- 
zines. His poems, artistic in construction, tender and 
emotional in sentiment, have found an enlarging circle 
of admirers. 

FROM FAR. 

O Love, come back, across the weary way 
Tlion didst go yesterday — 

Dear Love, come back ! 

"I am too far upon my way to turn: 
Be silent, hearts that yearn 
Upon my track." 

O Love! Love! Love! sweet Love! we are undone 
If thou indeed be gone 

Where lost things are. 



"Beyond the extrcmest sea's waste lij; 
As from Gbostland, tliy voice 
Is borne afar." 



it and noise, 



O Love, what was our sin that wc should bo 
Forsaken tlins by thee ? 
So Lard a lot ! 

"Upon your hearts ray bands and lips were set — 
Aly lips of fire — and yet 

Ye knew uie not." 

Nay, snrely, Love ! We knew tbee well, sweet Love ! 
Did we not breathe and move 
Within thy light? 

" Yc did reject my thorns who wore my roses : 
Now darkness closes 

Upon your sight." 

O Lovo ! stern Lovo ! be not implacable : 
AVo loved thee, Love, so well ! 
Come back to us ! 

"To whom, and where, and by what weary way 
That 1 went yesterday, 

Shall I come thus ?" 



Ob weep, weep, weep ! for Love, who tarried long, 
With many a kiss and song, 
Has taken wing. 

No more be lightens in our eyes like fire: 
He heeds not our desire, 

Or songs we sing. 



Siiincii £tinicr. 



Born in Macon, Ga,, in 1843, Lanier took up bis resi- 
dence in Baltimore, where he became lecturer on Eng- 
lish Literature in the Johns Hopkins University. In 
1878 he published a small collection of poems from the 
press of Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia; and a new vol- 
ume was to appear in 1881. His prose works are " Flor- 
ida" (187.3), and "The Science of English Verse" (1880) 
— a volume of much original merit, in which he seems 
to have been unindebted to any predecessor. He is also 
the author of some approved books for boys. Lanier 
is a proficient in music, and a member of the Peabody 
Orchestra, an organization for the cultivation of classic 
music, maintained iu connection with the Peabody In- 
stitute. 



A ROSE-MORAL. 

Soul, get thee to the heart 

Of yonder tuberose; liide Ibee there. 
There breathe the meditations of thine art 
Snlfuscd with prayer. 

Of spirit grave yet light, 

How fervent fragrances uprise 
Pure-born from these most rich and yet most white 
Virginities ! 

Miihhed with unsavory death. 

Reach, Soul ! yon rose's wliite estate : 
Give oft' thine art as'she doth issue breath, 
And wait, — and wait. 



EVENING SONG. 

Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands, 

And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea ; 
How long they kiss, iu sight of all the lands ! 
Ah, longer, longer we. 

Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun, 

As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine, 
And Cleopatra Night drinks all. 'Tis done ! 
Love, lay tby band Iu mine. 



SIDNEY LAyiEli.— THOMAS STEPHENS COLLIER. 



9!7 



Come forth, sweet stars, aud comfort Heaven's heart ; 
Gliiiimcr, ye waves, rouuil else-uulighted sauils ; 
O Night, divorce our suu and sky apart — 
Never our lips, our hauds. 



THE HAKLEQUIX OF DREAMS. 

Swift through some trap uiine eyes have uever 

found, 
Dim-pauelled in the painted scene of sleep. 
Thou, giaut Harlequin of Dreams, dost leap 
Upon my spirit's stage. Then sight and sound, 
Then space and time, then language, mete and bound. 
And all familiar forms that firmly keep 
Man's reason in the road, change faces, peep 
Betwixt the legs, and mock the daily round. 
Yet thou canst more than mock : souictinics my tears 
At midnight break through boundeu lids — a sign 
Thou hast a heart; and oft thy little leaven 
Of dream-taught wisdom works me bettered years. 
In one night witch, saint, trickster, fool divine, 
I think thou'rt Jester at the Court of Heaven ! 



FROM THE FLATS. 

What heartache — ne'er a hill ! 
luexorable, vapid, vague, and chill 
The drear sand-levels drain ray spirit low. 
With one poor word they tell mo all they know ; 
Whereat their stupid tongues, to tease my paiu. 
Do drawl it o'er again and o'er again. 
They hurt my heart with griefs I cannot name: 
Always the same, the same. 

Nature hath no surprise. 
No ambuscade of beauty, 'gainst mine eyes 
From brake or lurking dell or deej) deiile ; 
No humors, frolic forms — this mile, that mile; 
No rich reserves or happy-valley hopes 
Beyond the bends of roads, the distant slopes. 
Her fancy fails, her wild is all run tame : 
Ever the same, the same. 

Oh, might I through these tears 
But glimpse some hill my Georgia high uprears. 
Where white the quartz and pink the pebbles shine. 
The hickory heavenward strives, the muscadine 
Swings o'er the slope, the oak's far-falling shade 
Darkens the dog-wood in the bottom glade, 
And down the hollow from a ferny nook 
Bright leaps a living brook ! 



ULl)onu:5 5tcpl)cn5 CcHicr. 



A native of New York city, born in 1.S42, Collier was 
left an orplian at six years of age. He toolc to the sea, 
and before he was sixteen had visited Africa, China, and 
Japan. He was in the United States Naval Service dur- 
ing the Rebellion, and visited China and the East a sec- 
ond time. On his return he became a resident of New 
London, Conn. His poems are marked by a progressive 
improvement, indicative of reserved power, yet undevel- 
oped. 



A WINDY EVENING. 

The sun sank low; beyond the harbor bar 

The waves ran white and high ; 
The reefed sails of a vessel showed afar 

Against the gray-blue sky. 

Sharp called the gnlls, as 'mid the tossing spray 

They circled swift ; and loud 
The north wind roared, as it rushed down the bay. 

And rent the seaward cloud. 

Past the old light-house, rising white and tall, 

Like birds the wind deceives. 
Swept from the forest by the surging squall. 

Sail the sear autumn leaves. 

Fast o'er the dark and foam-capped waves they fly. 

Brown ghosts of May and June, 
Seeking the ship tossed up along the .sky 

Beneath a thin, white moon. 

Then as they sped on to the shadows gray, 

The suu sank lower down. 
Sending a golden light across the bay, 

And through the dark old town. 

It made the chui'ch .spires glow with shifting light. 

That slow grew faint and pale. 
As it was borne into the coming night 

By the swift rushing gale. 

The shadows darkened, and along the sea 

The swayiug ship had flown ; 
The suu was gone ; one bright star, glisteningly, 

Near to the moon outshone. 

Through crimson, flame, amber, and paling gold. 

Faded the day's sweet light ; 
And on the sea and land gathered the cold 

Gray shadows of the night. 



D18 



CrCLOPJ^DU OF BlilTISn AXI) AMEHICAX POETRY. 



A SEA ECHO. 

Tbc vraves came juoauiiig up tbo sliore, 

Came white with foam close to her feet, 
And sang, "Your love ■will come no more 

To give you kisses sweet." 
Tlie low wind sighed among the trees, 

" Your love is sailing far away. 
Where over bright, sun-ligbted seas 

Soft summer breezes play." 

"O sighing wind! O moaning sea! 

You have no knowledge of my love ; 
Where'er bis ship doth sail, still he 

To mo will faithful prove : 
While skies are blue, while stars are bright. 

And waves come singing up the shore, 
I know my lover will delight 

In me, and love me more." 

"And if your lover silent lies, 

Where coral flowers around him grow, 
The love-ligbt faded fiom his eyes. 

That once they used to know — 
If he no more can come to you, 

Where will your soul find joy and rest ? 
What is your gain, if lie is true 

And loves you still the best V 

"Ah, sea and wind, if he no more 

Can come to me, I still shall hold 
His love more precious than before ; 

No death can make love cold. 
Why moan or cry ? what use of tears ? 

Though long days make my eyes grow dim, 
There comes an end to .all the years — 

And I c;ui go to him." 



iloljn J^Jaiiuc. 



Payne, born in ETi<;lan(l in lf>43, has won some dis- 
tinction by liis uraeeful and musical but highly elahorati; 
imitations of Frencli forms of verse. He lias publislicd 
"The M.isque of Shadows, and other Poems" (1870); 
"Intaglios: Sonnets" (1871); "Soiiss of Life and 
Death " (1873) ; " The Poems of Francis Villon done into 
English Verse in tlio Original Forms" (printed for pri- 
vate circulation); "Lautrec, a Poem;" "New Poems" 
(1880). The Westiiiiiixtcr J{cview says of Payne: "He lias 
succeeded in wedding thought to new music. He may 
not be popular witli the ' blind multitude,' but lie is sure 
to be so with all lovers of poetry both to-day and to- 
morrow. " Some of the best of his imitations of Frcncli 
forms appeared in the Loudon Aihemcwn. 



RONDEAU REDOUBLE. 

My day and night are in mj' lady's hand; 

I have no other sunrise than her sight : 
For me ber favor glorifies the land ; 

Her auger darkens all the cheerful light; 
Her face is fairer than the hawthorn white, 

Wlieii all a-flower iu May the hedge-rows stand: 
Whilst she is kind I know of none aifright ; 

My day and night are iu my lady's baud. 

All heaven in ber glorious eyes is spanned : 

Her smile is softer than the Summer night, 
Gladder than daybreak on the Faery strand : 

I have no other snurise than ber sight. 

Her silver speech is like the singing flight 
Of runnels rippling o'er the jewelled sand, 

Her kiss a dream of delicate delight; 
For me her favor glorifies the land. 

Wliat if the Winter .slay tlie Summer bland! 

Tlie gold sun iu her hair burns ever bright : 
If she be sad, straightway all joy is banned ; 

Her auger darkens all the cheerful light. 

Come weal or woe, I am my lady's kniglit, 
And iu her surface every ill withstand ; 

Love is my lord, iu all the world's despite, 
And holdeth in the hollow of bis hand 
My day and night. 



VILLANELLE. 

Th(^ 

ISetwcen the gusts that come and go 
Slethinks I hear the woodlark singing. 

Jlothiuks I see the- jirimrose springing 

On many a bank and hedge, although 
Tlie air is white with snou-flakcs clinging. 

Surely the hands of Spring are flinging 

Wood-scents to all the winds that blow : 
Methiiiks I hear the woodlark singing, 

Methinks I see the swallow winging 

Across tlie woodlands sad with snow ; 
The air is white with snow-flakes clinging. 

Was lli.at the cuckoo's wood-chime swinging ? 

Was that the linnet fluting low? 
Methinks 1 hear tbo woodlark singing. 



JOHN PAYNE.— HARRIET W. PRESTON.— NORA PERRY. 



919 



Or can it be the breeze is bringing 

Tlie breiltU of violets * AIi no ! 
The air is white witb snow-llakes clinging. 

It is my lady's voice that's stringing 
Its beads of gold to song ; and so 
Methiuks I hear the woodlark singing. 

Tlie violets I see upspringing 

Are in my lady's eyes, I trow : 
The air is white with snow-flakes clinging. 

Dear, whilst thy tender notes are ringing. 

Even whil.st amidst the winter's woe 
The air is white with snow-llakes clinging, 
Methiuks I hear the woodlark singing. 



<5anict In. ^Jvcston. 

AMERICAN. 

Miss Preston is a native of Danvers, Mass. She has 
won distinction by her excellent translations of Proven- 
jal poetry, and is the autlior of" Aspeudale," "Love in 
the Nineteenth Century," and several attractive maga- 
zine papers. Slie is also tlie translator of Frederick Mis- 
tral's "Mireio" (1873); and in 1876 published a volume 
entitled "Troubadours and Trouveres, New and Old," 
from which we extract "Thirteen," after Theodore Au- 
banel, a modern Provenfal poet — the poem being found- 
ed on the old superstition that in a dinner-party of thir- 
teen one will die before a year is ended. In her oriu;inal 
verses she has been equally successful. 



THIRTEEN. 

"Touch, for your life, no single viand costly! 

Taste not a drop of liquor where it shiues ! 
Be here but as the cat who lingers ghostly 

About the flesh upon the spit and whines ; 
Xy, let the banquet freeze or perish wholly 

Or ever a morsel pass your lips between ! 
For I have counted you, my comrades jolly, 

Ye are thirteen, all told, — 1 say thirteen!'" 

" Well, what of that ?" the messmates answered, 
lightly ; 

" So be it then ! We are as well eouteut ! 
The longer table means, if we guess rightly. 

Space for more jesters, broader merriment." 
"'Tis I will w.ike the wit and spice the folly! 

The haughtiest answer when I speak, I ween. 
And T have counted you, my comrades jolly ! 

Ye are thirteen, all told, — I say thirteen!" 



" So ho ! thou thiukest then to quench our laughter ? 

Thou art a gloomy presence, verily ! 
We wager that wo know wliat thou art after! 

Come, then, a drink ! and bid thy vapors fly ! 
Thou slialt not taint ns with thy melancholy" — 

" Nay, 'tis not thirst gives me this haggard mien. 
Laugh to your hearts' content, my comrades jolly ^ 

Still I have counted, and ye .are thirteen!" 

".Who art thou then, thou kill-joy? What's thy 
nature. 

And what thy name, and what thy business here ?" 
"My name is Death! Observe my every feature! 

I waken longing and I carry fear. 
Sovereign am I of mourners and of jesters; 

Behind the living still I walk unseen, 
And evermore make one among the feasters 

When all their tale is told, and they thirteen." 

" Ha ! art thou Death ? I am well pleased to know 
thee," 
A gallant cried, and held his glass aloft ; 
"Their scarecrow tales, O Death, small justice do 
thee ; 
Where are the terrors thou hast vaunted oft? 
Come, feast with me as often as they bid thee ! 

Our friendly plates be laid with none between." 
" Silence," cried Death, " and follow where I lead 
thee. 
For thou art he who makest us thirteen." 

Sudden, as a grape-cluster, when dissevered 

By the sharp knife, drops from the parent bough, 
The crimson wine-glass of the gallant wavered 

And fell ; chill moisture started to his brow. 
Death, cry iug, "Thou canst not walk, hut I cau carry," 

Shouldered his burden with >a ghastly grin, 
And to the stricken feasters said, " Be wary ! 

I make my count oft as ye make thirteen." 



Nora IJcrvg. 



A native and resident of Providence, R. I., Miss Perry 
has published two volumes of jiocnis : "After the Ball, 
and other Poems" (1876), and "Her Lover's Friend, 
and other Poems." David A. Wasson, a good critical 
judge, says of the last-named volume: "I recognize in 
some of these pieces a quality of literary production 
wbif'h is very nncommon, if it be not quite unique, in 
this country." Harriet Prescott Spotford, herself a poet, 
writes: "There is little art in Nora Perry's songs ; they 
are as natural as a bird's. There are very few figures. 



920 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



metaplmrs, startling phrases, and no affectations of pliil- 
osopliie tliougiit, in tlie lines ; but tliey lilt alons in a 
perpetual sweet cantabile, and one realizes that there is 
no knack or effort about it, but that it is the voice and 
breath of simple genius. With its music there is to be 
felt in all her verse the spirit of purity, of innocence, 
and youth." 



IX THE DAEK. 

This is my littlo sweetheart dead. 
Blue were Ler eyes, aud her cheek was red 
And warm at my touch when I saw her last, 
When she smiled on ine and held me fast 

AVith the light, soft clasp of her slender hand : 
And now hcside her I may stand and stand 
Hour after hour, aud no blnsh would rise 
On licr dead white cheek; and her shut bine eyes 

Will never unclose at my kiss or call. — 
If this is the e'.id ; if this he all 
That I am to know of this ■woman dear; 
If the beautiful spirit I knew, lies here. 

With the heautiful hody cold aud still ; 
If, while I stand hero now, aud thrill 
With my yearning memories sore at heart 
For a token or sign to rend apart 

The pitiless veil, — there is nothing beyond ; 

If this woman, so fair, so fine, so fond 

A week ago — fond, fine, and fair 

With tlio life, the soul that shone out there, 

In her eyes, her voice, which made her in truth 
The woman I loved ; if this woman forsooth 
Is dead as this dead clay that lies 
Under my gaze with close-shut eyes, 

Then what is the meaning of life, when death 
Can break it all, as breaks at a breath 
The child's blown bubble afloat in the sun ? 
What is the meaning, if all is done 

When this breath goes out into empty air, 
Like this childish plaything Hinisy aud fair? 
What is tlie meaning of love's long pain, 
The yearning mcnmrics that love and strain 

The living heart or the living soul, 
If this is the end, if this is the whole 
Of life and death, — this little span 
That drops in the dark before the span 



Which the hraiu couceives is half complete, 
Making life but the empty bubble's cheat? 
When, a year ago, through all the niazo 
Of .speculation's far-hung haze, 

I followed on with careless tread, 
/ had not looked then on tny dead — 
My dead so infinitely dear. 
My dead that coldly lying here 

Mocks my fond heart with semblance fair, 
Chills me with measureless desi)air. 
Then I could calmly measure fate. 
With Nature's laws, and speculate 

On all the doubts that science brings ; 
Now, standing here, what is it springs 
Within my soul, that makes despair 
Not quite despair? O fond, O fair, 

O little sweetheart, dead to me. 
Somewhere or other thou must wait for me : 
Somewhere, somewhere, I shall not look in vain 
To find thy living face, thy living love again ! 



IX JUXK. 

So sweet, so sweet the roses iii their blowing. 
So sweet the daft'odils, so fair to see ; 

So blitho and gay the humming-bird agoiug 
From llower to fiower, a-hunting willi the bee. 



So sweet, so sweet the calling of the thrushes. 
The calling, cooing, wooing everywhere; 

So sweet the water's song through reeds and rnshes, 
The plover's piping note, now here, now there. 

So sweet, so sweet from off the fields of clover 
The west wind blowing, blowing up the hill ; 

So sweet, so sweet with news of some one's lover. 
Fleet footsteps, ringing nearer, nearer still. 



So near, so near, now listen, listen, thrushes ; 

Now plover, blackbird, cease, and let me hear; 
Aud water, hush your song through reeds and 
rnsbcs, 

That I may know whose lover cometh near. 

So loud, so 'oud the thrushes kept their calling, 
Plover or blackbird never heeding me ; 

So loud tlu! mill-stream too kept fietting, falling, 
O'er bar and hank, in brawling, boisterous glee. 



^''OEA PES BY. 



931 



So loud, so loud ; yet blackbird, tlinisli, nor plover. 
Nor noisy mill-stream iu its fret and fall, 

Could drowu the voice, tlie low voice of my lover, 
My lover calling tbroiigb tbe tbrusbes' call. 

" Come down, come down !'' be called, and straigbt 

tbe tbrusbes [dowul" 

From mate to mate sang all at once, " Como 

And while the water laughed through reeds and 

rushes, [down !" 

The blackbird chirped, tbe plover piped, " Come 

Then down and ofl", and thvongb tlie fields of clover, 
I followed, followed, at my lover's call. 

Listening no more to blackbird, thrush, or plover, 
The water's laugh, the mill-stream's fret and fall. 



RIDING DOWN. 

Ob, did you see him riding down, 
And riding down, while all tbe town 
Came out to see, came out to see. 
And all tbe bells rang mad with glee ? 

Ob, did you hear those bells ring out, 
The bells ring out, the people .shout, 
Aud did you bear th.at cheer on cheer 
That over all the bells rang clear? 

And did you see the waving flags. 

The fluttering flags, the tattered rags, 

Eed, white, and blue, shot tbrongb and tbrongb. 

Baptized witb battle's deadly dew ? 

And did you hear the drums' gay beat, 
Tbe drums" gay beat, tbe bugles sweet. 
The cymbals' clash, tbe cannons' crash. 
That rent the sky with sound and flash ? 

Aud did you see me waiting there. 
Just waiting there, and watching there, 
One little lass, amid tbe mass 
That pressed to see the hero pass ? 

And did you see bim smiling down, 
Aud smiling down, as riding down 
Witb slowest jiace, witb stately grace, 
He caught the vision of a face, — 

My face uplifted red and white, , 

Turned red aud white witb sheer delight, 
To meet tbe eyes, the smiling eyes, 
Outflashing in their swift surprise f 



Oh, did' you see how swift it came. 
How swift it came like sudden flame, 
That smile to me, to onlj' me. 
The little lass who blushed to see ? 

And at the windows all along. 
Oh all along, a lovely throng 
Of faces fair, beyond couipare, 
Beamed out upon him riding there I 

Each face was like a radiant gem, 
A sparkling gem, aud yet for them 
No swift smile came, like sudden flame, 
No arrowy glance took certain aim. 

He turned away from all their grace, 
From all that grace of perfect face. 
He turned to me, to only me. 
The little lass who blushed to see. 



SOME DAY OF DAYS. 

Some day, some day of days, threading the street 

Witb idle, heedless pace, 

Unlookiug for such grace, 

I shall behold your face ! 
Some day, some day of days, thus may we meet. 

Perchance the sun may shine from skies of May, 

Or winter's- icy chill 

Touch wbitcly vale aud hill. 

What matter ? I shall thrill 
Through every vein witb summer on that day. 

Once more life's perfect youth will all come back, 

And for a moment there 

I shall stand fresh aud fair, 

And drop the garment care ; 
Once nuire my perfect youth will nothing lack. 

I shut niy eyes now, thinkiug how 'twill be 

How face to face each soul 

Will slip its long control. 

Forget the dismal dole 
Of dreary Fate's dark separating sea ; 

And glance to glance, and baud to hand in greeting, 

The past with all its fears, 

Its silences aud tears. 

Its lonely, yearning years, 
Shall vanish in the moment of that meeting;-. 
ISTl. 



922 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



M}\\ Soijlc (D'lkilli). 

O'Reilly was born in 1844 in Dowtli Castle, Connty 
Meatli, Ireland. He was educated by his father, and be- 
came a journalist. In 1863 he engaged in the revolution- 
ary movement for a republic. Entering the English army 
in a cavalry regiment, he made no secret of his republi- 
can sentiments among his fellow-soldiers. In 1866 he 
was arrested, tried, and sentenced to imprisonment for 
life, which was commuted to imprisonment for twenty 
years. He was sent in chains to the penal (•olouy of West 
Australia in 1867, and escaped thence in 1S69, through the 
devoted aid of an American whaling captain, David R. 
GifiFord, of New Bedford, to whom he dedicated his first 
book. O'Reilly fixed his residence in Boston, where he 
became editor of The Pilot. In 1878 he published " Songs, 
Legends, and Ballads," by which he placed himself in the 
front rank of the Irish poets of the day. His poem of 
"The Patriot's Grave," read at the Robert Emmet Cen- 
tennial in Boston, March 4th, 1878, seems to pulsate at 
times with the intense emotion made to throb in words 
by the "faculty divine." 

WESTERN AUSTRALIA. 

O beanteous SoutUhuul ! land of yellow air 

That hangeth o'er thee slumbering, and doth hold 

The moveless foliage of thy valleys fair 
And wooded hills, like aureole of gold ! 

O thou, discovered ere the fitting time, 

Ere Nature iu corapletiou turned thee forth ! 

Ere aught was finished but thy peerless clime, 
Thy virgin breath allured the amorous North. 

O land, God made thee wondrons to the eye, 
But His sweet singers thou hast never heard; 

He left thee, meaning to come by-aud-by, 

And give rich voice to every bright-winged bird. 

He painted with fresh hues thy myriad flowers, 
But left them scentless: ah, their woful dole, 

Like s.-id reproach of their Creator'.s powers, — 
To make so sweet fair bodies, void of sonl. 

He gave thee trees of odorous, precious wood ; 

Bnt 'mid them all bloomed not one tree of fruit: 
He looked, but said not that His work was good, 

When leaving thee all perfnmeless and mute. 

He blessed thy flowers with honey: every liell 
Looks eartliward, sunward, with a yearning wist; 

Bnt no bee-lover ever notes the swell 

Of hearts, like lips, a-hungering to be kissed. 

O strange land, thou art virgin ! thou art more 
Thau fig-tree barren ! Would that I could jialnt 



For others' eyes the glory of the shore 

Where last I saw thee ; but the senses faiut 

In soft, delicions dreaming when they drain 
Thy wine of color. Virgin fair thou art. 

All sweetly fruitful, waiting with soft pain 

The spouse who comes to wake thy sleepiug heart. 



FOREVER. 

Those we love truly never die. 
Though year by year the sad memorial wreath, 
A ring and flowers, types of life and death. 

Are laid upon their graves. 

For death the pure life saves. 
And life all pure is love ; aud love can reach 
From heaven to earth, and uobler lessons teach 

Thau those by mortals read. 

Well blessed is he who has a dear one dead : 
A friend he has whose face will never change — 
A dear communion th.ifc will not grow strange ; 

The anchor of a love is death. 

The bless(5d sweetness of a loving breath 
AVill reach our cheek all fresh through weary years. 
For her who died long since, ah ! waste not tears. 

She's thine unto the end. 

Thank God for one dear friend. 
With face still radiant with the light of truth, 
Wliose love comes ladeu with the scent of youth. 

Through twenty years of death. 



.AT BEST. 

The faithful helm commands the keel. 
From port to port fair breezes blow ; 

Bnt the ship ranst sail the convex sea, 
Nor may she straighter go. 

So, man to man ; iu fair accord. 

On thought and will the winds may wait ; 
But the world will bend the passing word. 

Though its shortest course be straight. 

From soul to soul the shortest line 

At best will bended be : 
The ship that holds the straightest course 

Still sails the convex sea. 



CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES. 



923 



CI)C 



jarlottc JFiskc Bates. 

AMERICAN. 
Miss Bates was bom in the city of New York, but hns 
spent most of ber life in Canibridsre, Mass., wlicre she has 
long been engaged in teacliing. Her first poems appear- 
ed iu Our Yomiij F'llkx, a juvenile magazine, whicli was 
incorporated in tlie St. Xieholas. Her first volume ap- 
peared in 1879, under the title of "Risk, and other Po- 
ems." It includes more than two-thirds of what she 
has written for various periodicals during the last fifteen 
years. It is a book of genuine poetical utterances, as 
the few extracts we give will show. 



SATISFIED. 

Life is unutterably dear, 

God makes to-day so fair ; 
Though Heaven is better, — being here 

I long uot to be there. 

The weights of life are pressing still, 

Not one of them may fall ; 
Yet such strong joys my spirit fill, 

Tliat I can bear them all. 

Though Care and Grief are at my side, 
There would I let them stay, 

Aud still be ever satisfied 
With beautiful To-day! 



AFTER READING LONGFELLOW'S 
SALUTAJ.IUS." 



' MORITURI 



"Ye against whose f.'imili.ir n.ames not yet 
The fatal asterisk of death is set." 

Be that sad year, O poet ! very far 

That proves thee mortal by the little star. 

Y'et since thy thoughts live daily iu our own, 

Aud leave no heart to Tveep or smile alone ; 

Since they arc rooted iu our souls, and so 

Will live forever whither those shall go, 

Though some late asterisk may mark thy name, 

It never will be set against thy fame ! 

For the world's fervent love and praise of thee 

Have starred it first with iraraortality. 



WOODBINES IN OCTOBER. 

As dyed in blood the streaming vines appear. 
While long aud low the wind about them grieves, - 

Tlie heart of Autumn must have broken here, 
And poured its treasure out upon the leaves. 



EVIL THOUGHT. 

A form not always dark but ever dread. 
That sometimes haunts the holiest of all, — 

God's audience-room, the chamber of the dead, 
He ventures here, to woo or to appall ! 

When the soul sits with every portal wide, 
Joyful to drink the air aud light of God, 

This Dark One rushes through with rapid stride, 
Leaving the print of evil where he trod. 

Sometimes he enters like a thief at night ; 

Aud breaking iu upon the stillest hour 
Startles the soul to tremble with atfright 

Lest she be pinioned by so foul a power. 

Again we see his shadow, feel his tread, 

And just escajie that strange and cajitive touch ; 

Perhaps by some transfixing wonder led, 
We look till drawn within his very clutch. 

O v.Tlorous souls ! so strong to meet the foe, 
O timid souls ! yet brave in flight of wing, 

Secure and happy ones who seldom know 
The agony this visitant can bring, — 

Have mercy on your brothers housed so ill, 
Too weak or blinded any force to wield ; 

Judging their deeds, this fiend remember still : 
Christ pity those who cannot use His shield ! 



THE POWER OF MUSIC. 

How high those tones are beating, and how strong 
Against these frail and tottering walls of clay ! 

Can they withstand those mighty dashings long? 
Do I uot feel them even now give way ? 

What if they should ? That soon or late must be : 
The broken wall lets forth the soul to light : — 

Heaven ! what fitter passage into thee 

Than on the waves of music's conquering night ! 



SONNET: TO C. F. 

O friend ! whose name is elo.scly bound with mine, 
How often when thy soul its body wore, 
We spake of those who spake with us no more, 
Aud eager sought their nearness to divine. 
To-day I stand with just this grave of thine 



924 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



And tlic icniembrauce of the days Ijefore, 
Wliicli tiiiio and place so vividly restoro 
That seuse of death and dust I can resign. 
Once it was hero tl)y fancy, nsed to seek, 
111 Nature's simple play midst flower and tree, 
111 sudden tremor of a dear grave's grass, 
Some subtile recognition : — thus then speak, 
O soul that knowest all, and uow art free, 
To her who still can only guess and pass. 



THE TELEPHONE. 

Oh ! what a marvel of electric might, 

That makes the ear the conqueror of space. 

And gives us all of presence hut the sight. 

When miles of dark and distance hide the face. 

Soul! is not this thy very analogue? 

Do not strange thoughts come sounding through 
thee thus ? 
Ay, clear sometimes, as if there were no clog 

To shut remotest being out from us! 

Low notes are said through this strange instrument 
To reach the listener with distiuctest tone : 

So inmost thoughts, from man or angel sent. 
Strike through the soul's al-rial telephone! 



HOPES AND MEMORIES. 

As little children running on before. 

To those who follow, backward glances throw, 
And ever as they near the household door. 

With ever watchful smile, more eager grow, — 

So do young hopes hefore fond memories run. 
Looking behind their parent smiles to meet; 

liounding with bolder step at every one, 
Hut oft returning for assurance sweet. 



IVuljavi) lHatson (JMlbcv. 

AMERICAN. 

Born in Bordentown, N. J., Feb. 8th, 1844, Gilder has 
become well known as a. journalist and man of letters. 
He lias published "The New V>i\y, a Poem in Songs and 
Sonnets" (1S70); "The Poet and his Master" (187S). 
A new and revised edition of "-The New Day" appeared 
in 18S0. The author is associated in the editorship of 
ikribiier's Manlhli/ Mit/azine. His poems partake largely 
of the modern spirit and style. 



THE RIVER. 

I know thon art not that brown mountain-side, 
Nor the pale mist that lies along the lulls. 
And with white joy the deepening valley fills; 
Nor yet the solemn river moving wide 
Into that valley, where the hills abide. 
But whence those morning clouds on noiseless wheels 
Shall lingering lift, and, as the moonlight steals 
From out the heavens, so into the heavens shall 

glide. 
I know thou art not that .gray rock that looms 
Above the water, fringed with scarlet vine; 
Nor flame of burning meadow ; nor the sedge 
That sways and trembles at the river's edge. 
But through all these, dear heart, to me there comes 
Some melancholy absent look of thine. 



A THOUGHT. 

Once, looking from a window on a land 
That lay in silence underneath the suu : 
A land of broad, green meadows, through whicli 

poured 
Two rivers, slowly widening to the sea, — 
Thus, as I looked, I know not how or whence, 
Was borne into my nuexpectant soul 
That thought, late learned by anxious-witted man. 
The infinite patience of the Eternal Mind. 



SONG. 



Through love to light! Oh, wonderful the way 
That leads from darkness to the perfect day! 
From darkness and from sorrow of the night 
To morning that comes singing o'er the sea, 
Through love to light! Through light, O God! to 

Thee, 
Who art the love of love, the eternal light of light! 



SWEET WILD ROSES THAT BUD AND 
BLOW. 

O sweet wild roses that bud and blow 
Along the way that my Love may go ; 
O moss-green rocks that touch her dress. 
And grass tliat her dear feet may press ; 

O maple-tree, whoso brooding shade 
For her a summer tent has made ; 



RICHARD WATSON GILDER.— ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS. 



925 



O golden-rod and bravo sHnfiowcr 
Tbat Uame before iny maiden's bower ; 

O butterfly, ou Vfhose light wings 
The golden summer sunshine clings ; 
O birds that Hit o'er wheat and wall, 
And from cool hollows pipe and call ; 

O falling water, whose distant roar 
Sounds like the waves upon the shore ; 
O winds that down the valley sweep, 
And lightnings from the clouds that leap ; 

O sties that bend above the hills, 
O gentle rains and babbling rills, 
O moon and sun that beam and bnru — 
Keep safe my Love till I return ! 



CALL ME NOT DEAD. 

Call me uot dead when I, indeed, have gone 
Into the company of the ever-living 
High and most glorious jioets! Let thanksgiving 
Rather be made. Say — " He at last bath won 
Release and rest, converse supreme and wise, 
Music and song and light of immortal faces : 
To-day, perhaps, wandering in starry places, 
He hath met Keats, and known him by his eyes. 
To-morrow (who can say) Shakspearo may pass, — 
And our lost friend just catch one syllable 
Of that three-ceuturied wit that kept so well, — 
Or Milton, — or Dante, looking on the grass 
Thinking of Beatrice, and listening still 
To chanted hymns that sound from the heavenly 
bill." 



MY SONGS ARE ALL OF THEE. 

My songs are all of thee ; what though I sing 

Of morning when the stars are yet in sight, 

Of evening, or the melancholy night, 

Of birds that o'er the reddening waters wing ; 

Of song, of fire, of winds, or mists that cling 

To mountain-tops, of winter all in white. 

Of rivers that toward ocean take their flight, 

Of summer when the rose is blossoming. 

I think no thought that is not thine, no breath 

Of life I breathe beyond thy sanctity ; 

Thou art the voice that silence uttereth. 

And of all sound thou art the sense. From thee 

The mrjsic of my song and what it saith 

Is but the beat of thy heart, throbbed through me. 



Grliuxbdl) Stimvt |JljclpG. 

AMERICAN. 

The daughter of Professor Austin Plielps, Elizabeth 
was bora in Boston, Muss., Aug. 31st, 18-14, and educated 
at Andover. In 1SG8 she published "The Gates Aj:ir," 
which Iiad a great sale; in 1869, "Men, "Women, and 
Ghosts," a collection of her stories from i/ur/w's and 
other magazines; in 1871, "The Silent Partner." She 
has also ijublished a volume of poems. 



APPLE BLOSSOMS. 

I sit beneath the apple-tree, 

I see nor sky nor .sun ; 
I only know the apple-buds 

Are opening one by one. 

You asked me once a little thing — 

A lecture or a song 
To hear with you ; and yet I thought 

To find my whole life long 

Too short to bear the happiness 
That bounded through the day. 

That made the look of apple blooms, 
And you and me and May ! 

For long between us there bad hung 
The mist of love's young doubt ; 

Sweet, shy, uncertain, all the world 
Of trust and May burst out. 

I wore the flower in my hair, 

Their color on my dress ; 
Dear love ! whenever apples bloom 

In heaven do they bless 

Your heart with memories so small. 

So strong, so cruel glad ? 
If ever apples bloom in heaven, 

I wonder are you sad ? 

Heart! yield up thy fruitless quest, 

Beneath the apple-tree ; 
Youth comes but once, love only once, 

And May but once to thee ! 



ON THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

It chanceth once to every soul, 

Within a, narrow lionr of doubt and dole, 



926 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BEITISB AND AMEBIC AN POETRY. 



Upon Life's Biulge of Siglis to stand — 
A jialace aud a piisou oq each band. 

O palace of tbe rose-Leart's Uiie ! 

How like a flower tbe warm light falls from 

O prison with the hollow eyes! 

Beneath your stony stare no flowers arise. 

O palace of the rose-sweet sin ! 

How safe the heart that does not enter in ! 

O blessdd jirison walls ! how true 

The freedom of the soul that choosetb you ! 



you I 



(emih) pfcifFcv. 



Born in England, Miss Pfeiffer has written sonnets and 
poems, which have atti'acted the attention of some of the 
best critics. We find nothing more noteworthy in tbe 
list, however, than tlie following graceful little effusion 
constructed in imitation of the old French form of verse, 
called tlie " ViUanelle ;" which, we arc told, was in truth 
a "Sliepherd's Song:" and, according to rule, "the 
thoughts should be full of sweetness and simplicity." 
The recurrence of the rhymes is worthy of note. 



SUMMER-TIME. 

VILLANELLE. 

O Summer-time, so passing sweet, 

But heavy with the breath of flowers. 
But languid with the fervent heat, 

Tlicy chide amiss who call thee fleet, — 

Theo with thy weight of daylight hours, 
O Summer-time, so passiug sweet ! 

Voung Summer, thou art too replete. 

Too rich in choice of joys aud powers. 
But languid with the fervent beat. 

Adieu ! my face is set to meet 

Bleak Winter, with bis pallid showers — 
O Summer-time, so passiug sweet ! 

Old Winter steps with swifter feet, 
He lingers not in wayside bowers, 
He is not languid with tbe heat; 

His rouiuled day, a pearl complete, 

Gleams on the unlcnowu uight that lowers; 
O Summer-time, so passing sweet. 
But languid with the ferveut beat! 



(Lljcopljilc illarjials. 



One of the " Victorian poets," Marzials is noted for his 
imitations of Frencn forms of verse. Some of his po- 
ems are the result of his studies in Pi'oveujal literature. 
He is the author of "The Gallery of Pigeons, and other 
Poems," a work laughed at by some of his critics and 
praised by others. Poetic license can hardly justify a 
metaphor like this : 

"I'd like to be the hiveuder 
That CQakes her liueu sweet." 



CARPE DIEM. 

RONDE.W. 

To-day, what is there in the air 

That makes December seem sweet May ! 

There are no swallows anywhere. 

Nor crocuses to erowu your hair, 
And bail yon down my garden way. 

Last night tbe full-moon's frozen stare 
Struck me, perhaps; or did yon say. 
Really, you'd come, sweet friend aud fair, 
To-day ? 

To-day is here ; — come, crown to-day 

With Spring's delight or Spring's despair! 
Love cauuot bide old Time's delaj- — 
Down my glad gardens light winds play. 
And my whole life shall bloom and bear 
To-day. 



(Jrbmunb lH. C3o55c. 

One of the younger tribe of Victorian poets, Gossc has 
published " On Viol and Flute," " King Eric," and other 
works. He is one of the revivers of the old French forms 
of rhyming verses, and we give specimens of liis skill in 
tliese beautiful but somewhat artificial productions. The 
" Chant Royal " has been defined as a ballad of five stan- 
zas of eleven lines with an "Envoi" of five. Gossc has 
given the first example in English, and with brilliant 
success. Here, too, the rhymes, running through all the 
divisions, play an important part. It originally appear- 
ed in his article on the peculiarities of French verse in 
the Cornhill Jluyaziiie. 



VILLANELLE. 

Wouhlst thou not be content to die 

When low-bung fruit is hardly clinging, 
Aud golden Autnmu passes by ? 



EDMUND W. GOSSE. 



927 



If we could vanish, tUou and I, 

WLilc the last woodland bird is singing, 
Wouldst thou uut bo content to die f 

Deep drifts of leaves in (he forest lie, 

Bed vintage that the frost is tliugiug, 
Aud goldeu Antumu passes by. 

Beneath this delicate, rose-gray sty. 

While sunset bells are faintly ringing, 
Wouldst thou not be content to die ? 

For wintry webs of mist on high ^ 

Out of the muffled earth is sjiringing. 
And goldeu Antumu passes by. 

Oh now, wheu pleasures fade and fly, 

And Hope her southward flight is winging, 
Wonldst thou not be content to die? 

Lest Winter come, with wailing cry, 

His cruel icy bondage bringing, 
Wheu goldeu Autumn hath jiassed by. 

And thou with mauy a tear and sigh. 

While Life her wasted bauds is wringing, 
Shalt pray in vain for leave to die 
Wheu goldeu Antumu hath passed by. 



THE GOD OF WINE. 
CHANT ROYAL. 
I. 
Behold, above the mountains there is light, 
A streak of gold, a line of gathering fire, 
Aud the dim east hath suddenly grown bright 

With pale aerial flame, that drives up higher 
The lurid airs that all the long night were 
Breasting the dark ravines and coverts bare ; 
Beliold, behold ! the granite gates unclose. 
And down the vales a lyric people flows. 
Who dance to music, and in dancing fling 

Their frantic robes to every wind that blows. 
And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing. 



Nearer they press, and nearer still in sight. 
Still dancing blithely in a seemly choir ; 

Tossing ou high the symbol of their rite. 
The coue-tipped thyrsus of a god's desire ; 

Ne.arer they come, tall damsels Uiislied aud fair. 

With ivy circling their abundant hair, 



Onward, with even i)ace, in stately rows. 

With eye that flashes, and with cheek that glows, 

Aud all the while their tribute-songs they bring. 
And uewer glories of the past disclose. 

And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing. 



The pure luxuriance of their limbs is white. 
And flashes clearer as they draw the uigber. 

Bathed in an air of infinite delight. 

Smooth without wound of thoru or fleck of mire, 

Borue up by song as by a trumpet's blare, 

Leading the van to conquest, ou they fare, 
Fearless and bold, whoever comes and goes 
These shining cohorts of Bacchantes close, 

Shouting aud shouting till the mountains riug, 
Aud forests grim forget their ancient woes, 

Aud deathless praises to the Viue-god sing. 



Aud youths are there for whom fnll many a night 
Brought dreams of bliss, vague dreams that haunt 
aud tire. 

Who rose in their own ecstasy bedight. 

And wandered forth through mauy a scourging 
brier, 

Aud waited shivering in the icy air, 

Aud wrapped the leopard-skiu about them there, 
Knowing for all the bitter air that froze, 
The time must come that every ijoet kuows, 

Wheu ho shall rise and feel himself a king. 
And follow, follow where the ivy grows, 

Aud deathless praises to the Vine-god sing. 



But oh ! within the heart of this great flight, 
Whose ivory arms hold up the golden lyre, 

What form is this of nmre than mortal height ? 
What matchless beauty, what inspired ire ? 

The brindled panthers know the prize they bear. 

And harmonize their steps with stately care ; 
Beut to the morning, like a living rose. 
The immortal splendor of his face he shows. 

And, where he glances, leaf, and flower, aud wing 
Tremble with rapture, stirred in their repose, 

Aud deathless praises to the Viue-god sing. 



Prince of the flute and ivy, all thy foes 
Kecord the bounty that thy grace bestows. 

But we, thy servants, to thy glory cling, 
And with no frigid lips our songs compose, 

Aud deathless praises to the Viue-god sing 



923 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BEITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



lUill (Uavlcton. 

AMERICAN. 

Carleton, aiitlior of "Farm Ballads," etc., was born in 
Hiulson, Lenawee County, Midi., in 1845. His fatbei- was 
a pioneer settler from New Hampshire. For four years 
of his youth he divided his time between attending school, 
teaehins, and assisting his father on the farm. He was 
graduated from Hillsdale College, Mich., in 1S69. Since 
then he has been engaged in literary and journalistic 
work, and in lecturing. In IST'3 apjjearcd his ballad of 
"Betsy and I Are Out," which was reprinted with il- 
lustrations in Harper's Week!;/, and gave the author an 
extended reputation. His "Farm Ballads" and "Farm 
Legends," published by Harper & Brothers, attained 
great popularity. 



OVER THE HILL TO THE POOE-HOUSE. 

Over tho hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' uiy 

weary way — 
I. a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray — 
I. who am snuirt an' chipper, for all the years I've 

told, 
As many another woman that's only half as old. 

Over the hill to the poor-house — I can't (piite make 

it clear! 
Over the hill to the poor-house — it seems so hor- 

riil queer! 
Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro. 
But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go. 

What is the nse of heapiii' on me a pauper's shame? 
Am I lazy or crazy ? am I blind or lauio ? 
True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout; 
But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without. 

I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day 

To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way ; 

For I can earn ray victuals, au' more too, I'll he 

bound, 
If anybody oidy is willin' to have me round. 

Once I was young and han'some — I was, npon my 
soul — 

Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal ; 

And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' peo- 
ple say, 

For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way. 

'Taint no nse of boastiu', or talkin' over-free. 
But many a house an' home was open then to me; 
Many a han'some offer I Iiad from likely men. 
And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then. 



And when to John I was married, sure he was good 

and smart ; 
But he and all the neighbors would own I done 

my part ; [strong, 

For life was all before me, an' I was young an' 
And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get 

along. 

And so we worked together; and life was hard, but 
gay, ["-ay; 

With now and then a baby for to cheer ns on our 

Till we had half a dozen, an' all growcd clean and 
neat, [eat. 

An' went to school like others, an' had enough to 

So we worked for the child'rn, and raised 'em every 

one ; 
Worked for 'em summer and wiuter, just as we ought 

to 've done ; 
Only perh.aps we humored 'cm, which some good 

folks condemn ; [them. 

But every couple's child'rn's a heap the best to 

Str.auge how nnieh we think of our blessed little 

ones ! — 
I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for 

my sons ; 
And God he made that rule of love; but when we're 

old and gray. 
I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the 

other way. 

Strange, another thing : when our boys ,an' girls was 

grown. 
And when, exceptiu' Charley, they'd left ns there 

alone ; 
When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer 

seemed to be. 
The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' took him 

away from me. 

Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe 

or fall- 
Still 1 worked for Charley ; for Charley w.as now 

my all ; 
And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a 

word or frown. 
Till at last he went a-courtiu', and brought a wife 

from town. 

She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant 

smile — 
She was quite couceity, and carried a heap o' style ; 



WILL CARLETOX.—JULIAJT HAWTHORNE. 



929 



But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I 

know ; 
JJnt she was Lard and proud, an' I couldn't nialie 

it go. 

Slie bad au edication, an' that was good for her; 
Hut when sbe twitted me on mine, 'twas carryiu' 

tilings too fur ; 
An' I told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost 

made her sick), 
That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a 'rithinetic. 

So 'twas ouly^sklew days-before tiie thing was done — 
They was a family ofTEemselves, and I another one ; 
And a very little cottage one family will do, 
lint I never have seen a house that was big euongh 
for two. 

An' I never could speak to suit her, never could 

please her eye. 
An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try; 
But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow, 
When Charley turned ag'in me, an' told nie I could 

go. 

I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was 

small, 
And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for 

us all ; 
And what with her husband's sisters, and what with 

child'rn three, 
'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me. 

An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got, 
For 'Thomas's buildings 'd cover the half of an 

acre lot ; 
But all the child'rn was on me — I couldu't stand 

tbeir sauce — 
And Thomas said I needn't think I was comiu' there 

to boss. 

An' then I w rote to Rebecca, my girl who lives out 

West, 
Aud to Isaac, not far from her — some twenty miles 

at best ; 
And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for any 

one so old. 
And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold. 

So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted 

me about — 
So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old 

heart out ; 

59 



But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much 

put down. 
Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me 

on the town. 

Over the hill to the poor-house — my child'rn dear, 

good-bye ! 
Many a night I've watched you when only God was 

nigh; 
And God '11 judge between us ; but I will al'ays pray 
That you shall never suli'er the half I do to-day. 



jJuliaii ()aiiitl)onic. 

AMERICAN. 

Hawthorne, a son of the eminent American author, 
Nathaniel Hawthorne, h.is distinguished himself more in 
prose than verse. He is the author of several novels, 
showing that he has inherited much of his father's pe- 
culiar genius. He was born June 33d, IStG, in Salem, 
Mass. ; studied at Harvard College, and at the Scientific 
School ; also studied engineering in Germany. He took 
up literature as a profession in 1S71, since whicli time 
he has resided in Germany and England. Tlie subjoin- 
ed poem, wlneli appeared originally in the Keu> Jerusalem 
Messenger, is a vigorous exposition of one of the leading 
doctrines of Swedenborg's theosophy. 



FREE-WILL. 

Strength of the beautiful day, green and blue and 
white ! 

Voice of leaf and of bird ; [shore ; 

Low voice of mellow surf far down the curving 
Strong white clouds and gray, slow and calm in 
your flight. 

Aimless, majestic, unheard, — 
You walk in air aud dissolve and vauish for 
evermore ! 
Lying here 'midst poppies and maize, tired of the 
loss and the gain, 

Dreamlug of rest, ah ! fain 
Would I, like ye, transmute the terror of fate into 
praise. 

Yet thou, O earth, art a slave, orderly without care. 
Perfect thou know'st not why. 
For He whose Word is thy life has spared thee 
the gift of Will ! 
W^e men are not so brave, our lives are not so fair, 
Our law is an eye for au eye; 
And the light that shines for our good we use 
to our ill. 



930 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Fails boyhood's hope ere long, for the deed still 
mocks the plan, 

Aud the knave is the honest man. 
And thus wo grow weak in a world created to 
make us strong. 

lint woe to the man who quails before that which 
makes him mau I 

Though heaveu be sweet to win. 
One thing is sweeter yet — freedom to side with 
hell : 
In man succeeds or fails this great creative plan ; 
Man's liberty to sin 
Makes worth God's winning the love even God 
may not compel. 
Shall I then ninrmnr aud be wroth at Nature's 
peace ? 

Though I be ill at ease, 
I hold one link of the chain of his happiness in 
my hand. 



(Jrtigar Januctt. 



AMERICAN. 
Fawcett, a native of the city of New York, was bnni 
in 1847, and graduated at Columbia College in 1867. He 
has becu a frcyucnt contributor to the magazines, and a 
volume of his poems appeared in Boston in 1878. In 
1880 he made a dramatic venture in his play of "A Fiilsc 
Friend," wliich was effectively produced at some of the 
principal tlieatres. Since then he lias produced a comic 
drama, also successful. 



CRITICISM. 

" Crude, pompous, turgid," the reviewers said ; 

" Sham passion aud sham,powerto turn one sick ! 
Pin-wheels of verse that sputtered as we read — 

Eockets of rhyme that showed the falling stick !" 

But while, assaulted of this buzzing baud, 
The poet quivered at their little sting.s, 

White doves of sympathy o'er all the laud 

Went flying with his fame beneath their wings! 

.\nd every fresh year brought him love that cheers. 
As Caspian waves bring amber to their shore. 

Aud it befell that after many years, 

Being now uo longer young, he wrote once more. 

" Cold, classic, polished," the reviewers said; 

" A book yon scarce can love, howe'er you praise. 
We missed the old careless grandeur as wo read. 

The power and iiassion of his younger days !" 



i^cnnj ^ugiustm Beers. 

AMERICAN. 

Beers was born in Buffalo, N. Y., July 2d, 1847. His 
family were residents of Litclifield, Conn. He was grad- 
uated at Yale College in 1869, and after spending two 
years in New York in the study of the law, was appoint- 
ed tutor in English at Yale, and in 187.5 chosen Assistant- 
professor of Ens;lish. In 1878 he publislied " Odds and 
Ends," a volume of poems; and the same year, "A Cen- 
tury of American Literature." His " CaryamOTi " has 
been translated iuto the Czech language, and printed in 
a Prague newspaper. Of his poetical volume, mcluding 
some comic pieces, he remarks : " It may be right to add, 
that at least half the pieces can lay claim to whatever 
indulgence, if any, is usually given to juvenilia, or the 
work of writers under age." 



PSYCHE. 

At evening in the port she lay, 

A lifeless block with canvas furled ; 

But silently at peep of day 

Spread her white wiugs and skimmed away. 

Aud, rosy in the dawn's first ray, 

Sank down behind the rounding world. 

So hast -fhon vanished from our side, 

Dear bark, that from some far, bright strand. 

Anchored awhile ou life's dull tide ; 

Then, lifting spirit pinions wide, 

In heaven's own orient glorified. 

Steered outward seeking Holy Land. 



CARQAMON. 

His steed was old, his armor worn. 
And he was old and worn aud gray ; 

The light that lit his patient eyes 
It shone from very far away. 

Through gay Provence he journeyed on. 
To one high quest his life was true. 

And so they called him Carfamou — 

The knight who seeketh the world through. 

A pansy blossomed on his shield; 

" A token 'tis," the people say. 
"That still across the world's wide field 

He seeUs Id dame dc scs jwnsma." 

For soincwhcrc nii a painted wall, 
Or iu the city's shifting crowd, 



HENBY AVGVSTI^f BEERS.— ICDWAIW DO WD EX. 



931 



Or looking from <a casement tall, 

Or shaped of dream or evening cloud — ■ 

Forgotten when, forgotten where — 
Her face Lad tilled his careless eye 

A moment ere he turned and passed, 
Nor knew it was his destiny. 

Bat ever in his dreams it eamo 
Divine and passionless and strong, 

A smile upon the imperial lips 

No lover's kiss had dared to wrong. 

He took Ills armor from the wall — 

Ah ! gone since then was many a day — • 

He led his steed from ont the stall 
And sought la dame dc scs priise'es. 

The ladies of the Troubadours 

Came riding through the chestnut grove: 
" Sir Minstrel, string that lute of yours, 

And sing us a gay song of love." 

"O ladies of the Troubadours, 
My lute has but a single string ; 

Sirventes fit for paramours. 

My heart is uot in tune to sing. 

" The flower that blooms upon mj' shield 

It has another soil and spring 
Than that wherein the gaudy rose 

Of light Provence is blossoming. 

i'The lady of my dreams doth hold 
Such royal state within my mind, 

No thought that comes unclad in gold 
To that high court uuiy entrance find." 

So through the chestnut groves he passed, 
And through the land and far away ; 

Nor know I whether in the world 
He found la dame de ses pcnsees. 

Only I know that in the South, 

Long to the harp his tale was told ; 

Sweet as new wine within the mouth 
The small, choice words and music old. 

To scorn the promise of the Real ; 

To seek and seek and not to find ; 
Yet cherish still the fair Ideal — 

It is thy fate, O restless Mind ! 



Crbmarb Dombcn. 

One of the younger tribe of English poets, Dowden 
was honi about 184S. He hiis published " Shakspeare's 
Mind and Art" (187.5) ; and "Poems" (1876), a second 
edition of which appe.ired in 1877. He shows the influ- 
ence of Tennyson, Clough, and Heine ; but his poems do 
not lack a saving original grace. They show a profound- 
ly meditative ati'cctiou for Nature, with occasional sug- 
gestions of the new Pantheism, At times they are some- 
what obscure, as if their meaning were that of a mo- 
mentary mood, which the poet himself might not always 
be able to explain. Dowden has produced some sixty 
sonnets, several of them of raie beauty. 



ABOARD THE "SEA-SWALLOW." 

The gloom of the sea-fronting clitis 

Lay on the water, violet-dark. 
The pennon drooped, the sail fell in, 

And slowly moved our bark. 

A golden d.'iy ; the summer dreamed 
III heaven and on the whispering sea, 

Within our hearts the summer dreamed, 
The hours had ceased to be. 

Then rose the girls with bonnets loosed, 
And shining tresses lightly blown, 

Alice and Adela, and s.ing 
A song of Mendelssohn. 

Oh sweet, and sad, and wildly clear, 

Through summer air it sinks and swells, 

Wild with a measureless desire, 
And .sad with all farewells. 



OASIS. 



Let them go by — the heats, the doubts, the strife; 

I can sit here and care not for them now. 
Dreaming beside the glitterlug wave of life 
Once more, — I know uot how. 

There is a murmur in ray heart, I hear 

Faint, oh so faint, some air I used to sing; 
It stirs my sense; and odors dim and dear 
The meadow-breezes bring. 

Just this way did the quiet twilights fade 
Over the fields and happy homes of men. 
While one bird sang as now, piercing the shade. 
Long since, — I know uot wheu. 



!i:!-3 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BlilTISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



WISE PASSIVENESS. 

Think you I choose or that or this to slug ? 

I lie as patient as yon -n-ealthy stream 

Dreaming among green fields its summer dream. 

Which takes ^^•hate'er the gracious hours will brinj 

Into its quiet bosom; not a thiug 

Too common, since perhaps you see it there 

Who else bad never seen it, though as fair 

As ou the world's first morn ; a fluttering 

Of idle butterflies; or the deft seeds 

Blown from a thistle-head ; a silver dove 

As faultlessly ; or the large, yearning eyes 

Of pale Narcissus : or beside the reeds 

A shepherd seeking lilies for Lis love, 

And evermore tlie all-encircling skies. 



THE INNER LIFE. 

Master, they argued fast concerning Thee, 

Proved what Thou art, denied what Thou art not 

Till brows were on the fret, and eyes grew hot. 

And lip and chin were thrust out eagerly; 

Then through the temple-door I slipped to free 

My soul from secret ache in solitude, 

And souglit this brook ; and by the brookside stood 

The world's Eiglit, and the Light and Life of me. 

It is enough, O Master, speak uo w ord ! 

The stream speaks, and the endurance of the sky 

Outpasscs speech : I seek not to discern 

Even what smiles for me Tliy lips have stirred ; 

Only in Tliy hand still let my hand lie. 

And let the musing soul within me burn. 



TWO INFINITIES. 

A lonely way, and as I went my eyes 
Could not unfasten from the Spring's sweet things: 
Lush-sprouted grass, and all that climbs and clings 
lu loose, deep hedges, where the primrose lies 
lu her own fairness, — buried blooms surprise 
Tlic ])lnnderer bee and stop his niurmurings, — 
And the glad flutter of a finch's wings 
Ontstavtles small blue-speckled butterflies. 
Blissfully did one speedwell plot beguile 
My whole heart long ; I loved each separate flower, 
Kneeling. I looked up sudd(;nly — Dear God ! 
There stretched the shining plain for many a mile, 
The niduntains rose with what invincible power ! 
And how the slcy was fathomless and broad! 



Siaimid Illillcr Ijagcnuxn. 

AMERICAN. 

Hageman, a grandson of Dr. Samuel Miller, Professor 
in the Princeton, N. J., Theological Seminary, and son 
of John Frelinghuysen Hageman, a well-known lawyer, 
and author of "Princeton and its Institutions," was 
born in that city in 184S. He began to write vei-ses be- 
fore he was fifteen years old ; and his poem of "Silence " 
was originally published in the Fi-iucetonian when he 
was eighteen. It was issued in a volume in 1ST6. He 
was pastor of the Union Tabernacle, Brooklyn, N. Y. 
(1880), with a large congregation. In reference to " Si- 
lence," Miss Jean Ingelow writes: "I have read the 
poem more than once with interest and admiration. I 
congratulate the author on the beauty of his work." 
Hageman is the author of "Veiled," a novel ; also of a 
volume entitled "Protestant Paganism ; or, The Capital 
Errors of Christianity." 



STANZAS FROM "SILENCE." 

Earth is but the frozen echo of the silent voice of 
God, 

Like a dew-drop in a crystal throbbing in the sense- 
less clod : 

Silence is the heart of all things, sound the flutter- 
ing of its pulse, [vulse. 

Wliich the fever and the spasm of the universe cou- 
* ^ * * * * 

Every sound that breaks the silence only makes it 
more profound, 

Like a cr.ash of deafening thunder iu the sweet blue 
stillness drownet! ; 

Let thy soul walk softly iu thee, as a saint in 
lieaveu unshod, 

For to be alone with silence is to be alone with God. 

Tluis it was that as I wandered, often, on the yel- 
low beach. 
Day to day was uttering knowledge, night to night 

was showing speech : 
Till the stillness grew oppressive, so tliat when I 

left the spot, [heard it not. 

On the sounding shore the ocean thundered : but I 

> * * ^ =♦ * 

Somewhere on this moving planet, in the mist of 

years to be, 
In the silence, in the shadow, waits :i loving heart 

for thee ; 
Somewhere iu the beckoning heavens, where tlicy 

know as they are known. 
Are the empty arms above thee that shall clasp thee 

for their own. 



SAMUEL MILLER HAGEMAX.—CBARLES DE KAY. 



933 



Somewhere in the far-otf sileuce I shall feel a van- 
ished hand, 

Somewhere I shall know a voice that now I cannot 
understand ; 

Somewhere! Where art thou, O spectre of illimit- 
able space 1 

Silent scene without a shadow ! silent sphere with- 
out a place ! 

* if * T* * # 

Comes there back no sonnd beyond us where the 

trackless sniibeam calls ? 
Comes there back no wraith of music, melting 

throngh the crystal walls? 
Comes there back no bird to lisp us of the great 

for evermore, 
With a leaf of Life, uuwithered, plncked npou the 

farther shore ? 

if T* * if 7* * 

Go to Silence : win her secret, she shall teach thee 

how to speak, 
Shape to which all else is shadow grows within thee 

clear and bleak ; 
Go to Silence : she shall teach thee ; ripe frnit 

hangs within thy reach ; 
He aloue hath clearly spoken, who hath learned 

this : Thought is Speech. 
^ * * # # # 

O thon strong and sacred Silence, self-contained in 

self-control, 
O thou palliating Silence, Sabbath art thou of the 

soul : 
Lie like snow upon my virtues, lie like dust upon 

my faults. 
Silent when the world dethrones me, silent when 

the world exalts! 

Wisdom ripeus unto Silence as she grows more truly 

wise, 
Aud she wears a mellow sadness in her heart and 

in her eyes: [teach, 

Wisdom ripens unto Silence, and the lesson she doth 
Is that life is more thau language, and that thought 

is more than speech. 



(Eljarlcs be \\a\). 



Cliarles de Kay was born in Washington, D. C, iu the 
yearlS48. He graduated from Yale College in ISiS. He 
published a short novel entitled " Tlie Bohemian ; a 
Tragedy of Modern Life," in ISTS; aud " Hesperus, and 
other Poems," in 1880. 



THE liLT'SH. 

If fragrances were colors, I would liken 
A blush that deepens in her thoughtful face 
To that aroma which pervades the place 
Where woodmen cedars to the heart have stricken ; 
If tastes were hues, the blitisful dye I'd trace 
In upland strawberries, or wiuter-greeu ; 
If sound, why then, to shy aud mellow bass 
Of mountain thrushes, heard, yet seldom seen. 
Or say that hues are felt : then would it seem 
Most like to cobwebs borne on Southern gales 
Against a spray of jasmine. But the glow 
Itself is found where sweetbrier petals gleam 
Through tenderest hoar-frost, or upon the snow 
Of steadfast hills when shadows brim the vales. 



FINGEKS. 

Who will tell me the secret, the cause 

For the life in her swift-flying hands ? 
How weaves she the shuttle with never a pause. 

With keys of the octave for strands ? 
Have they eyes, those soft fingers of her 

That they kiss in the darkness the keys. 
As in darkne.ss the poets aver 

Lover's lips will iind lips by degrees? 

Ay, marvels they are iu their shadowy dance, 
But who is the god that has given them soul ? 

Where learned they the spell other .souls to entrance. 
Where the heart other hearts to control ? 

'Twas the noise of the wave at the prow, 

The musical lapse on the beaches, 
'Twas the surf in the night when the laud-breezes 
blow, 

The soug of the tide in the reaches: 

She has drawn their sweet intluence home 
To a soul not yet clear but profound. 

Where it blows like the Persian sea-foam 
Into pearls — 
Into pearls of melodious sound. 



ON EEVISITING STATEN ISLAND. 

Again ye fields, again ye woods and farms. 
Slowly approach aud fold me iu your arms ! 
The scent of June buds wraps me once again. 
The breath of grasses sighs along the plain. 



934 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BlilTIStl AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Yo elms arul oaks tbat oonifortcd of yore, 

I hear your welcome as I heard before ; 

The iiight-blne sky is etched with dusky boughs, 

And at your feet the white and huddled cows 

Are breathing deeply still. Is all a dream, 

Or does the hill-side with a welcome gleam ? 

Ye lofty trees, know ye your worshipiier f 

Know ye a wanderer, ready to aver 

Yon branch leans downward to his eager face. 

Yon bush seems following on his happy trace? 

The cedars gossip softly, one by one. 

Leaning their heads in secret ; on and on 

The whisper spreads from new-born larch to fir, 

Thence to the chestnut tender yet of burr, 

And now the fragraut blackberry on the moor 

Says the same word tlie white beech mutters o'er. 

A spice-birch on the fringes of the wood 

Has lain in wait, has heard .and understood ; 

The piny phalanx nods, and up, away. 

Tree-tops have sped the name to Prince's Bay ! 



(Hljarles t). ^'ojics. 

AMERICAN. 

In the summer of 1878 a little volume of poetry was 
published in Plnladelphia, entitled "Studies iu Verse, by 
Charles Quiet." Tliis was the pseudonyme of Charles 
H. Noycs, a young lawyer of Warren, Pa., and a native 
of Marshall, Callioun County, Mich., where he was born 
in 1849. Wliile some of his verses bear the marks of im- 
maturity, othere are fervid with the true afflatus, and full 
of promise. 

THE PRODIGAL SON TO THE EARTH. 

O mother, wait until my work is done! 

Loose thy strong arms tliat draw me to tliy breast 

Till I am ready to lie dowu and rest : 
Grudge not to me the ki.sses of the sun. 

Fear not, fond earth, thy strong love holds me fast ; 

Thou art uuim heir — I shall be thine at last. 

cousin roses! thirst not for my blood 

To dye your paling cheeks. O rank, wild grass. 
Clutch not with greedy fingers as I jrass. 

And you, great hungry giants of the wood! 
Let not your I'oots fcu' my rich juices yearn. 
Mine shall Ix^ yours, but you must wait your turn. 

O roses, grasses, trees ! I am your kin — 

Your prodigal blood-cousin, now grown strange 
With m.any wanderings through the lands of 
change ; 

You lent me of your substance, and I've been 



A wasteful steward ; yet I shall bring back 
My wh(dc inheritance — you shall not lack. 

Divide my all among yon ! 'twas but lent 

To me a while to use. Part heart and brain, 
Matter and force, uutil' there shall remain 

Of me no sh.adow; I am well content. 
Order and chaos wage eternal strife ; 
The end of living is to bring forth life. 

Guardian of thoughts, immortal nu'mory I 

Keep thou immortal .some good tlionght of mine. 
Which, iu oblivion's dark, may softly ahiue 

Like the pale fox-fire of a rotting tree. 
If thou do keep but cue song-child alive, 
In its sweet body shall my soul survive. 



MY SOLDIER. 

The d.ay still linger.?, though the sun is down. 

Kissing the earth, and loath to say good-bye; 
While night, impatient, shows her starry crown 

Just glinting through the curtains of tho sky. 

I sit within the door and try to knit ; 

Some sadness of the sky provokes my tears ; 
And memory finds some subtle charm iu it 

To lead me liack through melaneludy years, 

Uutil she brings me to that summer's day. 
When a tall shadow fell across the floor, 

Lingered a moment, and then stole away, 

Following my soldier through tlio open door. 

My soldier ! He was all tho war to me ; 

His safety all the victory I craved ; 
Morn, noon, and uight I prayed that I might .see 

My soldier — I forgot my country — saved. 

When came a letter full of love and cheer, 
Telling of victory with prond delight, 

Tho mother's pride o'ercame the mother's fear. 
And I was happy iu my dreams that night. 

But when none came, and news of battles fell 
Around me like hot flakes of fire instead — 

God! if I have loved my boy too well, 
Put against that those days of awful dread. 

My .soldier! and it seems but yesterday 

His baby gums were mumbling at my breast. 

I'm half persuaded now lie's out at play, 

And I have slept within and dreamed the rest; 



CHARLES B. KOYES.—MBS. ROSA H. THORl'E. 



935 



For it does seem so straugo to ine that he, 
My baby, rosy-cheeked and azure-eyed — 

The cbcnib boy I dandled ou my knee — 
Sboiibl have become a hero and have died. 

My chubby baby, pvattliiiji to his toys ! 

My stalwart soldier kissing mo good-bye! 
My heart will have it she liath lost two boys, 

And lends to grief a twofold agony. 

And day by day, as the dear form I miss, 
Fierce longing burns within me like a flame, 

Till all the world I'd barter for a kiss, 

And walk through fire to hear him call ray name. 

'Twere not so sad could I have watched his face. 
Soothed his last hours, and closed his dear, dead 

And it would comfort me to mark the place [eyes; 
With a wild rose-bush where my darling lies. 

But, knowing nothing, save that he is dead, 
I long 'neath yonder daisy-dotted kuoll 

To rest in peace my old, grief-whitened head ; 
Earth hath no crumb of comfort for my soul. 



ilTrs. Hosct f). ^Ijovpc. 

AMERICAN, 
Rosa Ilartwit'k, by niarringc Thorpe, was born July 
IStli, 1850, in MisliawaUa, Ind. After licr marriage in 
1871 she went to reside hi Fremont, Ind., but subsequent- 
ly removed to Litchfield, Mich. Slie wrote her popular 
ballad of "Curfew must not Rhig To-night" wlicu she 
was sixteen years old, but it was not till 1870 tliat it 
was published : then it first appeared iu the Detroit 
Commercial Advertiser. It lias since repeatedly under- 
gone revision. Mrs. Thorpe has much of the spirit and 
simplicity of the old bnlhid-writers, and excels hi realis- 
tic narrative illumined with poetical flashes. It may be 
that her best work is to come. 



DOWN THE TRACK. 

AN .\CTUAL INCIDENT. 

In the deepening shades of twilight 

Stood a maiden young and fair ; 
Eaiu-drops gleamed on cheek and forehead. 

Rain-drops glistened in her hair. 
Where the bridge had stood at morning 

Yawned a chasm deep and black; 
Faintly came the distant rumbling 

From the train far down the track. 

Paler grew each marble feature, 

Faster came her frightened breath, — 



Charlie kissed her lips at morning, — 
Now was rushing down to death ! 

Must she stand and see him i)erish ? 
Angry waters answer back ; 

Louder comes the distant rumbling 
From the train far down the track. 

At death's door faint hearts grow fearless: 

Miracles are sometimes wrought, 
Springing from the heart's devotion 

Iu the forming of a thought. 
From her waist she tears her aprou. 

Flings her tangled tresses back. 
Working fast, and praying ever 

For the traiu far down the track. 

See! .a lurid spark is kindled, 

Eight and left she flings the flame, 
Turns and glides with airy fleetuess 

Downward toward the coming train ; 
Sees afar the red eye gleaming 

Through the shadows still and black : 
Hark I a shriek prolonged and deafening,— 

They have seen her down the track ! 

Onward comes the traiu — now slower, 

But the maiden, where is she ? 
Flaming torch and flying footsteps 

Fond eyes gaze in vain to see. 
With a white face turned to Heaven, 

All the sunny hair thrown back. 
There they found her, one hand lying 

Crushed and bleeding on the track. 

Eager faces bent above her. 

Wet eyes pitied, kind lips blessed; 
But she saw no face save Ch.arlie's — 

'Twas for him she sa\-ed the rest. 
Gold they gave her from their bounty ; 

But her sweet eyes wandered back 
To the face whose love will scatter 

Roses all along life's track ! 



"CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT.' 

Slowly England's sun was setting 

O'er the hill-tops far away. 
Filling all the land with beauty 

At the close of one sad day ; 
And the last rays kissed the forehead 

Of a man and maiden fair — 
He with footsteps slow and weary, 

She with sunny, floating hair; 



936 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH: AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



He -nith bowed liead, sad and tUouglitful, 
She -nith lii)s all cold aud -n-hite, 

Struggling to keep back the niurniui-, 
" Curfew must not ring to-night !" 

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, 

Pointing to the prison old, 
With its turrets tall and gloomy, 

With its -walls, dark, damp, and cold, — 
" I've a lover in that prison, 

UooMied this very night to die 
At the ringing of the Curfew, 

And no earthly help is nigh : 
Cromwell will not come till sunset," 

And her face grew strangely white 
As she breathed the husky wliisper : 

" Curfew ninst not ring to-night !" 

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sextou — 

And his accents pierced her heart 
Like the piercing of an arrow, 

Like a deadly poisoned dart, — 
"Long, long years I've rung the Curfew 

From that gloomy .shadowed tower ; 
Every evening, just at sunset, 

It has told the twilight hour ; 
I have done my duty ever, 

Tried to do it just and right; 
Now I'm old, I still must do it : 

Curfew, gill, must ring to-night!" 

Wild her eyes and pale her features. 

Stern and white her thonghtful brow, 
And within her secret bosom 

Bessie made a solemn vow ; 
She had listened while the judges 

Kead, without a tear or sigh, 
" At the ringing' of the Curfew, 

Basil Underwood must die !" 
And her breath came fast aud faster. 

And her eyes grew large and bright — 
As in undertone she murmured : 

" Curfew must not ring to-night !" 

With quick step she bounded forward. 

Sprang within the old church door. 
Left the old man threading slowly 

Paths he'd trod so oft before ; 
Not one moment paused the niaideu, 

But with eye and cheek aglow, 
Mounted up the gloomy tower, 

Where the bell swung to and fro; 
As she climbed the dusty ladder. 

On which fell no ray of light, 



Up aud up, her white lips saying, 
"Curfew shall not ring to-night!" 

She has reached the topmost ladder. 

O'er her hangs the great dark bell, 
Awful is the gloom beneath her, 

Like the pathway down to hell ; 
Lo, the pouderous tongue is swinging, 

'Tis the hour of Curfew now, 
Aud the sight has chilled her bosom. 

Stopped her breath and paled her brow. 
Shall she let it ring? No, never! 

Flash her eyes with sudden light. 
And she springs aud grasps it firmly : 

" Curfew shall not ring to-night !" 

Out she swung, far out, the city 

Seemed a speck of light below ; 
She, 'twixt heaven and earth suspended. 

As the bell swung to aud fro! 
And the sexton at the bell-rope. 

Old aud deaf, heard not the hell, 
But ho thought It still was ringing 

Fair young Basil's funeral knell. 
Still the maiden clung more firmly. 

And with trembling lijis and white. 
Said, to hush her heart's wild beating, 

" Curfew shall not ring to-night !" 

It was o'er: the bell ceased swaying. 

And the maiden stepped once more 
Firmly on the dark old ladder. 

Where, for hundred years before, 
Human foot had not been planted; 

But the brave deed she had done 
Shonid bo told long ages after : — 

Often as the setting sun 
Should illume the sky with beauty, — 

Ag(5d sires, with heads of white. 
Long should tell the little children, 

Curfew did not ring that night. 

O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; 

Bessie sees him, and her brow. 
Full of hope and full of gladness. 

Has no anxious traces now. 
At his feet she tells her story. 

Shows her hands all bruised and lorn ; 
And her face so sweet and pleading. 

Yet with sorrow pale and worn. 
Touched his heart with sudden pity, — 

Lit his eye with misty light : — 
" Go, your lover lives," said Cromwell : 

"Curfew shall not ring to-night!" 



F. WYVILLE HOME.—GEOEGE PARSONS LATHROP. 



937 



jT. lllnuillc tjome. 



J) 

" Songs of a Wayfarer," is the title of a volume by 
Home, publisliecl by Pickering & Co., London, in 1879. 
Tlie following is tlie Dedication : "To my father, in ac- 
knowledgment that the best work I can do is owed to 
him." Home belongs to the modern school of poetry, 
to the shaping of whose strains Tennyson has contrib- 
uted so much. 



A CHOICE. 

QUESTION. 

Answer me: Peace or Love ? 

Which do you take for your part ? 
Choose cue or the other hereof, 

You cannot have both, O heart ! 

For Peace is passion's decease, 
Her blood is pallid and ashen ; 

But Love is a breaker of Peace, 

His pulse is the heart-beat of passion. 

liEPLY. 

Let Love and Passion bo rife. 
So long as I draw my breath ; 

For Love is the leaven of life, 
But Peace the endearer of death. 



FROM "ODE TO THE VINE." 

Again, O Vine, I turn to thee and t.ake 

Assnrauco from thy deathless loveliness, 
That Love and Beauty ever are awake 

At Life's veiled fouutain-head : and who would 
press [twain : 

Tow'rd Truth must go with guidauce of these 
To whom with faith made whole 
I dedicate my soul, 
Trusting to them to lay a silver .skein 

Between my bauds to guide mo to the goal 
Where dawn shall break, and from mine eyes the 
darkness roll. 



(5corgc JJarsons Catljrop. 

AMERICAN. 

The son of a physician and citizen of the United States, 
Lathrop was born Aug. 2.5th, 1851, at Honolulu, Oahu, 
Hawaiian Islands. He received his education in New 
i'ork and Germany. In 1875-77 he was assistant edi- 



tor of the Atlantic Monthly. His first volume of poems, 
"Rose and Roof-tree," appeared in 1875; "A Study of 
Hawthorne" (1876). He is the author of two published 
novels. His occupation is that of a journalist. In 1878 
he assumed the editorship of the Busion Courier. As a 
lecturer, and a contributor to our best magazines, he is 
also favorably known. His wife is a d.aughter of Na- 
thaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864). 



MUSIC OF GROWTH. 

JInsic is in all growing things; 
And underneath the silky wings 

Of smallest insects there is stirred 
A pulse of air that must be heard ; 
Earth's silence lives, and throbs, and sings. 

If poet from the vibraut strings 
Of his poor heart a measure flings, 
Laugh not, that he no trumi>et blows : 
It may be that Heaven hears and knows 
His language of low listenings. 



SONNET: THE LOVER'S YEAR. 

Thou art my morning, twilight, noon, and eve, 
My Summer and my Winter, Spring and Fall ; 
For Nature left on thee a touch of all 
The moods that come to gladden or to grieve 
The heart of Time, with purpose to relieve 
From lagging sameness. So do these forestall 
In thee such o'erheaped sweetnesses as pall 
Too swiftly, and the taster tasteless leave. 
Scenes that I love, to me always remain 
Beautiful, whether under summer's sun 
Beheld, or, storm-dark, stricken across vrith rain. 
So, through all humors thou'rt the same, sweet one : 
Doubt not I love thee well in each, who see 
Thy constant change is changeful constancy. 



THE SUNSHINE OF THINE EYES. 

The sunshine of thine eyes, 

(0 still, celestial beam !) 
Whatever it touches it tills 

With the life of its lambent gleam. 

The sunshine of thine eyes, 

Oh, let it fall on me! 
Though I be but a mote of the air, 

I could turn to gold for thee ! 



U38 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Jrancis lH. Bourbillon. 

Bonrdillon, one of the younger English poets, was born 
in 1S53. While j-et an undergraduate at Worcester Col- 
lege, Oxford, he won reputation as a poet by two grace- 
ful stanzas, eight lines in all, entitled "Light." They 
were speedily translated into the principal languages of 
Europe. Rarely has a poet won his spurs on so small a 
venture in verse. Bourdillon is the author of "Among 
the Flowers, and other Poems,"' a volume of 176 pages, 
published in Loudon, ill 1878, by Marcus Ward ifc Co. 
A native of Woolbedding, in Sussex, he dedicates his 
poems to it as embracing " the influences, memories, and 
affections that lor all men haunt the name of home." ' 



LIGHT. 



Tlio night has a thousand eyes, 

And the day but one ; 
Yet the light of the bright world dies 

With the dying snn. 

The niiud has a thousand eyes. 

And the heart but one ; 
Yet the light of a whole life dies 

When its day is done. 



CELL 



If stars were really watching eyes 
Of angel armies in the skies, 
I should forget all -natchers there, 
And only for your glances care. 

And if your eyes were really stars, 
AVith leagues, that noue can mete, for bars 
To keep me from their lougcd-for day, 
I conld not feel more far away. 



THE HOME OF MY HEART. 

Xot here, in the populous town, 

In the jilayhonse or mart, 
Xot here, iu the ways gray and brown, 
lint afar, on the green swelling down, 

Is the home of my heart. 

There the hill-side slopes down to a dell, 

Whence a streamlet has start, 
Tliere are woods and sweet grass on tlie swell, 
And the south wimls and west know it well : 

Tlieie's the homo of my heart. 



There's a cottage o'ershadowed by leaves, 

Growing fairer than art, 
Where, nnder the low sloping eaves 
No false hand the sw.iUow bereaves ; 

'Tis the home of my heart. 

And there, on the slant of the lea. 

Where the trees stand apart, 
Over grassland and woodland, maybe 
You will catch the faint gleam of the sea 

From the home of my heart. 

And there in the rapturous spring, 

When the morning rays dart 
O'er the jilain, and the morning birds sing. 
You may see the most beautiful thing 

In the home of my heart ; 

For there at the casemeut above, 

Where the rose-bushes part, 
Will blush the fair face of my love : — • 
Ah, yes ! it is this that will prove 

'Tis the homo of mv heart. 



THE DIFFERENCE. 

Sweeter than voices in the scented hay. 
Or laughing children gleaning ears that stray, 
Or Christmas songs that shake the snows above, 
Is the first cuckoo, when he comes with love. 

Sadder than birds on snuless summer eves, 

Or drip of rain-drops ou the fallen leaves, 

Or wail of wintry waves ou frozen shore. 

Is Spring that comes, but brings us love no more. 



LET US LOVE. 

Love, let us love ! W^hat have we else to do ? 

Who cannot count one hour of life to come ; 
Who only kuow the present to be true. 

The voice that now we hear to be not dumb ; 
To whom, as on a barren beach we stand. 
The past and future are the tide-whelmed sand. 

Love, let us love! For love and life and death — 
What else ? — we know are real ; and as we must 

T?y nature's force both hold and yield our breatli, 
So let us take, not forced, but as in trust, 

Upon ourselves the third reality. 

And love so long as love, life, death shall be. 



MARY A. BARE. 



939 



illavn 2.. Barr. 

Boi'ii in Glasffow, Scotland, Miss Barr •n-;is lirousht to 
this country in chiUUiood, and licr trainins and intellect- 
ual development have been distinctively American. Her 
poems are full of thought and tenderness. They have 
been contributed to our principal magazines, and lU'e 
worthy to be gathered into a volume. 



WHITE POPPIES. 

O mystic, migbty flower, wbose frail TvLitc leaves, 
Silky and crumpled like a banner furled, 

Sbadow tbe black mysterious seed tbat gives 
The drop tbat sootbes aud lulls a restless world; 

Nepenthes for our woe, yet swift to kill. 

Holding tbe kuowledge of botb good aud ill. 

Tbe rose for beauty may outsbiue tbee far, 
Tbe lily hold berself like some sweet saint 

Apart fi'om earthly grief, as is a star 
Apart from any fear of earthly taiut ; 

Tbe suowy poppy like au angel stands, 

With consolation in her ojieu bauds. 

Ere History was born, tbe jiocts sung 

How godlike Tboue knew thy compelling power, 

And ancient Ceres, by strange sorrows wrung, 
Sought sweet oblivion from tby healing flower. 

Giver of Sleep ! Lord of the Laud of Dreams ! 

simple weed, thou art not what uuiu deems. 

Tbe clear-eyed Greeks saw oft their God of Sleep 
Waudering about through tbe black midnight 
hours. 

Soothing the restless couch with slumbers deep. 
And scattering thy medicated flowers. 

Till bands were folded for their final rest. 

Clasping 'White Poppies o'er a pulseless breast. 

AVe have a clearer vision ; every hour 

Kind hearts and bands the poppy juices mete. 

And panting sufferers bless its kindly power, 
Aud weary ones invoke its peaceful sleep. 

Health has its Rose and Grape and joyful Palm, 

Tlie Poppy to tbe sick is wine aud balm. 

1 sing tbe Poppy! Tbe frail snowy weed! 
Tbe flower of Mercy ! tbat within its heart 

Doth keep " a drop serene " for human need, 

A drowsy balm for every bitter smart. 
For happy bonis the Rose will idly blow — 
The Poppy bath a charm for pain and woe. 



OUT OF THE DEEP. 

Under tbe stormy skies, wbose wan, white light 
Fell slant and cold upon the surging wave — 
Upon tbe sad road of tbe cruel wave — 
There was a little boat which day aud night 
Had held its dead and dying in tbe sight 
Of Him who dwelletb iu Eternity. 

Out of tbe shuddering cold, out of tbe deep. 
Into tbe warmth of life, aiul love, and rest — 
Into the sweet content of grateful rest — 
They came. Tbe watchful angels did not sleep 
Who had a charge concerning souls to keep : 
Tbe saving ship bad followed their behest. 

Poor weary souls! If their eyes could have seen 
The shining footsteps on the deep, wet ways — 
Making so still tbe deep and perilous ways — 

Ah, then bow calm their troubled hearts had been ! 

The chafing surge aud winds bad heard between 
Their hideous roar a sigh of human pr.-iise. 

Dear soul, this is a parable. Thou h.ist 

Been shipwrecked oft upon life's stormy sea — 
Left all alone upon life's stormy sea — 
And yet some saving vessel always passed, 
Aud to tby trembling bauds the life-Hue cast : 
Aud as it has been, so it still sliall be. 



A HARVEST-HOME. 

It is not long siuce we with happy feet 

Stood ankle-deep in grasses, fresh aud green ; 

While iu tbe apple-blossoms, pink and sweet, 
The singing birds, with flashing wings, were seen. 

It is not loug ago — not long ago — 

Since tbe glad winds ran through the tasselled 
corn : 
This way and that way, swaying to and fro, 

Tbe golden wheat waited tbe harvest morn. 

Now all tbe silent lields are brown and bare. 
And all the singing birds are gone away ; 

But peaceful calm is in the hazy air. 

And we, content, can watch the sweet decay. 

For so tbe bay is saved, tbe corn, tbe wheat, 
Tbe lioney from a thousand scented bowers, 

While russet apples, delicately sweet, [flowers. 
Hang where once bung tbe pink -white apple- 



940 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH JXD AilERICAX rOETRY. 



So we iu onr life's iiutumu stilly muse 
Upnii the harvest of our gathered years, 

Fimling the hopes that ouee we feared to lose 
Growu perfect through our toil aud love and tears, 

Aud saying, gratefully, "Although their flower 
Was strangely fair aud sweet, from cup to root, 

'Tvvas hest they changed with us from hour to hour, 
For better than the Blossom is — the Fruit." 



iWaxxs (15. llanbjinc. 

AMERICAN. 

Miss Vandyne is a native of Broolilyn, L. I., and a fre- 
quent contributor to our periodical literature. 



WHEN I WENT FISHING WITH DAD. 

When I was a hoy — I'm an old man now ; 
Look at the lines across my hrow ; 

Old Time has furrowed them there. 
My back is bent and my eyes are dim ; 
He lias placed his finger on every limb, 
And pulled out most of my hair. 
But if life has reached December, 
I'm not too old to remember 
When I went fishing with dad. 

We wouhl each of us shoulder his part of the load. 
And joyfully start along the road — 
But dad's was the heaviest share. 
Out of the village about a mile, 
Over a meadow, across a stile, 
Aud then we were almost there. 
Dear old brook, I can see it still. 
The mossy bank aud the old gray mill, 
Where I went fishing with dad. 

We would wander about for a little space 
To find the cosiest, shadiest place, 

Before wo went to work. 
Then dad would arrange his rod and line, 
Aud tell me just how to manage mine 
When the fish began to jerk. 

If I only could feel as I used to then ! 
If the diiys could only come back agaiu, 
Wlien I went fishing with dad! 

We armed our hooks with the wi-iggliug bait. 
Then seated ourselves on the bank to wait 
Aud see if the fish would bite. 



Sometimes they would only take a look. 
As if they thought there might be a hook. 
But couldu't be certain quite. 

There was one old perch tliat I used to think 
Would always look at the line and wink, 
When I went fishing with dad. 

And so wo fished till the sun was high, 
Aud the morning hours were all gone by, 

Aud the village clock struck one. 
"I am hungry, Jim," then dad would say; ' 
"Let's give the fishes a chance to play 
Until our lunch is done." 

Oh, nothing has ever tasted so sweet 

As the big sandwiches I used to eat 

When I went fishing with dad. 

Then dad and I would lie on the grass 
Aud wait for the heat of the day to pass: 

How happy I used to feel ! 
Aud what wonderful stories he would tell 
To the eager boy that he loved so well. 
After our mid-day meal! 

And how I would nestle close to his side 
To hear of the world so big .and wide. 
When I went fishing with dad! 

For I eagerly listened to every word ; 
And then among men of whom I heard 

How I longed to play a part ! 
What wonderful dreams of the future came. 
What visions of wealth aud an honored name. 
To fill my boyish he.art ! 

There is no dream like the old dream, 
Tliere is no stream like the old stream 
Where I weut fishing with dad. 

Then Ijack agaiu to our sport we'd go, 
And fish till the sunset's crimson glow 

Lit up the dying day; 
Then dad would call to me, "Jim, we'll stop; 
The basket is full to the very top ; 
It's time we were on our way." 

Tliere are no ways like the old ways. 
There are no days like the old days 
When I went fishing with dad. 

Then wo took our way through the meadow-laud. 
And I clung so tight to his wrinkled hand. 

As happy as I could be. 
And when the old house came in sight, 
The smile on his old face grew so bright 

As ho looked down at me. 



MJBT E. rASDYNE.—ELAIXE AXD DOHA GOODALE. 



941 



And no one smiles as he used to smile ; 
And, oh, it seems such a long, long while 
Since I went fisliiDg with dad. 

It is 'way, 'way back in tlie weai'y years 
That with aching heart and falling tears 

I watched dad go away. 
His aged head lay on my breast 
AVlieu the angels called him home to rest — 
He was too old to stay. 

And I dug a grave 'neath the very sod 
Tliat my boyish feet so often trod 
When I went fishing with dad. 

The woild has given me wealth and fame. 
Fulfilled my dreams of an honored name. 

And now 1 am weak and old ; 
The land is mine wherever I look ; 
I can catch my lish with a silver hook ; 
But my days are almost told. 
■ Uucheered by the lovo of child or wife, 
I would spend the end of my lonely life 
Where I wont iishing with dad. 

My limbs are weary, my eyes are dim; 
I shall tell them to lay me close by him, 

Whenever I come to die; 
And side by side, it will he my wish, 
That there by the stream where they used to fish, 
They will let the old men lie. 
Clo.se by hira I would like to be, 
Buried beneath the old oak-tree 
Where I sat and fished with dad. 



Qrlijabctlj f)cnrji iUillcr. 

AMERICAN. 

Born ill Lexhigton.Vii., Dec. 2d, 18.59, Miss Miller can 
count among her ancestry some liistoric names : on her 
father's side, thiit of Jonathan Dickinson, founder and 
first President of Princeton College; while her mother, 
a daughter of Governor McDowell of Virginia, and niece 
of William C. Preston, the eloquent South Carolina Sen- 
ator, had for grandfather the gallant Gea. William Camp- 
bell, who won the battle of King's Mountain inl788; and 
for grandmother, Elizabeth Henry, a sister of Patrick 
Henry, of whom every school-boy knows. Miss Henry 
was quite as rcmarkahle in intellectual respects as her 
illustrious brother, wliora she resembled in many of her 
traits. Thus Miss Miller, who was named .ifter her, may 
be said to be entitled to her intellectual endowments by 
tlie law of heredity. The specimen of her poems wliich 
we subjohi was written by her before she had reached 
her twelfth year. 



NOW AND EVER. 

Ask what you will, my own and only love ; 

For to love's service true. 
Your least wish swaj's me as from worlds above, 

And I yield all to you 

Who art the only she, 
And in one girl all womanhood to me. 

Yet some things e'en to thee I cannot yield, — 

As that one gift by which 
On the still morning on the woodside field 

Thou mad'st existence rich, — 

Who wast the only she. 
And in one girl all womanhood to me. 

We had talked long, and then a sileuce came ; 

And iu the topmost firs 
To his nest a white dove floated like a flame. 

And my lips closed ou hers 

Who was the only she. 
And in one girl all womanhood to me. 

Since when, my heart lies by her heart — uor now 

Could I, 'twixt hers and mine. 
Nor the most love-skilled angel choose ; so thou 

Iu vain wouldst ask for thine. 

Who art the only .she. 
And iu one girl all womauiiood to me. 



Qrlainc anb Dora (fooiiale. 

AMERICANS, 
Among the precocious poets, Elaine Goodale (born 
Oct. 9tli, 1SG3), and Dora Eead Goodale (born Oct. 29tli, 
1866), will long be remembered. Their home, which bears 
the appropriate name of "Sky Farm," is in Soutli Egie- 
raont, Mass., ou the very summit of the highest of the 
Berkshire Hills. Both mother and fatlier have the poet- 
ical gift ; but the songs of the children have been as un- 
prompted as those of the young thrush. Their first vol- 
ume, "Apple-blossoms: Verses of Two Children," was 
published in 1878 by G. P. Putniim's Sons, New York. In 
the Preface, the parents say: "These verses are, above 
all else, fresh and spontaneous, the almost unconscious 
outflow of two simple, wholesome lives, in their earliest 
youth." 

PAPA'S BIRTHDAY. 
Elaine Good.«le. 
dear Sky Farm ! O rare Sky Farm ! 

Rejoice, to.-day, rejoice ! 
Unite your many tongues to ours 
In one harmonious voice ; 



942 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEIUCAX POETRY. 



Ye wiusoiiie wtiiblcrs of the ■wood, 
Pour forth your clarion hiys, 

Ami welcome to the linppy earth 
This happiest of days ! 

For 'tis the anuivorsary 

Of his auspicious birth, 
Who siugleil out from all the world 

This cherished spot of earth ; 
Who brought a loved and loving wife 

To grace its hauuts so -wild, 
And, with its blessing, thrice became 

The father of a child. 

It is his birthday who lias tilled 

Its acres broad and fair, 
Has reaped its golden harvest-fields. 

And breathed its balmy air; 
Whose holy, happy home it is. 

With motlier, children, wife, 
Whose vine-clad cottage crowns the hill. 

Brimful of health and life. 

O dear Sky Farm! rare Sky Farm! 

Break out in brighter bloom. 
And waft o'er all the emerald fields 

Your incense of perfume I 
Deep heavens of celestial blue. 

Watch o'er him, guard and bless 
Through many a sunlit birthday more 

Of love and happiness! 

May warmer union bind our hearts 

Together from this hour, 
And draw us closer to our farm 

With deep and sacred power! 
Grant every highest, purest joy, 

Protect from every harm. 
The planter of our precious home, 

The founder of Skv Farm! 



ASHES OF EOSES. 

Elaine Goodale. 

Soft on the sunset sky 
Bright daylight closes, 
Leaving, when light doth die, 
Pale hues that mingling lie, — • 
Ashes of roses. 

When Love's warm sun is set, 
Love's brightness closes ; 



Eyes with hot tears are wet, 
In hearts there linger yet 
Ashes of roses. 



EIPE GRAIN. ' 

Dora Read Goodale. 

O still, white face of perfect peace, 

Untouched Ijy passion, freed from pain,- 

Ho who ordained that work should cease 
Took to Himself the ripened grain. 

O noble face ! your beauty bears 

The glory that is wrung from pain, — 

The high, celestial beauty wears 
Of finished work, of ripened grain. 

Of human care you left no trace, 
No lightest trace of grief or i)ain, — 

On earth an empty form and face — 
In Heaven stands the ripened grain. 



APRIL! APRIL! ARE YOU HERE? 

Doha Kead Goodale. 

April! April! are you here? 

Oh, how fresh the wind is blowing! 
See! the sky is bright and clear, 

Oh, how green the grass is growing! 
April ! April ! are you here ? 

April! April! is it yon? 

See how fair the flowers are springing! 
Sun is warm and brooks are clear, 

Oh, how glad the birds are singing! 
April ! April ! is it you ? 

April! April! you arc here! 

Though your smiling turn to weeping. 
Though your skies grow cold and drear, 

Though your gentle winds are sleeping, 
April ! April ! you are here ! 



WHAT IS LEFT? 

Doha Read Goodale. 

The trees are barren, cold and brown, 
The snow is white on vale and hill, 

Tlie gentian, aster too, are gone, 
Is there no blossom with us still? 



DOHA READ GOODALE.— HESTER M. POOLE. 



943 



Oil, look upou the hazel botigh ! 

The llowers there are briglit as golil, 
Tlioiigli all is colli autl wintry now, 

Their little petals still unfold. 

The apples red have fallen down. 

And silent is the joyons rill ; 
The robiu and the tlunsh have down, — 

Is there no bird to glad us still 1 

Hark ! don't you hear a gladsome song, 
A merry chirp from tiny throat ? — 

The snow-bird all the winter long 
Will cheer us with his happy note. 

Ijcstcr ill. |Jcolc. 

AMERICAN. 

A native of Georgia, Vt., Miss Hunt was married to 
C. D. Poole, of New Yoiic tily ; but her present home is 
Metuchen, N. J. From a cldld slie has had literary tastes, 
but it is only recently that her poems have appeared in 
print. As a prose writer she is favorably known. 



Gleans now in fairer fields and loves thee still, — 

Grim Death triumphant o'er! 
And when the spriug breaks o'er that mystic sea 
That tiows so wintry cold beyond earth's strand, 
There shall thy loved <nie wait to welcome thee 
In that blessed Summer-laud ! 



A\ OCTOBER SCENE. 

An azure sky, a soft, transiiareut mist 

Veiling the distance, glimmering in the sheen 
Of an October day : low winds that kissed 

The tender, fading green ; [sheaves, 

The wheat fields brown and sere without their 

Tlie loitering kine that seek the suuny shed, 
The idly falling drift of withered leaves. 
Their gold and crimson dead; — 

The cricket's plaintive chirp ; a warning liush 

O'er all the tender sadness of the scene, — 
Proclaim throughout our beauteous land the death 

Of summer's glorious sheen. 

Soon numbing winter stills the bounding life 

Now flowing free, and hohls iu deadly chill 

The steady upward beat, the march, the strife 

Which Nature's pulses thrill. 

O wondrous change ! The spriug shall come again, 

The blood shall course through man and plant and 

A rest, a pause, a seeming death, — and then [tree: 

The joyous earth shall see 
Its soul awaken to a fresher day : 

A fuller, richer dawn shall surely come. 
Take heart, O mourner! Leave the pulseless cl.'iy. 
Look upward to thy home. 

The heart that beat, the brain that ranged at will 
O'er fields of thought and garnered plenteous store. 



A LITTLE WHILE. 

A little while, my friend, a little while. 

And sullen winter yields his frigid sway. 
Though now there comes a long and dreary file 

Of leaden days, and o'er our heads uo smile 
Of the jiale, sickly sun lights up our way, 
Sometime, to you and me 
Come hours so bright and free 
That we can wait, and waiting, sing alway ! 

Dear heart! be patient but a little while. 

For now all things take their long night of rest : 
Without, the snow is stretching many a mile 

O'er desolate hills, whose rocky, ice-bonnd crest 
Hold no warm nook, no flowers, nor feathery nest 
Of gladsome siugiug-bird, 
Whose trills, whenever heard. 
Awoke iu us suclr youthful, jocund zest. 

A little while, dear one, .a little while! 

We only wait the coming of our spring; 
And though the p.ath be long, let us beguile 

The way with hope; let Faith bear us on wing 
So strong she falters not, until she bring. 
With love's compulsion sweet, 
A life so full, 'tis meet [fling. 

That, watching for that hour, we care to glad wings 

A little while, my friend, a little while 

The earth bears seeds deep iu her faithful heart, 
In the dark mould they lonely wait, meanwhile, 

For the glad sun, through the long weeks apart; 
Then, when thej' feel the swift, electric smart 
Of the God's rapturous kiss. 
That wakes to life and bliss, 
Each softly, slowly climbs the other's heart. 

A little while, dear one, and we shall bloom : 

Our lives will find their fulness in the sjiring 
Which nature gives to all. Is there not room 

In the eternities above, for gloom 
Somewhat to shadow with its darkling wing 
The rajiturous flood of joy which love shall bring, 
When Death has lost his sting. 
As on victorious wing 
We soar to iind, iu Heaven, peipetual spring? 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES, Etc. 



PAGE 

A b:i1)y wns sleeping Lover. 507 

A bird sang sweet and stroiiix Curtis. 794 

A brace of siuuers fur no good Wolcot. 221 

A chieftain, to the Highlands bonnd Campbell. 335 

A chuid Jay cradled near the setting sun J. Wilson. 375 

A flawless pearl T. W. Uioginson. 7l'l 

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by Wordsworth. 292 

A form not always dark Mias Batea. 9-28 

A good man there was of religiotin Chaucer. 2 

A good sword and a trusty hand Hawker. 5S4 

A good that never satisfies the mind Drummond. 50 

A grace thounh melancholy, manly too H. Taylor. 5fi5 

A harmless fellow wasting useless day? G. Arnold. S&8 

A life on the ocean wave A'. Sargent. 716 

A little bird flew E. Sarg-mt. 717 

A little while, my friend, a little while Poole. 943 

A lonely wanderer upon eaith nm I H. Coleridge. 498 

A lonely way, and as I went my eyes Dowden. 932 

A lovely sky, a cloudless snn Street. 701 

A man must serve his time to every irade Byron. 403 

A man there came, whence none could tell AUingham. 825 

"A New Way to Pay Old Debts," Scene from Massinger. 4S 

A nook within the forest Street. 701 

A place in thy memory, dearest Griffin. 5S5 

A poet /—He hath put his heart to school Wordsworth. 293 

A rhyme, a rhyme Mahony. 59S 

A soldier of the Legion Mrs. Xorton. G4G 

A song for the oak Chorley. G42 

A squad of regular infantry Hay. 893 

A steed, a steed of matchless speed Motherwell. 499 

A stillnes^s crept about the house Mrs. Knox. S45 

A street there is in Paris famous Thackeray. C96 

A sun-burst on the bay Sir Aubrey de Vere. 394 

A thing of beauty is a joy forever , Keats. 491 

A view of present life is all thou hast McKnight. 901 

A volant tribe of bards Wordsworth. 292 

A weary weed tossed to and fro Fenner. 7S0 

A wee bird cam' to our ha' door Glen. 411 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea Cunningham. 300 

A wild wet night ! the driving eleet 537 

A winter night ! the stormy wind Barton. 3(59 

A wish to my lips never sprung Mowatt- Ritchie. 770 

A wolf-like stream without a sound J. Miller. 914 

Abide not in the land of dreams Burleigh. 705 

Abide w'ith nie I fast falls the even-tide Lyte. ■145 

Abou lien Adhem Hunt. 371 

Above the city of Berlin Mrs. Hooper. 877 

Abram and Zimri owned a field together Clarence Cook. 823 

Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint King. 5S 

Across the narrow beach we fljt Mrs. Thaxter. 802 

Ae dsy a fl.-ck wad brag a dial Ramsay. 139 

Ae fond ki:^>, and thfn we sever Biirn.i. 200 

A*'.;t 'r; ' ■ - f ]■>:'.,- to ride , Pringle. 407 

A:''N Cloitgh. 755 

A;'a , , p.!e> Hcrvey. COl 

A^aiii ua:i ci-iiii; the spriug-time S. Longfellow. 706 

Again, how can she but immortal be Davies. 45 

GO 



PAGE 

Again. O Vine, I turn to thee and take Home. 937 

Agaiu the flowers we loved to twine Dale. 499 

Agiiin the Lord of life and lii:ht Mrs. Barbauld. 228 

Again the violet of our early days Elliott. 361 

Again to the batile, Achaians Campbell. 334 

Again ye fields, again ye woods and farms De Kay. 933 

Ages have rolled Blanco White. 325 

Ah, Ben I say, how or when flerrick. 54 

Ah, Freedom is a noble thing Barbour. 3 

Ah ! friend, to dazzle let the vain design Pope. 149 

Ah, happy day, refuse to go Mrs. Spnford. 863 

Ah, I remember well— and how can I Daniel. 21 

Ah, Jennie dear, 'tis half a year. Mm. Woolson. S8-S 

Ah, m:iny a time we look If. Alexander. 797 

Ah me I full sorely is my heart Shcnstone, ISl ^ 

Ah I my heart is weary wailing McCarthy. 740 

Ah ! sweet Kitty Neil Waller, 67 1 

Ah ! what a weary race T. Warton. 204 

Ah, what avails the sceptred race Land&r. 320 

Alas I and alas, my sorrow 53-^ 

Alas, good friend, what profit can yon see Shelley. 430 

Alas ! 'tis true I have gone here and there Shal:speare. 31 

Alfred, I would that you Uallam. 695 

All before us lies the way Emerson. 593 

All day the stormy wind has Wown Miss Proctor, 839 

All hail ! thou noble land Allston. 350 

All houses wherein men have lived and died Longfellow. C32 

All I am sure of Heaven is this Patmore. 790 

All in tlie Downs the fleet was moored Gay. 151 

All moveless stand G. Arnold. 853 

All praise tr> thee, my God, this night Ken, 120 

All quiet along the Potomac Mrs. Beers. 818 

All ronud us lie R, Rea'f. 860 

All things once are things forever Miliies. 659 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights Coleridge. 306 

All IhrouL'h the afternoon A. P. Miller. SS5 

All travellers at first incline Swift. 125 

All victory is struggle, using chance 536 

AlIen-a-Dalu has no fagot for burning Sco't. 299 

Aloft upon an old basaltic crag O'Brien. 832 

Alone I walk the morning street Piatt. 864 

Alone with God Miss Clemmer. S91 

Although I enter not Thackeray. 690 

Am I in Italy? Is this theMiucins? Rogers. 268 

Am I the slave they say Banim. 504 

An ancient sage once on a time Mrs, Conant. S95 

An azure sky, a soft, transparent mist Poole. 943 

An' O I may I never live single again Laing. 382 

And are ye sure the news is true Mickle. 217 

And is there care iu heaven, and is there love Spenser, 13 

And is this life Mrs.E. O.Smith. 619 

And now lashed on by destiny severe Falconer. 20;s 

And uow unveiled the toilet stands disi)hiyed Pop--. 145 

And, oh beloved voices Mrs. Brow:' in i. 1170 

And, oh the longing, burning eyes h--lai}d. Tl'6 

And one there was a dreamer born Whittier. 6JiS 

And shall we never see each other Talfourd. 470 



946 



INDEX OF FIRST LIXES, ETC. 



FAGE 

And thon nrt gone, most loved Alhton. 350 

And thou h:i8t walked Jiboiit H. Smith. 352 

And thou, too, j;oiie Blackie. 007 

And, ihoiii^li for her sake Wither. 50 

And what is so rare as a day in June Lowell. 763 

And where have yon been, my Mary. Uowitt. 500 

And where is he? Not by the side Xeele. 533 

And ye shall -walk in silk attire Miss Blamire. 233 

Angels of light Miss Procter. S05 

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky Emerson. 502 

Answer me, burning stars of night Mm. Hevians. 443 

Answer me: Peace or Love Home. 937 

April ! April ! arc you here D.Ii. Goodale. 942 

Artevelde and Elena II. Taylor. 507 

As a fond mother Lonnfellow. C32 

As a twig trembles which a bird Lowell. 764 

As at their work two weavers sat H. More. 220 

As die the embers on the hearth Jackson. 770 

As dyed in blood the streaming vines appear Miss Bates. 923 

As fearless as a cherub's rest Clare. 452 

As I came down through Cannobie 527 

As I was walking all alane 150 

As I went forth to take the air 162 

As little children rnuning ou before Miss Batss. 924 

As near Porto-Bello lying Glover. 179 

As one arranges in a single vase Bethune. 010 

As one who, destined from his friends to part Roscoe. 244 

As cue who leaves a prison cell Conant, SSO 

As on my bed at dawn C. T. Turner. 041) 

As Rochefoucanlt his maxims drew Swift. 124 

As ships becalmed at eve that lay Clougk. 754 

As Bwayelh in the summer wind Mrs. Gusta/son. 906 

As sweet as the breath that goes Aldrich. SOS 

As when a Hi lie child A.P.Miller. SSS 

As when on Carmel's sterile steep J. U. Bryant. 627 

As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night Pope. ir.O 

Accent of Being, The .Akenside. 1S7 

Ask me no more Tennyson. 081 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows Carew. 53 

Ask me why I send yon here Herrick. 57 

Ask wh;it yon will, my own and only love Miss Miller. 941 

At dead of night a south-west bree/e T. Hill. 751 

At evening in the port she lay Beers. 930 

At last i'he chanced by good hap to meet Spenser. 12 

At midnight, from the sullen sleep Martin. 739 

At midnight, in his guarded lent Halleck. 4TG 

At the gate of oUl Gianada Lockhart. 455 

At the stent o' my string Ainslie. 441 

Attend, all ye who list to hear Macaulay, 502 

Autumn hath all the summer's frnitftil treasure ...Xash. 38 

Ave Maria ! blcHsod be the hour Byron. 39S 

Awake, my St. John, leave all meaner things Pope. 143 

Awake, ye saints, and raise your eyes Doddridge. 172 

Away ! let naught to love displeasing 153 

Awful power ! whose birthplace lies Greg. 6no 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down , Holmes. 053 

Ay, there yc shine, and there have shone 544 

Bachelor's Hall ! what a quare-lookiu' place Finley. 503 

Backward, turn backward Mrs. A lien. 850 

Bard.> if passion and of mirth Keats. 490 

Be it ■. gilt ' r wrong, these men among 71 

Be patifiil, oh be patient. Ttenck. 040 

TUi T hat gad year, O poet, very far J/iss Bates^ 923 

K«' ',!) is . 'Ml 1 rust Davy. 342 

r.'-.cin'. ' 1 . aiitifnl youth Gallagher. 651 

Vr ,;iMu! I'.' clyn Hope is dead Browning. 710 

Beautiful realm beyond the western main De Vere, 393 

Beautiful river, goldenly shining Elliott. 300 

Br ,■ li^.i \', >rld Blackie. 066 

Br„ >h--. (';, 1 care, I prithee begone from me Gossc. SO 

Ivliive y u 'scP before folk Rodger. SOS 

Behold, abuve the mouutaius there is light Gosse. 927 

Bei,<iM moil's judgments Townshend. 537 

Beliold ihr rocky wall Holmes. 655 

HeiK'UI ihc wi'stern evening light I'rabody. 5'.'2 

Iv b'jid 1 the wintry rains are past De Vere, 723 



I"AGB 

Behold this ruin ! 'Twas a skull 640 

Believe me if all those Moore. 345 

Believe not that your inner eye Mihies. 659 

Beloved friend, they say C. A. Dana. 757 

Beneath a mountain's brow, the most remote II»me. 193 

Beneath the sheltering walls Mrs. Jackson. 843 

Beside that mile-stone where the level suu Whittier. 637 

Between the circling mountains and the sea Symonds. 910 

Beware of doubt Mrs. E. 0. Smith. 619 

Bird of the wilderness Hogg. 281 

Bhime not the times Symonds. 912 

Blest as the immortal gods is he Philips. 120 

Blessed is he who hnlh not trod De Vere. 72S 

Blessed is the man whose heart Symonds. 912 

Blow, blow thou winter wind Shakspeare. 23 

Blue Gulf all around us Brownell. 775 

Btiboliukl that in the meadow Hill. 751 

Bonny Kilmeny gaed np the glen H'^gg- 2T7 

Bowing adorers of the gale. . .■ Clare. 452 

Breathe, trumpets, breathe G. Lunt. 622 

Brighr star! would I were steadfast Keats. 493 

Bright things can never die 536 

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning Ilrher. 364 

Brother, my arm is weaker McKnight. 901 

B^ui:^ed and bleeding, pale and weary Brooks. 712 

Buckingham delineated as Zimri Drydc.n. 113 

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride Hamilton. 173 

But I have sinuons shells of pearly hue Lamlor. 32S 

But most by numbers judge a poet's song Ptqie. 142 

But one short week ago J. Todhnnter. 556 

But two events dispel ennui Mrs. Osgood. 70S 

But who the melodies of morn can tell Beattie. 219 

Butyouder comes the powerful king of day Thomson. 107 

By cool Siloam's shady rill Hcber. 304 

By Logan's streams that rin sae deep Mayne. 203 

By Ts'ebo's lonely mountain Mrs. Alexander. S3C 

By the brink of the river 543 

By the rude bridge Emerson. 694 

By turns transformed Churchill. 203 

Csesar's Lamentation over Vompey.. Beaumont aiid Fletcher. 40 

"Cains Gracchus," Passages frou) ...Sirs. McCord. 076 

Calanthe, here ! Banim. 506 

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren... Webster. 34 

Call me not dead when I indeed have gone Gilder. 025 

Calm me, my God, and keep me calm Bo7iar. 050 

Calm on the listening ear of night Sears. 679 

Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould Milton. OG 

Can dissolution build Symonds. 9U 

Can I see another's woe Blake. 250 

Captive King, The James I. 5 

Care-charming Sleep Beaumont and Fletcher. 4T 

"Catiline," Scene from Croly's 358 

Celebrity by some great accident Kinney. SIO 

Change not, change not to me, ray God 54T 

Chatham, Lord, Character *if. Cowper. 214 

Child of my hearU B.W. Procter. 3S6 

Chrij^t, whose glory fills the skies C. Wesley. 177 

Christmas is here Thackeray. 697 

Clang, clang! the massive anvils ring ... 540 

Clasp closer, arms ; press closer, lips Mrs. Hooper. S76 

Close his eyes : bis work is done Bokcr. 791 

Cohiinhus, Three Sonnets on Sir A. de Vere. 393 

Come a little nearer, D<pctor Willson. 874 

Come, dear old comrade, you and I Holmes. 653 

Come, Evening, once again Cowper. 211 

Come, follow, follow me, you fairy elves 159 

Ciime from my First, ay, come Praed. 570 

Come, gentle sleep, attend thy votary's prayer Wolcot. 221 

Come hither, come hither Joyce, 383 

Come in the evening, or come iu the morning... . Davis. 719 

Come into the garden, Maud Tennyson. 632 

Come, let us anew onr journey pursue C. Wesley. 176 

Come, listen to another song Aytoun. 713 

Come, listen to me, you gallants so fiec 81 

Come live with me, and be my love, Marlottr. 20 

Come, oh thou traveller unkuowu ^ C. Wt-alet/. 175 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES, Etc. 



947 



PAGK 

" Come, poor child,'* say the Fh>\vei-s Mrs. Gustafson. 907 

Come, eee ihe Dolphin's jiiichor forged Fergumn. 611 

Ci>me, Sleep, and wiih thy Beaumont and Fletcher. 47 

Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace Sidney. IT 

Come, Sunsliine, come! I bee Natnie calls Vincent. 542 

Come, sweep tlie Iniip Mnt. J. G. Flrooks. 5GS 

Come, then, with all ihy grave beatitudes Mtmby. SS4 

Come to me, come to me, O my God Mac-donald. 708 

Come to the sunset tree Mrs. Hemans. 450 

Come, uncles and cuiisius ff. tt'are, 459 

Come, while the Wossoms W. G. Clark. 690 

Come, ye disconsolate Moore. 349 

Comes somethiug down with even-tide Burbidge. T4S 

Comfort thee, O thon moiiruer Landor. 329 

Commit thou all thy griefs J. IVesler/. 173 

Companionship of ilie Muse Wither. 50 

Condemned to Hope's delusive mine S. Johnson. 17S 

Confide ye aye in Providence Ballantine. 042 

Consider the lilies Miss Jiossetti. 834 

Could I hut return Joaquin Miller. 914 

Could then the babes iVom yon unsheltered cot Rnssell. Sim 

Could this ill warld ha'e been contrived Hogg. 55:i 

Could ye come back to me Mrs. Craik. 812 

Couldat thon iu calmness yield Misa Coleridge. 325 

Courage, my soul ! now learn to wield Marvell. 112 

Cranraer, Stinnet on Sir A.dc Vere. 393 

Creator Spirit, by whose aid Dryden, 117 

Cromwell, our chief of men Milton. 99 

"Crude, pompous, turgid,'" the reviewers said Fawcett. 930 

Cupid and my Canipaspe played Lilly. 40 

Cyriac, this three-years-day Milton. 100 

"Damon and Pythias," Scene from Banim. 505 

Damon, let a friend advise you D'Urfey. iC-'i 

Darkness was deepening o'er the seas Miss Pardoe. 6£0 

Darlings of the forest Mrs. Cooke. 819 

Dashing in big drops on the narrow pane Bnrleigh. 705 

Day-duty done, I've idled forth Mrs. Preaton. 837 

Day follows day; years perish Hayne. 849 

Day, in melting purple dying. Mrs. Brooks. 475 

Day is dying ! Float, O song Mrs. Cross. 771 

Day on the mountain Swain. 5S5 

Day-stars ! that ope your eyes H. Smith. 854 

Days of my youth, ye have glided away Tucker. 238 

Dear as thou wert, and justly dear. Dale. 499 

Dear child, whom sleep can hardly tame Sterling. 619 

Dear fiietid, is all we see a dream? Bell. 609 

Dear little hand that clasps my own L. Morns. 854 

Dear noble soul, wisely thy lot .' C. A. Dana. 750 

Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop Prior. 123 

Dear Timi, my brave, free-hearted lud Kenney. 529 

Death, be not proud, though some Donne. 42 

Death is a road Hunt, 372 

Death of the Strong Man Blair. 155 

Death stands above me, whispering low Landor. 3*29 

Deathless principle, arise Tnplady. 224 

Deceiving world, that with alluring toy?' fi. Greene. 19 

Deep calleth unto deep Symonds. 911 

Deep in the wave is a coral grove Pcrcival. 482 

"Definitions," Couplets from W. J. Linton. 703 

Detached passages from the Plays Shakspeare. 33 

Diaphenia, like the daftadowudilly Constable. 40 

Die down, O dismal day D. Gray. 889 

Distichs Barten Hnlyday. 69 

Do and suffer naught in vain E. Elliott. 361 

Do I regret the past Southey. 323 

Do you know you have asked Mrs. Browning. 67tt 

Dost thtiu idly ask to hear Bryant. 467 

Dost tlum remember that autumnal day Mrs. Whitman. 583 

J town in my solitude under the snow Miss Gould. 530 

Down on the Merrimnc River ff. Lunt. 021 

How's Flat. That's its name Harte. 877 

Drink to me only with thine eyes Jonsoti. 45 

Dulce it is and dernrum Clough. 754 

Duncau Gray cam heie to woo Burns. 200 



Each leaf upon the trees. 



..A, Smith. S35 



FAOK 

Each Orpheus must to the depths dcscoud M. Fuller. 678 

Earth has not anything lo show more fair Wordsworth. 293 

Earth holds no fairer, lovelier one thau thou Percivat. 482 

Earth is but the frozen echo Hageman. 932 

Earth, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood Shelley. 433 

Earth swoons, o'erwhelmed ...Kimball. 853 

Eaith with its dark and dreadful ills A. Cary. 768 

E'en silent night proclaims my soul immortal Young. 130 

Elegance floats about thee like a dress y. P. Willis. 625 

Enamored architect of airy rhyme Aldrich. SOS 

Enjoy the present smiling hour Drydcn. 118 

Epigrams from the German Lytton. 007 

Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade Coleridge. 309 

Ere the last stack is housed D. Gray. 8S9 

Ere Ihe morn the East has crimsoned. Calvcrley. S44 

Eternal and omnipotent Unseen //. Smith. 354 

Eternal Siiirit I God of truth Pollok. 516 

Eternal spirit of the chaiuless mind Byron. 404 

Even as a um'se Vauyhan. loS 

Ever let the fancy roam Keats. 493 

"Evil, be thou my good " — in rage Merivale, 343 

Eyes that outsmiled the morn Mrs. Hooper. 876 

Fainter her slow step falls Mrs. Norton. 047 

Fair as unshaded light, or as the day Davenant. 87 

Fair daffodils, we weep to see Herrwk. 54 

Fair is my U)ve, and cruel as she's fair Daniel. 21 

Fair is thy face,.Nantasket Miss Clemmer, 890 

Fair lady with the bandaged eye Drake. 473 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree Herrick. 55 

Fair stood the wind for France Drayton. 24 

Fair summer droops Xash. 39 

Faith, Hope, and Love were questioned Byrom. 153 

i'a.se world, thou liest Quarles. 57 

Fantasies of j)runkeuness Heywood. 36 

Far greater numbers have been lost by hopes Butler. 104 

Far in a wild unknown to public view Parnell. 132 

Far out at sea — the sun was high 53T 

Farewell awhile the city's hum Mrs. Gilman. 458 

Farewell ! but whenever Moore. 347 

Farewell, Life, my senses swim Hood. 511 

Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell, my Jean Ramsay. 139 

Farewell, ye soft and sumptuous solitudes M. Fuller. C77 

Father, I will not ask for wealth or fame T. Parker. 690 

Falbcr of all, in every age Pope. 14G 

Father of earth and heaven, I call thy name T. Korner. 542 

Father, thy wonders do not singly sta»d Very. 713 

Faustus, Death of Marlowe. 25 

Fear lio more the heat o' the sun Shakspeare. 29 

Few know of life's beginnings Miss Landon. 577 

Fierce raged the combat Mrs. Osgood. 707 

First at the dawn of lingering day Luttrell. 297 

First, find thou Truth, and then Shurtlef. 556 

Fine bumblebee ! fine bumblebee Emerson. 592 

Five years have passed ; five summer.^ Wm-dsworth. 2S5 

Flag of my country, in thy folds H'. P. Lunt. 613 

Flow gently, sweet Afton Ihirns. 261 

Flutes in the sunny air Hervey. 602 

Fly fro llie press and dwell with soothfastness Chaucer. 3 

Fool ! I mean not Barley. 379 

Forbid, O Fate, forbid that I Mrs. Clive. 569 

For England when with favoring gale 533 

For one long term, or e'er her trial came 275 

Fin- Spring, and flowers of Sprhig E. Elliott. 360 

For sure iu all kinds of hypocrisy GreviUe. IS 

For the dead and f )r the dying Blood. 897 

For the strength of the hills we bless thee — Mrs. Hemans. 450 

For thirty years secluded from mankind Southey. 275 

Forever gone! I am alone, alone Conrad. Gil 

Forever thine A. A. Watts. 519 

Forever with the Lord Montgonury. 303 

Forget thee, if to dream by night Moultrie. 515 

Foul canker of fair virtuous action Marston. 41 

Freedom I beneath thy banner Tuckerman. 715 

Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white Lamb. 327 

Fresh from the fountains of the wood J. H. Bryant. 626 

Fresh moi'uiiig gusts have blown away all fear Keats. 492 



948 



IXDEX OF FIRST LIXES, ETC. 



PAGE 

Friendship, like love, is bnt a name Gay. 15'2 

Fneod of my soul, for us no more E. ArinHtromj. 913 

Fi-iends ! I come not liere to talk Miss Shf/ord. 3S2 

From nil that dwell beueath the skies /. M'atts. 131 

From Green land's icy mountains Heber. 304 

From liead and heart alike Mrs. McCord. 670 

From heaven what fancy stole Lytton. 6tiG 

From her ow^n fair dimiinions Trotvbridge. S2n 

From merciless invaders 16i> 

From Ihc climes of the eun GUleapie. 331 

From the deep shadow of the still fir-groves 306 

From the moist meadow to the withered hill Thomson. 16ti 

Frcmi the Rio Grande's waters IHke. 6o7 

From you have I been absent in the spriui^ Shaksjyeare. 30 

Full many a glorious morning have I teeu tihakttpeare. 30 

Gay, guiltless pair Sprafjue. 415 

Gayiy and greenly let my seasons run Dlanchard. 5S2 

Genteel in personage Fielding. 100 

Gently, ji^eutly yet, yonng stranger Blanchard. 5:S2 

Get up, get up, for shame Herrick. 56 

Gin a body meet a bodj' 533 

Give me a spirit that on lifeV rouirh sea Chapman. 19 

Give tne moie love, or more disdaiu Careic. 53 

Give nie my scallop shell of quiet Raleigh. 10 

Give me, oh give me bjick the days Annter. 442 

Give me, O indulgent Fate CoxmUss of Winchelsea. 140 

Give place, you ladies all 00 

*'Give us a song," the soldier cried B. Taylor. 807 

Go, forget me, why should sorrow Wo\fe. 414 

Go forth in life. O friend Mrs. Dotta. 770 

Go from me. Yet I feel Mrs. BroxLming. CIO 

Go, glorious day Misn Clemmer. S90 

Go, lovely rose Waller, SS 

Go not, happy day Tennyson. CSl 

Go now, ingenuous yonih Mrs. Charlotte Smith. 235 

Go patter tt) lubbers and swabs, d'ye see C.Jjibdin. 228 

Go, sit by the summer sea 534 

Go Bonl, the body's guest lialeigh. 14 

Go, then, and join the roaring city's throng Bowles. 265 

Go, triflers with God's secret R. Buchanan. 909 

Go when the morning shineih Mrs. Simpson. 700 

God bless the king 1— I mean, etc Byrom. 154 

God, give us men Holland. 700 

God gives not kings the style of gods in vain James I. 38 

God of the earth's extended jdains IP. B. O. I'cabody. 525 

God prosper long our noble King 62 

God save onr gracious King 15S 

"God wills but ill," the doubter said Bennett. 772 

Gone is gime, and dead is dead Miss Doten. S-J9 

Gone were but the winter cold Cumiinghavi, 367 

Good-bye, proud world Emerson. 592 

Good-night? ali no, the hour is ill Shelley. 420 

Good-night to thee, lady ! though many Praed. 570 

Going— the great round Sun E. A. Jenks. S40 

Great God of Nations, and their Right 685 

Great is the folly of a feeble brain I)nnne. 41 

Great Monarch of the world Charles I. 80 

Great th'tngh thou art, awake Lytton. 600 

Greek Anthology, From the Austin. 641 

Green be the turf above thee Halleck. 470 

Grown to man's stature, O my little child Mrs. Dorr. 809 

Guest from a holier world Lnighton. S27 

Gusty and raw was the morning B. Taylor, S07 

Had I a heart for falsehood framed Sheridan. 237 

Had I the wings of a dove Miss Aird. 732 

Had one ne'er seen the miracle Savage. 909 

Hail, bcauieous stranger of the grove Lngan. 234 

Hail, Columbia, happy land Uopkinaon. 295 

Hail, holy love Pollok. 517 

Hail, new-waked atom 52S 

Hail Ihon, the ever young Lytton. 007 

Hail to Ihee, blithe spirit Shelley. 423 

Haifa league, half a league Tennyson. 084 

Happiness that ne'er was fading Mrs. McCord. 675 

Happy the man who, void uf cares and strife J. Philips. 131 



PAGB 

Happy the man whose wish and care Pope. l42 

Happy those early days when I Vanghan. 107 

Harkl hark! the lark at heaven's gate slugs... S/tajfcspearc. 29 

Hark that sweet carol Street. 702 

Hark the bell ! it sounds midnight Lewis. 328 

Hark the glad sound! the Saviour comes Doddridge. 172 

Hark I the night's slumberous air Reade. 610 

Hark to the measured march Lytton. C06 

Hark to the shouting wind U. Timrod. S2S 

Harness me down with your iron bauds Cutter. 723 

Harry, my little blue-eyed boy W.H.Timrod. 420 

Has the old glory passed J. E. Cooke. S3S 

Has thy pursuit of knowledge been c<mtined McKniijht. S99 

Hast th(ui a charm to stay the morning-star Coleridge. 307 

Hast tliou not seen, impatient boy /. Watts. 130 

Haste ! open the lattice, Giulia .Dimitry. 886 

Haih this world without me wronght Hedge. 015 

Haven't you seen her Mrs. Picstun. 837 

Have you not oft in the still wind Dnrley. 373 

Having this day my horse. Sidney. 17 

He had plaj-ed fttr his lordship's levde Dobson. S97 

He is dead, the beautiful youth Lonnfelloic. 629 

He is gone— is du^^t Coleridge. 309 

He is gone, O my heart, he is gone Mrs. Moulton. 863 

He is gone on the mountain Sir Walter Scott. 301 

He liveih long who livelh well Bonar. 059 

He seudeth sun, he sendelh shower Mis. Adams. 009 

He spake, and drew the keen-edsed sword Bniant. 4GC 

He taught the cheerfulness that still is onrs Blanch'ird. 6Sl 

He that loves a rosy cheek Carew. 62 

Helhatofsuch a height hath built his mind Daniel. 20 

He was a man whom danger De Vcre. 393 

He was in logic a great critic A'. Butler. 104 

He was one of many thousand Taylor. 567 

He who died at Azan sends E. Arnold. S5l 

He wlio Juves best knows most Townshend. 583 

Hear the sledges wiih the bells Poe. G02 

Hear what Highland Nora said Sir Walter Scott. 302 

Heard ye the arrow hurtle in the sky? Milman. 417 

Heaven is not reached at a single hound Holland. 766 

Hence, all you vain delights Beaumont and Fletcher. 46 

Hence, loathed Melancholy Milton, 90 

Hence, vain deluding joys Milton. 91 

Her closing eyelids mock the light Aldcn. SSI 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend tht»e Herrick. 55 

Her form was as the Morning's T'ennant. 307 

Her suffering ended with the day J. Aldrich. 691 

Her thick hair is golden Gibson. 79S 

Here are old trees, tall oaks Bryant. 463 

Here from the brow of the hill I look English. 76S 

Here goes Love ! Now cut him clear R. T. S. Lowell. 741 

"Here 1 am I"— and the house rejoices 53D 

Here is a little golden tress Mrs. Wclby. 779 

Here's n ban Is with rich cowslips Darley. 379 

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie Moultrie. 515 

Here, lake my likeness with yon Cowley. 109 

Hie upon Hielauds, and low upon 'fay 84 

High name of poet ! sought in every age Brydges. 204 

Hi-h walls and huge Garrison. 614 

His joyous neigh, like the clarion's strain Durivaye. 727 

His steed was old, his armor worn Beers. 930 

Historic mount! baptized in flame Prentice. 579 

Home of the Percy's high-born race Halh-ck. 479 

\h\ sailor of the sea Dobell. 794 

Ho I why do.st thou shiver and shake Holcroft. 229 

How are songs begot and bred St^nldard. SOS 

How are thy servants blest, O Lord Addison. VIO 

How aromatic evening grows Hiltfioust; 410 

How beautiful is Night Sou'hey. 322 

How beautiful is the rain Longfelloio. 031 

How beantifiil it was Longfellow. 633 

How can I cease to pray for thee Mrs. Dorr. 809 

How dazzling white th») snowy scene Grahaoie. 270 

How dear to tliis heart Wuodworth. 377 

How delicious is the winning. Camjthell. 336 

How few are fmnd ((Ui Murphy) Churchill. 203 

How gallantly, how merrily :...n. W.Procter. 3S5 



IXDEX UF FIRST LIXES, ETC. 



949 



FAGG 

How hnppy is he born ami taught Wotton. 39 

How high those tones are beating Misn Bates. 023 

How liule recks it where meu die ..Darri/. 5M 

How long, great God, liow long must I Xorris. 122 

How long I mailed H. Coletid'je. 49T 

How long sh:ill man's imprisoned spirit groan. ..... Cotton. 352 

How many blessed groups this hour. Mrs. Heinans. 451 

How many days with mule adieu T. Miller. liSS 

How many meu have passed the flames A. P. Miller. SSii 

How many thousands of my poorest subjects. . .Shakupeare, 33 

How many wait alone Mrs. Conant. S95 

How often I repeat their rage divine Younj. 13G 

How pleasant a sailor's life passes 150 

How seldom, friend, a good great man Coleridge. SOS 

How shall a man foredonmed H, Coleridge. 49S 

How s^hall I know Ihee in the sphere Bryant. 405 

How sliall my love to God Garriaon. 615 

How shall we leuru to sway Annter. 443 

How sleep the brave who sink to rest Collins. ISS 

How soft the pause Mrs. Tigke. 313 

How soon halh Time, the subtle thief of youth Miiioii. 99 

How stands the glass arnnnd 163 

How still the morning of the hallowed day Grahame. 269 

How sweet the harmonies of afteructon F. Tennyson. 616 

How sweet the moonlight !-leeps iShakspeare. 32 

How strange is death to life Hterling. 620 

How vainly men themselves amaze Marvell. 113 

How various his employments whom. Covper. 211 

Hues of the rich, unfolding morn Kcble. 436 

Hush, heart of mine — Si/monds. 912 

Hush! her face is chill £astmaiu 739 

"I always see in dreams,"' she said Frothinrfhmn. 445 

I am a friar of orders gray O'Keefe. 233 

I am dying, Egypt, dying Lytic. S14 

I am in Rome ! Oft as the morning ray Rogers. SOS 

I am not concerned to know /. Watts. 130 

I am not one who mncli or oft delight tt'ordsworth. 2i'4 

I am 1 yet what I am who cares Clare. 4.')3 

I arise from dreams of thee Shelley. 426 

I ai-k not that my bed of death M. Arnold. 733 

I asked the heavens — what foe Montgomery. 304 

I bring fresh showers Shelley. 421 

I bring the simplest pledge of love Holmen. 655 

I cannot make him dead PierponL 3.S0 

I cannot— no Taylor. 567 

I cannot tell you if tlie dead Laighton. S27 

I cannor, think the glorious world of mind Leighton, 7S6 

I care not, Fortune, what yuu me deny Thomson. 169 

I care not though it be Xon-is. 122 

I climbed the dark brow Sir K'a!ter Scott. 300 

I dare not echo those who say Mrs. Mason. 7SS 

I'd be a butterfly Bayly. 502 

I do not believe the sad story Curry. 605 

I envy not in any moods Tennyson. 6S5 

I feel a newer life in every gale Percival. 452 

I fill this cup to one made up Pinkney. 572 

I found beside a meadow-brooklet bright McKnight. 901 

I hae seen great anes Elizabeth Hamilton. 252 

I hate that drum's discordant siuuul J. Scott. 205 

I have been sitting akuie Jf. Collins. 817 

I have examined, and do tind Katharine Phitlijys. 119 

I have had playmates C.Lamb. 327 

I have ships that went to sea Coffin. SI5 

I have told a maiden Lucrctia M. Davidson. 644 

I hear it often in the dark .Gannett. S9S 

I know, Justine, you speak me fair Saxe, 730 

I know my body's of so frail a kind Davie^i. 40 

I know tliat the woild D. Barker. 742 

I know thou art gone Hervey. 602 

I kn>iw thou art not that brown monntain->ide Gilder. 924 

I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend Burns. 256 

I lay me down to sleep Mrs. Howland. 549 

I lived with visions for my company 3Irs. Browniuq. 671 

I long have been puzzled to guess Saxe. 735 

I look throngh tears on Beauty now. R. U. Dana. 383 

I looked upon a plain of green Sterling. 620 



PAGE 

I love {and have some cause to love) Quarks. 53 

I love it, I love it Miss Cook. 746 

I love to look on a scene like this S. P. Willis. 624 

I love lo rise ere gleams the tardy light. Anna Seward. 523 

I loved thee long and dearly P. P. Cooke* 736 

I loved thee once, I'll love uo more Aytan. 35 

I'll have no glittering gewgaws Tobin. 275 

I'll rob the hyacinth and rose Dawes. 5S9 

I'll tell you, friend, what sort of wife Frisbie. 369 

I'm bidden, little Mary Mrs. Southey. 333 

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary Lady Dujferin. 671 

I'm weaiin' awa, John Carolina Sairm, 2T1 

I marked at morn the thirsty earth Mrs. Sigourney. 418 

I met a man in Regent Street Bayly. 502 

I must away to wooded hills G. Arnold. 859 

I need not praise the sweetness of \n& song Lowell. 763 

I ne'er could any lustre see Sheridan. 237 

I never gave a lock of hair away Mis. Browning. 671 

I not believe that the great Architect Sitlvester. 23 

I once saw a poor fellow Bowring. 440 

I own I like not Johnson's turgid style Wolcot. 221 

I pity from my soul unhappy men Roscommon. 120 

I played with you "mid cowslips blowing Peacock. 534 

I pray thee by thy mother's face Brainard, 4S5 

I press my cheek against the window-p;itH^. . . . Mia PreMon. 837 

I remember, I remember Hood. 51 o 

I remember, I remember Praed. 577 

I remember the lime, thou roaring sea Mackay. 726 

I said to Sorrow's awful stm'm Mrs. Stoddard. 337 

I sat with Doris, the shepherd-nialden Munby. S84 

I saw from the beach Moore. 349 

I saw tliee once— once only Foe. 661 

I say to thee, do thtm repeat Treneh. 640 

I scarcely grieve, O Nature Timrod. 829 

I see thee still Sprague, 410 

I see them on their winding way Heber. 304 

I shot an arrow into the air Lonofellow. 630 

I sing the sweets I know, the charms I feel Barlow. 246 

I sit beneath the aiiple-tree Miss Phelps. 925 

I sought for wisdimi in the morning-lime Penney. 570 

I sought Thee round about Heywo^d. 37 

I sprang to the stirrup Browning. 709 

I stand upon the mono tain's lop K. Peabody. 623 

I thank my God, because my hairs are gray H. Coleridge. 497 

I think we are too ready with complaint — Mrs. Browning. 663 

I've a proposal hei'e from Mr. Murray Frere. 274 

I've heard them lilling Miss Elliot. 193 

I've often wished that I could write a b()ok Frere. 273 

I've seen the smiling Mrs. Cockburn. 194 

I've set my heart upon nothing, yon see Dwight. 71S 

I've waudered east, I've wondered west Motherwell. 500 

I wait Miss Clemmer. 839 

I walked beside the evening sea ..Curtis. 794 

I wandered by the brook-side Milnes. 600 

I wandered lonely as a clond Wordsworth. 2S3 

I was a scholar : seven useful springs Marston. 41 

I watched the swaus in that proud park Parsons. 760 

I weep for Adonais— he is dead Shelley. 427 

I will not praise the often flattered rose Doubleday. 413 

I will sing as I shall please Wither. 51 

I wish I were where Helen lies SO 

I won a noble fame Tiiton. S64 

I wonld be quiet, Lord Mrs. Dorr. SOS 

I wonld not have believed it then W^ka. 893 

I would not live alway Muhlenberg. 651 

If all our life were one broad glare 552 

If all the world and Love were young Marlowe. 26 

If aught of oaten stop or i»astoral song Collins. ISO 

If by any device or knowledge Palgrave. 797 

If by dull rhymes our English must be chained Keats. 492 

If dead, we cease to be Coleridge. 3tt8 

If doughty deeds my lady please R. Graham. 235 

If dumb too long the (lroO|)ing Muse Tickell. 141 

If fragrances were colors, I would liken Be Kay. 933 

If I had thonghi thou couldst have died IFo'/e. 414 

If in llie-^e ihonghis of mine McKnight. 8*t9 

If it must be D. Gray. 8S9 



950 



lyOEX OF FIEST LINES, ETC. 



PACK 

IF love were what the rose is Swiiiburne. ST3 

If mnn sleeps on, untaught by what he sees Young. 137 

If on n child of Natuie thuu bestow McKnight. 8!I9 

If, sitting with this little, worn-ont shoe. .Mrs. M. R. Smith. 915 

If stars were really watching eyes Bourdillon. 93S 

If this fair rose oftuiul thy sight 160 

If thou must love me Mrs. Browning. 671 

If lliou Shalt be in heart a child L. Morris. 853 

If thou wert by my side, my love Ueber. 363 

If thy sad heart, pining for human love Mrs. Whitman. 5S3 

If ye have precious truths that yet remain McKmght. 1*00 

In all the laud, range up, range dowu Buchanan. 9()S 

In darker days and nights of storm T. I'arker. 690 

In eddying course when leaves began to tly Brydges. 204 

In fnll-blown dignity see Wolsey stand Johnson, 1T9 

In him Demosthenes was heard again Cowper. 214 

In hope a king doth go to war Alison. 22 

In man or woman, but far most iu man Cowper. 210 

"III Memoriam,"' Stanzas from Tennyson. 6S5 

In mids of June, that jolly, sweer seasoun Henryson. 6 

III purple robes old Sliavnauuni. Joyce. 8S2 

Iu slnmbers of tuidnigbt I he sailor-boy lay Vimond. 356 

In spite of outward blemishes she shone Churchill. 2US 

Iu summer when the days were luug 545 

In that desolate land and lone LonofAlow. 630 

In ihe deepening shades of Lwiliglit Mrs. Thorpe. 935 

In the greenest growth of ihe May-tiiue Swinburne. S72 

Iu the hour of my distress Herrick. 55 

In the molten-gohlen moonlight R. Lytion. S45 

III Ihe tempest of life Lawrence. 6-_'G 

In thee,0 blessed God, I hope Blackie. 666 

Iu their ragged regimentals McMaster. 830 

In these deep soliiiides and awful cells !*ope. 147 

In wanton sport my Doris Merivale. 344 

In winter, when the rain rained cauld C7 

In yonder grave a Druid lies Collins. 189 

Indoleni ! indolenti yes, I am indolent Mrs. Cooke. 810 

Intent the conscious nnuin tains stood Mrs. Dodge. 903 

Into a ward of the whitewashed walls Miss Lacoate. 915 

**Ion,"Talfourd's, Sceue from 470 

Is it all vanity Lytton. 607 

Is there, for honest poverty Burns. 25S 

Is there then hope that thou Symonds, 912 

Is this the stately Syracuse Motley. 723 

Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child Byron. 395 

Is thy name Mary, maiden fair Holmes. C56 

It came U])OU the midnight clear Sears. 6S0 

It chanceth once to every sonl Miss Phelps. 925 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free Wordsworth. 292 

It is a place where poets crowned Mrs. Browning. 668 

It is a spectral show— this W(mdrous world 546 

It is a sultry day ; the sun has drunk Bryant. 465 

It is an ancient mariner Coleridge. 310 

It is enough: i feel this golden raoru Mrs.Preston. 837 

It is hope's spell that glorities E. Bronte. 743 

It is most true that eyes arc formed to serve Sidney. IT 

It is night; I am alone Macplierson. 222 

It is not beauty I demand 84 

It is not death to die Bethune. 610 

It is not growing like a tree. Jonson. 45 

It is not long since we with happy feet Miss Barr. 939 

It is uot to be thmight of that the tlood Wordsworth. 293 

It is the fairest sight C. T. Turner. 649 

It is the loveliest day that we have bad Hunt. 371 

It is the midnight hour J. Wilson. 375 

It is the soul that sees Crabbe. 246 

It lies around us like a cloud Mrs. Stowe. 706 

It's hame, and it's hamc Cunningham. 306 

It's rare to see the morning breeze Ainslie. 442 

It must be so— Plato, ihou reasou'et well Addison. 129 

It seems so lonely iu the nest Mrn. Tattle. 692 

It singeth low iu every heart Chadwick. 9til 

It was n friar of orders gray Percy. 202 

It was a summer evening Southey. 320 

It was an eve of autumn's holiest mood Pollok. 517 

It was an old distorted face Mrs. Whitmy. 795 

It was merely the bud Powers. SIG 



PAGE 

It was not by vile loitering in ease Thomson 168 

It was the calm and silent night Domett. 73^ 

It was the time when 'gainst the breaking day Fair/ax. 27 

It was the wild midnight Croly. 356 

Jenny kissed me when we met Hunt. 372 

Jerusalem, my happy home S5 

John Anderson my jo, John Burns. 261) 

John Brown in Kansas settled Stedman. 855 

John Gilpin was a citizen Cowper. 214 

Jonsoii. Ben, Ode to himself. 44 

Joy to the world ! the Lord is come Watts. 131 

Judge not, because thou canst not judge {\r\^]\t..Tuwnshend. 5S7 
Juluis, how many hours have we Landor. 320 

Keep faith iu love A. P. Miller. SSG 

Ken ye aught of brave Lochiel 529 

Kuow'st thou the laud W.H. Channing. 679 

Lady, there is a hope IT. E. Channiny. 744 

Laid in my qniet bed Howard. G 

Land of the brave ! where lie inurned Brooks. 568 

Langsyne I— how doth the word come back Moir. 506 

Lars Porsena of Clusium Macaulay. 55T 

Last Garrick came Chtirehiil. 209 

Late at e'en, driuking the Mine 7S 

Late, Inte, so late Tennyson. 684 

Late to our town there came a maid Perkins. CS9 

Laud the first spring daisies Youl. 550 

Laugh on, fair cousins, for to you Praed. 574 

Lawrence, of virtuous father, virtuous sou Milton, 100 

Lay a garland on my hearse.. Beaumont and Fletcher. 4S 

Leave me not yet Mrs. Hcmaiis. 450 

Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust Sidney. ]" 

Leoua, the hour draws nigh J, 6. Clark. 834 

Let it uot grieve thee, dear J. A. Noble. 555 

Let me count my tieasures « 550 

Let me not deem that I was made in vain H. Coleridge. 49S 

Lei me not to the marriage of true minds Shakspeare. 31 

Let no man fear to die Beaumont and Fletcher. 47 

Let no poet, great or small Stoddard. 803 

Let them go by Dowdcn. 931 

Let ns escape ! this is onr holiday Simms. CIS 

Let us go, lassie, go Tannahill. 324 

Let us baste to Kelviu grove Lyle. 419 

Life aud the universe M. Collins. 817 

Life answers "No!" Lytton. 607 

Life, believe, is not a dream C. Bronte. 742 

Li (el I know not what thou art Mrs. Barbauld. 220 

Life is a sea ; like ships we meet C. T. Brooks. 711 

Life is unutterably dear Miss Bates. 923 

Life will be gone ere I have lived C. Bronte. 743 

Lift up thine eyes, afflicted soul Montgomery. 3u4 

Lift your glad voices H. Ware. 45;t 

Like as the armed knight...., Anne Askew. 7 

Like as the damask rose ytiu^eee Wastell. 81 

Like as the waves make toward the pebbled Shakspeare. 30 

Like to the failing of a star King. 59 

Lily, on liquid roses floating Kenyan. 366 

Lithe and listen, gentlemen 6S 

Little charm of placid mieu A. Philips. 126 

Li I lie drops of water Mrs. Osgond. 70S 

Little Gretchen, little Gretchen Mrs. Hmritt. 594 

Little I a^k ; my wants are few Holmes. 655 

Little inmate, full of mirth Mrs. Charlotte Smith. 235 

Little store of wealth have I Mrs. Dorr: SOS 

Live in th:it Whole J. F. Clarke. 679 

*' Live while you live," the epicure would say, . . .Doddridge. 172 

Lo! o'er the earth Davy. 341 

Lo, Yates ! Without the least tlnesseof art Churchill. 207 

Lochiel! Lochiel! beware of the day Campbell. 332 

Long swollen in drenching rain Wilcox. 461 

Long time a child, and still a child //. Coleridge. 496 

Look at me with thy large brown eyes Mrs. Craik. 812 

Look hack ! a thought which Churchill. 207 

Look, mother, the mariner's rowing Mangan. 589 

Look off, dear Love Lanier. 916 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES, ETC. 



951 



Look, sonl, how swiftly all tliiiigs onward tend. . .McKnight. 9iil 
Look there ! the beacon's crimson light . . . W. 11. 0. Pcabody. 522 

Look lip, sweet wife, through happy tears M. Ban: S4S 

Look, William, how the morning mists Houtlmj. 322 

L.ird ! come away Jeremy Taylor. Ifl5 

LorJ . for the erring thouglit Hawells. STl 

Lord, frimt Ihy blessed throne Sicoll. 719 

Lord of earth! thy bonnteous hand Grant. aiS 

Lord, thou knowest Pierpont. 3S0 

Lord, what am I? a worm, dnst, vapor, nothing Ball. 40 

Lord ! who art merciful as well asjnst Sauthey. 322 

Lord, what a change Trench. «40 

Lords, knights, and squires, tbe immerons bund Prior. 123 

Lond roared the droadlul thunder Cherry. 263 

Loinl wind, strong wind Mr«. Craih. S12 

Louisa, did you never trace IC. L'. O. Peabody. 523 

Love 1 I will lell thee what it is tu luve .S'uiitin. 5S5 

Love is the hai>|iy privilege Uailey. 734 

Love, let us Live DourdiUon. 938 

Love me little, love me linig 83 

Love me, love, but breathe it low J. .Miller. 914 

Love mistress is of mauy minds Southwell. 23 

Love not, love not Mrs. Sorton. C4S 

Love not me for comely grace ll^S 

Love thee.O ihou, the world's MUtimu. 418 

Love within the lover's breast Meredith. 820 

Low hung the moon, the wind was still ilias Proctor. .838 

Magnificent creature, so stately and bright J. Wilson. 374 

Maid of Athens, ere we part Byron. 404 

Make me no vows of constancy, dear friend Mrs. .4 Ueii. Sao 

Man— the external world Toimmluwd. 5S8 

Many a year is in its grave Mrs. Austin. 451 

Many are poets who have never penned Byron. 405 

Maiiv years have floated by Mrs. Conant. 895 

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale Scott. 301 

Mark that swift arrow, liow it cnts Ihe air Cowley. 110 

Jlark yim old mansion frowuiug through the Irees.. Rogers. 26T 

Maud Muller, on a summer day Whittier. 634 

Mary! I want a lyre wilh other strings Coicpcr. 214 

Master, they argued fast concerning Ihee Doicdm. 932 

Maxwelton braes are bonuie Douglas. 164 

May nevermore aselrish wish of mine McKnight. 900 

Jlav, qneen of blossoms Tkurlow. 35'J 

Mothinks it is good to be here H. Kiwwles. B04 

'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam . . . . Pai/iic. 439 

'Mid the flower-wreathed tombs I stand Higginson. 792 

'Mid the thunder of battle..' Maclagan. «9S 

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire White. 377 

Milton ! thou shouldst he living at this hour. . . Wordsworth. 293 

Mine eyes have seen the glory Mrs. Howe. 758 

Mine eyes— that may not see thee smile Uervey. 603 

Miss Flora M'Flimsey of Madison Square Butler. 799 

"More poets yet!" I hear him say Dobsoii. 896 

More than the soul of ancient song JI/i-8. Lippincott. 790 

M.nlalily, behold and tear Beaumont. 47 

Most glorious Lord of life, that on this day Spenser. 13 

Most iutellectnal master of the art Fuller-Ossoli . 677 

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn Smollett. 191 

Mourn, O rejoicing heart 157 

Mourufully listening to the waves' strange talk. ...Xewlmi. 562 

Much have I travelled in Ihe realms of gold Keats. IS 

Music, and frankincense Fane. 822 

Music, how strange her power Street. 702 

Music is in all growing things Lathrop. 937 

My boat is on the shore Byron. 404 

My day and night are in my lady's hand Payne. 018 

Jly days among the dead are past Southey. 321 

My dear and only love, I pray James Graham. 103 

My eye descending from the hill, surveys Dcnham. 104 

My f.drest child Kingsley. 765 

My father, take my hand Bobbins. 707 

My friend, thou sorrowest Bryant. 408 

My God! I heard this day Herbert. 60 

MyGod,! tbaukthee: may no thought Xortou. 381 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains Keats. 494 

My heart is sair, I dareua tell Bunts. 261 



P.\OE 

745 
412 
790 
253 
8 
572 
778 
545 

84 
646 
925 
78S 
780 
604 
153 

17 

271 

. 668 

461 

325 



My life is like a stroll upon the beach Thoreau. 

My life is like the summer rose Wilde. 

My little son, who looked Patmore. 

My loved, my honored, much respected friend Burns. 

My mind to me a kingdom is Sir Edward Dyer. 

My oldest friend, mine from the hour J.H. Sewnmn. 

My only love is always near Locker. 

My own, it is time yon were coming 

My prime of youth is hut a frost of cares Tychborn. 

My sister! with ibis mortal eye M.Davidson. 

My songs are all of thee Gilder. 

My soul has growu too great to-day il^J'S. Mason. 

My soul to-day ■'^«<"'- 

My sonl was dark CrosweU. 

My spirit longeth for thee Byrom. 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his Sidney. 

My untried muse shall no high tone assume Dloomfield. 

My wee wife dwells iu yonder cot Hume. 

Myself I fonnd borne to a heavenly clime Wilcox 

Mysterious Night ! when our lirst parent knew White. 

Nay, shrink not from the word farewell Barton. 

Ne.irer, my God, to thee Sarah F. Adams. 

Needy knife-griuder, whither are yon going Canning. 

Never, my heart, wilt thou grow old Mrs. Hall. 

New being is from being ceased Savage. 

Night of Ihe tomb 1 he has entered thy portal. ..E. Sargent. 

Night overtook me ere ray race was run Harris. 

No°actor ever greater heights (on Qniii) Churchill. 

No, I never tili life Bowles. 

No: I shall pass inlo the Morning Laud M. Collins. 

No monument of me remain Hdbington. 

Nor can I not believe but that hereby Wordsworth . 

Nor fame I slight, nor for her favors call Pope. 

Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us VobdI. 

Nor rural sights .alone, but rural sounds Cowper. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note Wo'/e. 

Not as it looks will be thy coming state McKnight. 

Not far advanced was morning day Scott. 

N<it here, in the populous town Bourdillon. 

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Shakspeare. 

Not, my sonl, what thou bast done Lombard. 

Not that her blooms are marked T. Wartoyi. 

" Not to myself alone " Partridge. 

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul Southey. 

Not what we would, but what we must Stoddard. 

Not worlds on worlds iu phalanx deep Good. 

Not yet :— along the pur|iliug sky Mrs. Mason. 

Not yet,— the flowers are in my path Miss Landon. 

Now Antumn's fiie burns slowly AUingluim. 

Now glory to the Lord of hosts Macaulay. 

Now.lf to be an April-f.iol M. Collins. 

N.iw it belongs not to ray care Baxter. 

Now Spring returns Bruee. 

Now Summer finds her perfect prime Miss Proctor. 

Now stood Eliza on the wood-crowned height Darwin. 

Now Ihe bright morning star, day's harbinger Milton. 

Now the noisy winds aie still Mrs. Dodge. 

Now, trumpeter ! for thy close Whitman. 

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow vimm. Wordsworth. 

Nurse of the Pilgrim sires, who sought Elliott. 

Nymph of the rock Mrs. Charlotte Smith. 

O bairn, when I am dead Buchanan. 907 

O beauteous Southland O'Reilly. 922 

O blessed morn, whose ruddy beam W. Wilson. !>7ft 

O blessing and delight Hallam. 695 

O blithe new-comer 1 I have heard Wordsworth. 282 

O brooding spirit W.R. Hamilton. 613 

O brother, who for ns T- Parker. 089 

O clouds and winds and streams Mrs. Botla. 770 

O cnrfew of the setting sun 1 O Bells of Lynn ! . .Longfellow. 034 

O Day! he cannot die E.Bronte. 743 

O dear Sky Farm E. Ooodale. 941 

O Domine Dens ! speravi in te Mary Sttmrt. 677 

O fair bird, singing in the woods L. Morris. 854 

O friend 1 whose name is closely bound Miss Bates. 923 



369 
608 
275 
6S0 
910 
717 
785 
20S 
265 
817 

83 
294 
150 
795 
210 
413 
900 
298 
938 

30 
852 
204 
074 
.323 
804 
209 
788 
578 
825 
503 
817 
100 
231 
839 
203 
100 
905 
7.55 
291 
301 
235 



952 



IXDEX OF FIBST LINES, ETC. 



PAGB 

O friends, with whnm my feet have trod Whitt-ier. 688 

O God! if Ibis iudeedbe all A. Bnmte. 'U 

O God, the giver of .-ill Lii>l;n. 7IJ4 

O God, thou faithful God Frothiiiilhain. 441) 

O God! whose thoughts are brightest light f'abei: 733 

God, whose thnnder shakes the sky ChntttrUm. 243 

O happy glow ! O suu-bathed tree ! Mm. Wcb»tc-r. »13 

O keen, pellucid air C.T. Turner. G49 

Olady! we receive but what we give Coleridge. 309 

O Law, fair form of Liberty Cutler. S40 

O Love, come back Mamttin. 916 

O Love Divine Huntiniitan. 700 

O loving God of Xature -i. P. Miller, t.85 

O melancholy bird Thurlow. 359 

O mistress mine, where are you roaming Shakspeare. 33 

O messenger, art thou the king or I Mrs. Jackson. S43 

O mother, wait until my work is doue Xoyes. 934 

O murmuring waters Lady Scott. 740 

Omy luve's like a red, red rose Bimis. 261 

O mystic, mighty flower Mixs Barr. 939 

O Nature! all thy seasons please the eye Grahame. 270 

O only Source of all our light Cloiiyh. 753 

O perfect Light, which shaid away Uume. 35 

O Power, more nearniy life Lowell. 764 

O reader, hast thon ever stood to see Honthey. 321 

O river Beantifiil Plivijiton. 833 

O sacred star of evening, tell 0. W.B. Peahudy. 624 

O saw ye honnie Lesley lliirus. 259 

O soul of mine Cliadwick. 902 

O spirit of the summer-time ..■illiiuiham. S25 

O Stella ! golden star of youth Walker. 469 

O still, white face of perfect peace D. Jt. Gnodale. 942 

O strong soul, by what shore M. Arnold. 7S4 

O summer-time, so passing sweet Min/i Pfeijfcr. 926 

O suns and skies and clouds of June Mrs. Jackson. S44 

O sweet and fair ! O rich and rare 535 

O sweet wild roses that bud and blow Gilder. 924 

O Switzerland ! my country ! 'tis to thee John .Veal. 443 

O thou eternal One ! whose presence bright Bowriiiij. 439 

O thou great Arbiter of life and death I'lmwi;. 13T 

O thon great Being! what thou art Burns. 266 

-0 Thou great Friend T. Parker. CS9 

O thou, so early lost M. Davidson. 644 

O thou that rollest above Macpbersan. 222 

O Thon whose image in the shrine C'onrih. 753 

O time and death ! .with certain pace Sands. 521 

OTime! who know'st a lenient hand to lay Bowles. 265 

O truth of the earth'. Wlitiman. 756 

O vale and lake Mrs. Hnnnns. 449 

O weary heart, there is a rest Mrs. Ellet. 749 

O weel may the boatie row John Ewen. 224 

O \viU\ and stormy Lammermocn- Lady .Scott. 740 

O wild, enchanting horn Mellen. 525 

O wild west wind, thou breath of autumn's heing — Shelky. 4*25 

O Willie's gane to Melville Castle 160 

O winter, wilt thon never, never go D. Gray. 8SS 

O world! Olife! O time ! Shelley. 427 

O ye dead poets who are living still Lonrj/ellow. 632 

O ye uncrowned but kingly kings Aiken. 652 

Occasions drew me early to the city Milton. 95 

Odors of Spring, my sense ye charm Mrs. Titilie. 317 

O'er meadows green florne. 5S1 

O'er wayward childhood S. T. Coleridge. 309 

Of all the girls that are so smart Carey. 165 

Of all the human-helping songs Wmtz. 903 

or all the myriad moods of mind Lowell. 764 

Of all Ihe thoughts of God that are Mrs.Broieninij. 669 

Of idle hopes and fancies wild .Mrs. Hall. 550 

Of old, when Scarron G'Msmith. 200 

Of Nelson and the North Campbell. 338 

Of these the false Achitophel was first Dryden. IIS 

Of this fair volume which we World do name...D™>»™o>irf. 49 

Oft has it been my lot to mark Merrick. 1S5 

Oft have I walked these woodland paths Laighttm. 827 

Oft in the after-days Fane. 822 

Oft in the htilly night Moore. 346 

Oh, a dainty plaut is the ivy green Dickens. 706 



PAGE 

Oh, Artevelde H. Taylor. 866 

Oh, beautiful the streams J. Wilson. 374 

Oh, blest of heaven Akenside. ISS 

Oh, bi-eathe not his name Moore. 346 

Oh, bright presence of to-day Tapper. 691 

Oh ! by that gracious rnle 5Ir.-i. Sol/they. 389 

Oh, could we do with this world of ours Moore. 347 

Oh, darling of the year, delicious May Townsheml. 588 

Oh, did you see him riding down Miss Perry. 921 

Oh, ever skilled to wear the form we love Miss Williams. 263 

Oh, fiir shines the sun on Glenara Joyce. SS3 

Oh, for my sake do you with furtuiie chide Shaky)rare. 31 

Oh, fear not thou to die Mrs. Soulhey. 392 

Oh, how canst thou renounce Beattie. 218 

Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous Shaksrpeare. SO 

Oh, how the Swans of Wilton 544 

Oh, is there not aland Mrs. Bnrbauld. 226 

Oh, it is great for our country to die Pcrcival. 4S1 

Oh, it is hard to work for God Faber. 732 

Oh, it is pleasant with a heart at ease Coleridge. 303 

Oh, leave thyself to God Biirbidrs. 74T 

Oh, let me alone Key. 343 

Oh! listen, man ! a voice R. H. Dana. 3S3 

Oh listen to the howling sea. Cartis. 794 

Oh! lives there, Heaven, beneath thy wide Campbell. 340 

Oh, loosen the snood Halpine. S33 

Oh, Maty, go and call the cattle home Kimisley. 705 

Oh, Jlaster and Alaker. Clarke. 677 

Oil, may I join the choir invisible Mrs. Cross. 771 

Oh, my bosom is throbbing with joy M. Davidson. 644 

Oh, never did a mighty truth Talfourd. 472 

Oh, not in vain Linton. 704 

Oh now, my true and dearest bride Barnes. 673 

Oh, saw ye the las? 527 

Oh, saw yon not fair Ines Hood. 51U 

Oh say ! can you see, by the dawn's early light Key. 342 

Oh, say not so! a bright old age Barton. 368 

Oil ! say not thon art all ahine A. A. Walts. 518 

Oh say not woman's heart is bought Peacock. D34 

Oh, say, what is that thing called light Cibher. 12T 

Oh, sweet Adare ! oh, lovely vale Griffin. 5S6 

Oh, sweet is thy current H. B. Wallace. 740 

Oh, that I were the great soul of a world Kennedy. 5'20 

Oh, that the desert were my dwelling-place tlyron. 397 

Oh, that those lips had language Cowper. 212 

Ob, the charge at Balaklava Meek. 721 

Oh, the days are gone, when Beauty hright Moore. 349 

Oh, there's a dream of early youth 555 

Oh 1 tluui blight and beautiful day Simms. 018 

Oh, thou conqueror. Beaumont and Fletcher. 46 

Oh thou greatMovement of Ihe universe Bryant. 467 

Oh, Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear Moore. 349 

Oh ! vex me not with needless cry W. Smith. 555 

Oh, waly, waly, up the bank 82 

Oh, water for me ,^^ E. Johnson. 653 

Oh! what a marvel of electric might Miss Bates 924 

Oh, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms Keats. 491 

Oh, wliat will a' the lads do H'igg. 281 

Oh, where, tell me where Mrs. Anne Grant 247 

Oh, wherefore come ye forth Macaulay. 561 

Oh, who shall lightly say that Fame Miss Baillie. 260 

Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud...: Knox. 410 

Oh ye wild groves, oh where Beattie. 219 

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west Scott. 298 

Oh, to be home again Fields. 748 

Oh, weary heart ! thou'rt half-way liome 1I'!(/m. 625 

Old Grinies is dead; that good old man Greene. i'S 

Old things need not be therefore true Ctongh. 7.53 

Old wine to driuk R. H. Messinger. 693 

On a night like this liow many Brownell. 

On C'arron's side the primrose pale Langhorne. 218 

Oil Leven's banks while free to rove Smollett. 192 

On Linden, when the sun was low Caoipbrll. 335 

On lips of blooming youth Mrs. Conant. 895 

On parent knees, a naked new-born child Jones. 232 

On that deep-retiring shore Milnes. 660 

Ou the deej) is the mariner's danger Brainard. 484 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES, ETC. 



953 



Oil the field iu front of Frnstenz J.O.Sargent. JciS 

Ou thy fair bcisoMi, silvei- hike Perciml. 482 

Uii what foimdiUioii stands the warrior's pvide. .S. Johnson. ITS 

Once lit the aii^elus (ere I was dead) Dobson. 897 

once ill the flight of ages past itontgomery. 303 

Once in tlie leafy prime of spring Fields. T4S 

Once, looliiiig from a window on a land Gilder. 924 

Once on my mother's breast Hoieells. S71 

Once this soft turf, ihis rivnlet's sands Bryant. 406 

Once upon a midnight dreary J^oe. GIJ3 

One day, nigh weary of the irksome way Spenser. 11 

One more nnforlnnate Hood. 508 

One morn, what time the sickle 'gan to play Brydges. 204 

One niglit came on a hurricane Pitt. 53'2 

One of the stairs to head to heaven Linton. T03 

One sailh "The world's a stage" Symonds. 912 

One sweetly solemn thonght P.Cary. 769 

One word is too often profaned Shelley. 427 

Only a liaby small M. Barr. 848 

Only a shelter for my head I songht Lilian Clarke. 678 

Only thebeanlifnl is real Linton. 7(14 

Only wailing till the shadows Mrs.Maee. 807 

Onward forever flows the tide of life Symonds. 911 

Onward! throw ail terrors off' Bowring. 440 

Ostera ! spirit of spring-time Mrs. Mace. 860 

Our bugles sang truce Campbell. 336 

Onr gentle Charles has passed away Talfaurd. 471 

Oiir glide man cam' hame at e'en 161 

Onr life is like a cloudy sky Davy. 342 

Our life is twofold Byron. 401 

Onr native land— our native vale Pringle. 408 

Our oats they are howed, and our barley's reaped 157 

Out from cities haste away Bennett. 772 

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass Miss Osgood. 905 

Out of the Deep, my child Tennyson. 683 

Out of thine azure depths Powers. 816 

Outside the open gate a spirit stood Meredith. 826 

Over that solemn pageant mute Milntan. 417 

Over the billows and over the brine Hood. 514 

Over the hill to the iioor-honse CarUton. 92S 

Over the mountains and under the waves 75 

Over the river they beckon to me Mrs. Wakejkld. 861 

Pack clonds away, and welcome day Eeyieood. 37 

Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales Ford. 49 

Passions are likened best to floods and streams Raleigh. 15 

Pause not to dream of the future before us Mrs. Osgood. 70S 

Peace to all such ! but were there oue whose fires Pope. 151 

Pedants shall not tie my strings Wither. 51 

People have teased and vexed me Martin. 740 

*' Philip Van Artevelde," Extract from H. Taylor. 506 

Phillips! whose touch harmonious S. Johnson. 179 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, pibroch of Donuil SroH. 301 

Pilgrim, burdened with thy sin Crabbe. 245 

Pipe, little niiiistrels of the waning year Miss Kimball. 857 

Piped the blackbird on the beechwood spray Westwood. 730 

Piping down the valleys wild Blake. 251 

Place we a stone at his head and his feet Kennedy. 520 

Pleasuies lie thickest where Blanchard. 583 

Pleasures of Imagination Akenside. 187 

Poet and saint ! to thee alone are given Cowley. Ill 

Poel,if on a lasting fame the bent Timrod. 829 

Poor little Willie Massey. 820 

Poor lone Hannah Miss Larcom. 814 

Poor soul, the centre of my sinrul earth Shaksjjeare. 31 

Praise of the wise and good Brydges. 204 

Prepare thee, soul, to quit this spot Heraud. B19 

Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl Darenant. 87 

Pride of the British stage Campbell. 337 

Pride, self-adoring pride PoUok. 516 

Princes ! — and you most valorous Dobson. 896 

Prisoner! within these gloomy walls close peut... Garrison. 014 

Prnue thou thy words J. H. Xewman. 571 

Pshaw! away with leaf and berry Hood. 513 

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair Jonsori. 44 

Queen of fresh flowers Hcber. 365 



PAGK 

Rarely, rarely comest thou Shelley. 426 

Reed of the stagnant waters Higgimon. 792 

Reflected in the lake I love Townihend. 5SS 

Rejoice, ye heroes Talfourd. 470 

Religion, which true policy befriends Mrs.Phillips. 119 

Remember tliee 't Yes, while there's life Moore. 347 

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow Goldsmith. 199 

Relire;— the world shut out Young. 13S 

Rise, rise ! Lowland and Highland men Imlah. 6'-'6 

Rise, then, Aristo's sini, assist my Muse Henry More, 105 

River is time in water; as it came Holyday. 59 

River! river! little river Mrs. Southey. 388 

Rock of ages, cleft for me Toplady. 224 

Rocked in the cradle of the deep Mrs. Willurd. 384 

Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river Mangan. 590 

Roll on, thou ball.roll on Gilbert. 871 

Rose-cheeked Lama, come Campion. 85 

Roy's wife of Aldivalloch Mrs. Grant. 225 

Rudolph, professor of the headsman's trade Holmes. 654 

Sad is onr youth, for it is ever going De Vere. 728 

Sad soul, whom God, resuming what he gave. . W. C. Roscoe. 7S7 

St.Agnes'Eve,— ah, bitter chill it was Keats. 480 

St. Pliilip Neri, as old readings say Byrom. 153 

Saw ye my wee thing Macneill. 230 

Say there ! P'r'aps Bret Harte. 878 

.Say, What is Freedom ? What the right of souls. U.Coleridge. 498 

Say, why was m.an so eminently raised Akenside. 1^6 

Science may sneer at Faith Hall. 511 

Scion of a mighty stock A. H. Everett. 412 

Scorn not the sonnet, critic Wordsworth. '292 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled Burns. '257 

Sea-king's daughter from over the sea Tennyson. 681 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfnlness Keats. 495 

Seated one day at the organ Miss Procter. Siifi 

See how the orient dew Marvell. 113 

See ! how with thundering fiery feet T. Taylor. 251 

Seeing our lives by Nature now are led McKnirjht. BOO 

Seek not the spirit if it hide Emerson. 59'2 

See the chariot at hand here of Love Jonsnn. 43 

Self-taught, unaided, poor, reviled Garrison. 014 

Serene I fold my arms and wait Burroughs. 872 

Shakspeare, Detached Passages fioni 33 

Shall he whose birth, matnriiy, and age Beattie. 2-20 

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day Shakspeare. 29 

Shall I tell yon whom I love Wm. Broicne. 63 

Shall I, wasting iu despair Wither, hi 

She bounded o'er the graves Mrs. Oilman. 458 

She comes, she comes! the sable throne behold Pope. 151 

She died in beauty! like a rose Sillery. 6,39 

She is not fair to outward view U. Coleridge. 496 

She of whose soul if we may say 'twas gold Donne. 42 

She passed up the aisle ou the arm of her sire Locker. 777 

She pulls a rose from her rose-tree Pialt. 864 

She stood breast-high amid the corn Hood. 513 

She walketh up and down the marriage mart 530 

She walks in beauty, like the night Byron. 400 

She was a phantom of delight Wordsworth. 283 

She was indeed a pretty little creature Barker. 372 

She wore a wreath of roses Bayly. M2 

Shed no tear! Oh, shed no tear Keats. 493 

Shining sickle, lie thou there McGee. 805 

Should anld acquaintance be forgot Burns. 2.59 

Shrink not, O human spirit 528 

"Shut, shut the door, good John," fatigued I said Pope. 144 

Sigh no more, ladie.s, sigh no more Shakspeare, 28 

Silence augmenteth grief Greville. 18 

Silent companions of the lonely hour Mrs. Norton. 648 

Silent nymph, with cm ions eye Dyer. 170 

Since, dearest friend, 'tis your desire to see Cowley. 110 

Since Nature's works be good, and death doth ^evve. Sidney. 10 
Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part — Drayton. 24 
Since trifles make tlie sum of human things.. Hannah More. 230 

Sing again the song you sung Curtis. 794 

Sing aloud! His praise rehearse Henry More. 106 

Sing lullabies, ns wmnen do Gascoigne. 9 

Sink to my heart, bright evening skies Perkins. 688 



954 



lyDEX OF FIRST LIXES, ETC. 



PAGK 

Sir Marmaduke was a hearty knight George Colman. 203 

yhive of Ihc dark and dirty mine Leiidcn. 326 

Slayer of the wiuter, art them here again H'. Morrist. SG2 

Sleep hreathes at last from out thee Hunt. 3T0 

Sleep, little haby, sleep Mrs. Souihcy. 391 

Sleep, h>ve, sleep Mr»,Judson. 747 

Sleep sweetly iu your humble si'Aves Timrod. 8"2S 

Sleet, and hail, and Ihnuder Hood. 513 

Slow toiling upward from the misty vale Holmes. C54 

Slowly along the crowded street I go C.A.Dana. 757 

Slowly England's siiu was setting Mrs. Thorpe. 935 

Soft he thy sleep as mists that rest Mrs. Bmok'*. 475 

Soft on the sunset sky E. Goodale. 942 

So here hath been dawning Carlyle. 476 

Softly woo away her breatli. ... U. W. Procter. 3S6 

Soft on this April morning T. Hill. 752 

So grieves the adventurous merchant Carew. 52 

So many years I've seen the sun Gamhold. 538 

Some day, some day of days Sora Perry. 921 

Some of tbeir chiefs were princes of the laud Dryden. 113 

Some love the verse that like Maria's tlows Gifford. 249 

Somewhere ou this earthly planet 2'imrod. S2S 

Songs are like painted window-panes Boivring. SIS 

Songs are sung in my mind Cnrtis. 794 

So now my summer ta8k is ended, Mary SfwUey. 434 

So pitiful a thing is Suitor's state Spenser. 13 

So sweet, so sweet the roses iu their blowing. ..Nora Perry. 92)1 

Sonl, get thee to tlie heart Lanier. 91G 

Soul of my soul, impart E. Sargimt. 717 

Son], Tlie high-born Akemide, 187 

Soul's Aspirations, The Davies. 45 

Speak, for thy servant heareth Mrs. Howe. 75S 

Speeciiless sorrow sat with me Miss Kimball. S57 

Spring flowers, spring birds, spring breezes Mmitgomen/. 301 

Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king..,.Vas/(. 8S 

Spring, with that nameless pathos iu tlie air Timrod. 82S 

Square and rough-hewn Pickering. ."62 

Staflfa, I scaled thy summit hoar ^?tithebii. 249 

Srand up — erect! thou hast ihe forni Gallagher. 651 

Stars, that on your wondrous way Janii Taylor. 365 

Stalely as bridegroom to a feast Thornbury. 824 

Steer, hitlier steer your winged pines Wm. Browne. 54 

Step in, pray, Sir Toby, my picture is here Lewis. 328 

Stern daugliter of the voice of God Wordftworth. 2S3 

Still here — thou hast not faded Hal/am, 695 

Still sighs the world for something new Hoyt. 672 

Still to be neat, still to be drest Jonmn, 45 

Still young and line Vaughan, 107 

Stoop to my window, thou beautiful dove WiLlis. C25 

Stop, mortal, here thy brother lies EUmtt. 362 

Stop on the Appiau Way Mrs. Stoddard. 804 

Storm upon the mountain M'estwood. 729 

Strange looked that lady old, reclined SrmmoTUs. 700 

Strange, strange for thee and me Phoebe Cary. 769 

Strength of the beautiful day J. Hawthorne. 929 

StreuLTth, too ! thou surly, and less gentle boast Blair. 155 

Strew all their graves with llowers Very. 713 

Strive; yet I do not promise Miss Procter. 806 

Strive not to eay the whole St^ivy. 752 

Struggle not with thy life Mrs.KembU: 094 

Suicide: From "Ethelstau" Darky. 376 

Sure, to the mansions of the blessed Adams. 535 

Swans sing before they die S. T. Coleridge. 555 

Sweet Auburn I loveliest village of the plain Goldsmith. 195 

Sweet bard of Eltrick's glen Mrs. Ingiis. 324 

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes Herrick. 56 

Sweet Corrin I how softly Sinnnons. 6i)S 

Sweet day I so cool, so calm, so bright Herbert. 61 

Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town Tennyson. 080 

Sweet evening hour Lgte. 445 

Sweet flowers ! that froni your humble beds Gifford. 24S 

Sweet is (he ploasme itself cannot spoil Dwight. 717 

Sweet is the vceue when Virtue dies Mrs. Barhanld. 227 

Sweet letters of the angel tongue Ballon. 772 

Sweet maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight W.Jones. 232 

Sweet tyrant, love ! but hear me now J. Thomson. 531 

Sweet-voiced Hope, thy flue discourse Wasson. 787 



l-AUE 

Sweeter than voices iu the scented hay Bourdillon. 93S 

Swift ii'er the sunny grass Mrs. Dodge. 904 

Swift through some trap mine eyes Lanier. 917 

Swifter far than swallow's flight J. Aldrich. 691 

Take back into thy bosom, earth Simmons, 699 

Take back these vain insignia "f command. .A'l'r A.de Vere. 394 

Take, holy earth, all that my soul holds dear Mason. 193 

Take, oh take those li[)S away Beaumont and Fletcher. 47 

T:inL:led I was iu Loves snare Wyatt. G 

Teach me, my God and King Herbert. 61 

Tears, idle tears, I know not Tennyson. GSS 

Tell him I love him yet... Pracd. 575 

Tell me, friend— as you are bidden Clarke. 678 

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind Lovelace. 109 

Tell me, now, my saddened sonl Greg. 601 

Tell the fainting soul in the weary form Barker. 742 

That son of It^ily who tried to blow M. Arnold. 7S4 

That which her slender waist confined WaH^r. SS 

That which makes ns have no need Cranhaw. 101 

The air is white with snow-flakes clinging Payne. 91S 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold.. .Byron. 403 

The auiuinn tliue is with us Gallagher. 052 

The awful shadow of some unseen Power Shelley. 435 

The bird that soars on highest wing. Montgomery. 305 

The birds are singing by Avon bridge Bell. 009 

The biids must i;now: who wisely sings Mrs. Jackson. 843 

The blessings which the weak and poor may Talfmird. 471 

The blue waves gently kiss the strand Fenner. 779 

The boy stood on the burning deck Hemans. 448 

The bread of life we bring Wasson. 786 

Tlie breaking waves dashed high Mrs. Hemans. 44S 

The bubbling brook doth leap wheu I come by Very. 713 

The bud is iu the bough H.Smith. 354 

The bud will soon become a flower . Verj/. 712 

The callow young were huddling in the nests A. Smith. 835 

The ceaseless hnm of men, the dirty streets Burleigh. 705 

The city's shining towers Mrs. Wakefield. S61 

The clouds are scudding across Bayard Taylor. 807 

The cnlorfrorn the flouer is gone Shelley. 427 

The crimson sun was sinking down Sir Aubrey de Vere. 393 

The curlew lolls the knell of partiug day Gray. 182 

The curved strand Chadwick. 902 

The day is cold and dark and dreary Longfellow. 631 

The day is ended : ere I sink to sleep Miss Kimball. 858 

The (lay still lingers though the sun is down Noyes. 934 

The day was dark, save when the beam Elliott. 362 

The days of youth ! The da.vs of glad hfe-gmn . .Mc Knight. S99 

The dead leaves strew the forest walk Brainard. 484 

The dead leaves their rich mosaics S. Longfelloir. 706 

The Dealh of Fauslus Marlowe. 25 

The deep afl'ections of the breast Campbell. 339 

The despot's heel is on thy shore Bandall. S92 

The dew is on the summer's greenest grass Nicolt. 720 

The evening star rose beauteous Callanan. 469 

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame Shakspeare. 31 

The faithful helm commands the keel O'Reilly. 922 

The feathered songster chanticleer Chatterton. 239 

The forces that prevail eternally McKnight. 900 

The garden trees are busy with the shower Hallam, 695 

The glories of our blood and state Shirley. 60 

The gloom of the sea-fronliug cliffs Doirden. 931 

The goddess gasped for breath Hirst. 718 

The good— they drop around us /. Williams. 549 

The gray sea and the long black land Browning. 710 

Tlie iiroves of Blarney Milliken. 272 

The hands of my watch point to midnight Conant. 8S0 

The harp that once through Tara's halls Moore. 340 

The heath this night must be my bed iScott. 302 

The high-born soul disdains to rest Akenside. 187 

The honey-lx'C that wanders all day long ]tlrs. Botta. 770 

The hours are past, love Mrs. Kemhle. 694 

The hours on the old piazza Story. 752 

The island lies nine leagues away R.H. Dana. 3S4 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece Byron. 398 

The jackdaw sat on the cardinal's chair Barhnm. 405 

The joy-bells are ringing in gay Malahide Grijfin. 586 



IXDEX OF FISST LINES, ETC. 



955 



PAGE 

The kini^ sits in Dunfermline town 65 

The litke lay hid in mist, and to the sand 530 

Tlie lark Ib singing in the blinding sky .-1. Smith. S3d 

The liltle comer's coming Aird. 5-Sn 

The liEtle gate was reached nt last Lowell. 702 

The lopped tree in time may grow again Soutlacell. 23 

The Lord my pasture ^h:\ll prepare Aiidisoii. 12S 

The lost days of my life until to-day Rossetti. S22 

The loved of early days li. Miller. Cyl 

The mellow year is liasting to its close H. Coleridge. 497 

The mightiest of the Hebrew seers Dr;iant. 463 

The morning breaks bonny o'er mountain Thorn. 409 

The muse, disgusted at an age and clinie Berkeley. 139 

The name t»f Commonwealth is past and gone Byron. 399 

The night has a thousand eyes Bonrdillmi. 93S 

The night is come; like to the day .Sir T. Browne. 87 

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower Miss Ingelow. S40 

Tlie opal-hued and many-perfumed morn 53G 

The ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded Campbell. 33S 

The other shape, if shape it might be called Milton. 96 

The pilgrim fathers, where are they Pierpont. 379 

The poetry of earth is never dead Keats. 493 

The rain has ceased, and in my rocim Aldrich. SG3 

The rain is o'er: how dense and bright Xorton. 3S1 

The rain's come at last 531 

The reasoning faculty, and that we name 3ferivale. 344 

The quality of mercy is not strained Shakspeare. 32 

The scene was more beautiful, far. to tiie eye Javwft. 355 

The sea, the sea, the open sea Procter. 3S5 

The shades of night wore falling fast Lonnfeiloio. 633 

The silver moon's enamored beam /. Canninffharn. 204 

The sky is bright— the breeze is fair Moore, 350 

The sluggish smoke cnrls up Tkoreau. 745 

Tlie soul leaps up to hear this mighty sound Calvert. 591 

The soul of man is larger than the sky H. Coleridge. 497 

The spacious firmament on high Addinon, 128 

The spearmen heard the bugle sound Spencer. 295 

The splendor falls on castle walls Tennyson. 6S3 

The spring is here— the delicate-fooled May Willis. 025 

The stars shed a dreamy light Hosmer. 731 

The sultry summer past, September cumes Wilcox. 4C2 

The summer sun was sinking Anster. 442 

The sun descending in the west Blake. 250 

The sun has gane down Tannahill. 324 

The suu is careering in glory and might Miss Mit/ord. 3S2 

The sun is up. and 'tis a moru of May Hunt. 371' 

The sun is up betimes A.C. Coxe. 750 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear Slielley. 422 

The sun sank low ; beyond the harbor bar Collier. 917 

The sun sets iu night Mrs. Anne Hunter. 225 

The sunshine of thine eyes Lathrop. 937 

The sweetest flower that ever saw the light -il/ord. 692 

The taltuo beats, the lights are gone //. Ji. Jackson. 77S 

The thoughts are strange that crowd into my Brainard. 4S5 

The time will come full soon Mrs. Moulton. S63 

The trees are barren, cold, and browu D. R. Goodale. 942 

The tnrf shall be ray fragrant shrine Moore. 346 

The twilight hours, like birds flew by Mrs. Welby. 779 

Tlie very pulse of oceau now was still E.Sargent. 716 

The vicomte is wearing a brow of glornn Durivage. 727 

The voice which I did more esteem Wither. 51 

The waters are flashing Shelley. 423 

The waves came moaning up the shore Collier. 9IS 

The waves of light are drifting Robbiiis. 7»7 

The weather-leech of the top-sail shivers Mitchell. S13 

The wind came blowing out of the West Harney. 853 

The Wind one morning sprang up from sleep Howitt. 483 

The wnrld is too much with us Wordsworth. 292 

The W(uld may change from old to new Mrs. Adams. (109 

The world of matter, with its various forms Young. 137 

Then hale me when thou wilt; if ever now Shakspeare. 30 

Then Shakspeare rose Spragw, 415 

Then the master, with a gesture oT commauA. ..Loiigfelloic. 029 

Then welcome, Death I thy dreaded harbingers '.Young. 137 

There are no ills but what we make C. Cotton. 114 

There came three men out of the West 75 

There came to the beach Campbell. 337 



There hangs a sabre, and there a rein Durivage. 727 

There have been jjueis that in verse display.. .W. Coleridge. 497 

There is a garden in her face Alimn. 22 

There is a glorious city in the sua Rogers. 268 

There is a happy laud A. Young. 658 

There is a saucy rogue well known Conant. 880 

There is Jlay iu books forever Hunt. 371 

There is no death : the common end Weutz, 903 

There is uo remedy for time misspent De Vere. 393 

Theie is uo uubelief 556 

There is nut iu the wide wurld Moore. 345 

There lives a young lassie - ..Imlah. 520 

There sat an old mau on a rock Ludlow. SS'i 

Theie, too, our elder sister plied Whittier. 037 

There was a jovial beggar 157 

There was u lady lived at Leirh Maqinn. 446 

There was a season when the fabled name Iie<its. 492 

Tliere was a slumberous silence in the air Home. &Sl 

There was a sound of revelry by night Byron. 396 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and . . . Wordsworth. 2S9 

There was never a castle seen Hay. 894 

There was not on that day a speck to stain Sonthey. 321 

There were three sailors of Hristtd city Tnackeiay. 090 

There were twa sisters sat iu a bow'r 77 

Thereof it comes that these fair souls which have. ..S7jt*H«cr. 13 

There's a good time coming, boys Mackay. 725 

There's a grimone-hnrse hearse 2ioel. 527 

There's never an always cloudless sky Savage. 910 

These are thy glorious works, Parent of goud Milfon. 97 

These as they change. Almighty Father, these Thmnson. 167 

These songs of mine, the best that 1 have sung — Stoddard. 803 

These times touch moneyed worldlings Wordsicorth. 294 

They are all goue into the world of light Vaughan. 107 

They are flown, beautiful fictions Carriugton. 341 

They gave mc advice and counsel Heine, by Martin. 740 

They grew in beauty side by side Mrs. Heman». 447 

They sin who tell us love can die Sonthey. 320 

They speak of never- withering shades 3frs. BarbanH. 227 

They tell me first aud early luve Hedderwick. 729 

They tell us, love, that you and 1 547 

They were two princes doomed to death Mrs. Piatt. 805 

They'll talk of him for years to come Mahony. 599 

Things of high import sound I in thine ears E. Peabody. 623 

Think in how poor a prison thou didst lie Donne. 42 

Think me not unkind and rude Emeraon. 593 

Think not that strength lies iu the big J. A. Ale^xander. CC7 

Think upon Death ; 'tis good to think H. Coleridge. 49S 

Think you I choose or that or this to sing Dowden. 932 

This day beyond all contradiction Praed. 575 

This figure that thou here seest put Jonson. 44 

This gentleman and I Heywood. 36 

This is her picture as she was Rossetti. 822 

This is my liltle sweetheart dead Xora Perry. 920 

This is the ship of pearl Holmes. 054 

This motley piece to you I send M. Green, 154 

This only grant me, that my means may lie Cowley. Ill 

Tliis royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle. ..Shakspeare. 32 

This sweet child which hath climbed Real/. 859 

This world a hunting is Drummond. 50 

This world I deem Whytehead. 701 

Thou art the rest, the languor sweet Mrs. Conant. 895 

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew Bryant. 467 

Thou must not undervalue what thou hast Chapman. 19 

Thou say'st, my friend {S(mner) E. Sargent. 717 

Thou still unravished bride of quietness Keats. 495 

Thou who didst deny to me Vaughan. H^S 

Thou who didst put to flight. Young. 135 

Though hard surroundings, like uuspariug foes. .McKnight. 899 

Though short thy space Canning. 276 

Thougli when I loved thee thtm wert fair Stanley. 114 

Thought is deeper than all speech Cranch. 714 

Those evening bells I those evening bells Moore. 347 

Those we love truly never die O'Reilly. 922 

Thou art come from the spirits' land Mrs. Hemans. 449 

Thou art my morning, twilight, noon, and eve. - . .Lathrop. 937 

Thi>n art, O God, the life and liglit Sfoore. 34S 

Thou art plucking spring roses, Ueuie Mrs. Fletcher. 568 



956 



IXDEX OF FIRST LINES, Etc. 



Thon happy, hnppy elf Hood. 513 

Thou liUKfii"K !>tiii', with lesseuiug ray Burtie. 259 

Thiin siiy'st, "Take up thy cross" Paltrrave. 796 

Tliou siMgest hy tlie gleaming isles Aldricli. S(iT 

Thon that cU-awest aside the cuftain Alice Carij. 709 

Thon wilt nevei- glow old Mrs. Howaitli. 647 

Thou wouklst he loved ?— then let thy heart Foe. 005 

Three days through sapphire seas we sailed Brotcn^lL 773 

Three tishers went sailing away to the West Kingsley. 705 

Three, only three, my darling 53-2 

Threescore o' nohles rade up the king's ha' 554 

Through every age Akemidc. 1ST 

Through love to light ! Oh, wiuiderful Gihhr. 9'24 

Throughout the world, if it were sought Wynlt. « 

Throw thyseU'ou thy God Herschel. 441 

Thus doth Beauty dwell Akemide. ISI 

Thus far have I pmsned my solemn theme H. K. White. 377 

Thus it fell upon a night Gowcr. 3 

Thy braes were houuy, Yarrow stream Lor/an. 234 

Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue Gall. 330 

Thy memory as a spell Maaiish. 673 

Thy smiles, thy talk, thy aimless plays Walker. 409 

Thy will he done. Almighty God Mrs. McCurd. 074 

Tiger, tigei-, burning bright Blake. 2.50 

Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back Slmkupeare. 31 

Time moveth not : our being 'tis U. K. White. 377 

"Tis a fearful night iu the winter-time E'istnian. 73S 

'Tis Autumn, and my steps J. H. Bri/ant. 627 

'Tib gone, that bright and m-bed blaze Keble. 437 

'Tis morn: the sea-breeze seems to bring Prmtice. 5iS 

'Tis uot every day that I Herrick. 64 

'Tis not for golden eloquence I pray F. Tennystm. 617 

'Tis strange what awkward figures Houd. 511 

'Tis sweet to think the pure, ethereal being Barhavi. 407 

'Tis sweet to view, from half-past Ave to six J. Smith. 330 

'Tis the last rose of summer Moore. 34S 

'Tis the middle watch of a summer's night Drake. 473 

'Tis the part of a coward to brood Haiir\e. 849 

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved Btrron. 400 

'Tis Winter, cold and rude Cowper. 212 

To bring a cloud npon the summer d.ay Taiilor. .507 

To-day, what is there iu the air Marzials. 'Jxti 

To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name Jfrmnn. 43 

To France trudged ht)meward two grenadiers. .C. T. Brooks. 711 

To him who, iu the love of Nature, holds Brjiant. 404 

To learned Athens, led by fame Mrs. Barbautd. 227 

To leave the win-ld a name is naught Mavfian. 5t)0 

To London, once my steps I bent Liidnate. 4 

To sea I to sea ! the calm is o'er Buddoes. 591 

To thee, fair Frecdcmi, 1 retire Shenstone. 182 

To the ocean now I fly Milton. 100 

To the sages who spoke, to the lieroes Spratjuf. 415 

To wake the soul l)y tender strokes of art Pope. 150 

To whom our Saviour calmly thus replied Miltmi. 9s 

To whom the winged hierarch replied Miltmi. »S 

To thine eternal arms, O God Hioqinmn. 791 

To you, my purse, and to none other wight Chaucer. 2 

To you the beauties of the autumnal year Southe:/. 323 

Toll for the brave .' Cowper. 214 

To-morrow, didst thou say A'. Cotton. 175 

Too feebly neived for so severe a trial. ..Sir Robert de Vere. 393 

Too soon so fair, fair lilies Mrs. Webster. 913 

Too lovely and too early lost O. W. B. Peabodi/. 624 

Too late I stayed,— forgive the crime Spencer. 295 

Too young Ihon art to read Mrs. McCord. 670 

Touch, for ycuir life, no single viand costly Miss Preston. 919 

Touch once more a sober measure Lockhart. 453 

Touch us gently. Time £.11". Proetfr. 3<6 

Toussnint, the most unhappy man of men Wordsivorth. 293 

"Traitor?" I go—but I return Croly. 368 

Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp! H. B.Sar<ient. 778 

Tread softly— how the head Mrs. Soulhen. 391 

Triumphal arch, that flll'st the sky Campbell. 3.39 

True happiness had no localities Pollok. 517 

True it is that clouds and mist 540 

True Poet 1— Hack, thou dreamer Linton. 704 

Turn, Fortune, turu thy wheel Tcnmjtun. 0S4 



'Twas amid a scene of blood ■. Charlton. 622 

'Twas April : 'twas Sunday J. F. Clarke. 67S 

'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won Dri/den. 115 

'Twas the day when God's Anoinled Hedge. 013 

'Twas nioru, and beauteous on the mountain's Bowles. 265 

'Twas morn : the rising splendor rolled Crohj. 357 

'Twas the day beside the Pyramids Thornbunj. 824 

'Twas the night before Christinas C. C. Moore. 351 

'Twas whispered in heaven, 'twas Miss Fanshatve. 530 

Twelve years ago, I knew thee, Knowles Lamb. 327 

Twelve years are gone since Matthew Lee R. H. liana. 384 

'Twas ueedful that with life of low degree McKnioht. 900 

Two armies covered hill aud plain Thompson. 7S9 

Two went to pray 't Oh, rather say Crashaw. 102 

Under the stormy skies, whose wan Miss Barr. 939 

Under this stone doth lie Villiers. 602 

Underneath this sable hearse Jonson. 45 

Unfading Hope ! when life's last embers burn Campbell. 340 

Unlike tho.'e feeble gales of praise Moore. 34S 

Unmerciful ! whose office teacheth mercy Knowles. 467 

Up from the meadows rich with corn Whittier. 636 

Up from the Sjuth at break of day Read. 7S1 

Up! pilgrim and rover, redouble thy haste CrosweU. 003 

Upon God's throne there is a seat for me Cranch. 714 

Upon the hill he turned B(vilr. 5lil 

Upou the white sea-sand Frances Rioieii. 741 

Vane, young iu years, but in sage counsel old Milton. 99 

Various and vast, sublime in all its forms. Crabbe. 245 

"Venice Preserveil," Scene from Otwaij. 121 

Venomous thorns that are so sharp Wyatt. 6 

" Virginins," Knowles's, Scene from 456 

Vital spark of heavenly flame Pope. 146 

Wake from thy azure ocean-bed 54S 

Wake not, O mother! sounds of lameutatioi] Heber. 363 

Wake now, my Love, awake; for it is time Spenser. 10 

Walk with the beiiuliful Burrinnton. 561 

Was ever sorrow like to our sorrow Lady Wilde. 842 

Waves, waves, waves! W. Alexander. 797 

'Way down npon de Swaunee Ribber Foster. Sin 

We are born ; we laugh ; we weep Procter. 3S6 

We are living — we are dwelling A.C. Coxe. 750 

We are two travellers, Roger and I Trowbridge. 820 

We be siddiers three 104 

\\'e break the glass whose sacred wine...: Pinkney. 673 

'We ciaiut the broken lyres that rest Holmes. 666 

We every-day hards niiiy ^^ Anonymous" sign J. Smith. 330 

We have met again to-night Everett Peabody. 522 

We have seen thee, O Love, th<m art fair Swinburne. 873 

We knew it would rain, for all the morn Aldrich. 868 

We know not what it is, dear Mrs. iJodqe. 904 

We live in deeds, not years Bailey. 735 

We sail toward evening's lonely star Mrs. Thaxt^r. 802 

We sleep and wake and sleep Tennyson. OSS 

We see them not— we cannof fear Hawker. 5S5 

We talked with open heart and tinigue Wordsworth. 2S5 

We watched her breathing through the night .Hood. .514 

We were not many, we who stood Holfman. 617 

Weary of myself, and sick of asking M. Arnold. 783 

Webster's " Duchess of Malfl," Scenes from 34 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower Burns. 257 

Wee Willie Winkie I»'. >liller. 092 

Weep uot l'(U- me J. H. AVicamn. 572 

Well do I love those various hartnonies McLellan. 693 

Were I as base as is the lowly plain Sylvester. 23 

What action wouldst thcui wish to have iu baud . . Cliapman. 19 

What can a poor man do hut love and pray //. Culeridr/e. 498 

What constitutes a State Sir (I'm. Jones. 232 

What dost them bring to me Mrs. Dorr. 809 

What dost thou see, lone watcher on the tower Maekay. 724 

What dream of beauty ever equalled this Hnwitt. 483 

What heartache— ne'er a hill Lanier. 917 

What is hope ? A smiling rainbow Carlyle. 475 

What is that, mother Doane. 518 

What makes a hero ?— not success. W. Taylor. 565 

What needs my Shakspeare for his honored bones. ..Milton. 99 



IXDEX OF FIRST LISES, ETC. 



957 



■VV'hnt nothing earthly gives, or can destroy Pope. UT 

What sncrilice of tlmiiks Bemimoiit and Fletcher. 48 

What shall I do lest life in silence pass B39 

What shall I do to be forever known Cowley. 110 

Whafs hallowed ground ? Has eiulh a clod Campbell. 333 

Whal's this dull town to nie Lady Keppel. 220 

What stars have faded ftom our sky C. C. Cox. 737 

What though I sing no other song H'liiter. S70 

What though, Valclusa, the fond bard be fled Rtmell. 266 

When all is done and said Lord Vaux. 1 

When all thy mercies, O my God.. Addison. 127 

When Britain lirst, at Heaven's command ThoMison. 169 

When coldness wraps Iliis suffering clay Byron. 404 

When Delia on the plain appears hyttelton. 177 

Whene'er with haggard eyes I view Canning. 276 

When Faith and Love, which parted fiom thee never. .1/)7ton. 100 

When first, descending from the moorlands n'ordsieorth. 291 

When gatlicring clouds ace darkly round Mrs. .^ieirall. 75S 

When I am dead, no pageant train E. Emrett. 459 

Wlien I a verse sliall make Herrick. 57 

When I beneaih the cold, red earth am sleeping..Wo(fter«'c!;. 601 

When I consider how my light is spent Milton. 99 

When Israel, of the Lord beloved Scott. 301 

When I was bound apprentice IS** 

When I was still a youthful wight Goethe. SIS 

When icicles hang by the wall Shaknpeare. 29 

Wl)en Lellie bad scarce passed her third glad year..T«nwr. 060 

When Love with unconfin^d wings Lovelace. 109 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young Collins. 190 

When Philoctetes in the Lemniau isle Wordsworth. 293 

When Robin Hood in the greenwood lived 79 

When shall we three meet again 15S 

When the British warrior-queeu Cowper. 211 

When the grass shall cover me 642 

When the humid shadows hover Kinney. Sll 

When the hunter's moon is waning Mrs. Mace. SOS 

When the sheep are in the fauld Anne Barnard. 2o6 

When to any saint I pray Parsons. 759 

When to my Charles this book I send Lewis. 3-2S 

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought ... S/io<;»;wa''<^' 29 

Wlien we two parted ■. Byron. 403 

When whi-ipering strains with creeping wind Strode. 01 

When Yankees, skilled in martial rule Trumbull. 237 

When youthful faith hath fled Lockhart. 454 

Whereas in ward full oft I would James I. of .'Scotland. 6 

Where is the sea?— I languish here Mrs. Hcmam. 451 

Where the bee sucks, there suck I Shakspeare. as 

Where now, where, O spirit pure Cranch. 715 

Where the rocks are gray Miss Paye. SS7 

Where did you come from, baby dear Macdonald. 797 

Where dost thou careless lie Johnson. 44 

Where the remote Bermudas ride Marvell. Ill 

Where wailest thon E. A mold. 852 

Where, where will be the birds that sing H'. &'. Brown. 646 

Wliere, then, shall Hope and Fear. S.Johnson. 179 

Wherever I wander, up and about Buchanan. 907 

Which I wish to remark Harte. S79 

While roses are so red Miss Rossetti. S34 

While thee I seek, protectirig Povvei- Miss Williams. 262 

White-capped waves far round the ocean Clarke. CT3 

Who killed the girls and thrilled the boys Tennyson. 605 

Whoe'er she be Crasliaw. 101 

Who cares for nothing alone is free Winter. 869 

Who is Silvia » What is she Shakspeare. 23 

Who is the happy warrior ? Who is he Wordsworth. 284 

Who seeketh flu'ds : what shall be his relief Sliairp. 768 

Who will say the world is dying Kingsley. 765 

Who will tell me the secret, the cause De Kail. 933 

Whose imp art thou, with dimpled cheek Miss Baillie. 260 

Why are you wandering here, I pray Kenney. 359 

Why art thon slow, thou rest of trouble. Death. . .Massinger. 4S 

Why does your brand sae drap wi' blude S3 

Why doubt, then, the glorious truth to sing Young. 137 

Why should L with a mournful, morbid spleen Hayne. S4S 

Why should vain mortals tremble at the sight of .Vilcs. '223 

Why should we faint and fear to live alone Kcble. 438 

Why so pale and wan, foud lover Suckling. 103 



Why thus longing, thus forever sighing Mrs. Sewall. 757 

Why weep ye by the tide, ladie .Scott. 300 

Wild rose of Alioway I ray thanks Halleck. 478 

Will you walk into my parlor Mary llawitt. 597 

Winds of the north '. restrain your icy g.ales Darwin. 2u0 

Winged mimic of the woods Wilde. 412 

Wings have we— and as far as we can go Wordsworth. 294 

With deep afl'ection and recollection Mahony. 599 

With sacrifice before the rising morn Wordsworth. 287 

With ships the sea was sprinkled Wordsworth. 293 

With silent awe I hail the sacred mmn Leyden. 326 

Within the sober realm of leafless trees Head. 782 

Without your showers Frencait. 244 

Word Wiis brought to the Danish king Mrs. Xorton. 648 

Would that thou wert mcue strong Griffin. 604 

Would you be young again Baroness Xairw.. 271 

Wcnildst thou bear what man can say Jonson. 45 

Wile, who in thy deep devotion Rockwell. 628 

With all thy country's blessings on thy head..J/r8. Stockton. 549 

With fingei'S weary and worn tlood. 509 

With thine C(mipared, O sovereign Poe.sy Toicnshend. 58S 

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn-bnsh Clare. 45'i 

Within the garden of Beaucaire Stedvian. 854 

Without haste, without rest C.C. Cox. 737 

When spring comes laughing Dobsotl. 896 

When Erin first rose from the dark, swelling flood .Z>re)i«en. 543 

When I attain to utler forth in verse Mrs. Browning. 670 

When T consider, as I'm forced to do Weeks. 898 

When the vast heaven is dark Fane. 822 

When the old flaming Prophet Cartwright. 566 

Where art thiul loveliest, O Nature, tell Barnes. 073 

Where is Miss Myrtle, can any one tell Praed. 574 

W hen I was a boy— I'm an old man now Miss I'andyne. 940 

Where art thou, wood-dove of Hesperian climes — Hosmer. 731 

When last the maple bnd was swelling., Gallagher. 651 

When a' ither bairnies are hnshed Tliom. 409 

When evening spreads her shades around.. .L. M. Davidson. 643 
When first I looked into thy glorious eyes. ..Mrs. Whitman. 583 

When Freedom from her nnjuutain height Drake. 472 

When on the breath of autumn breeze Mary Howitt. 598 

When Vulcan cleft the laboring brain W. R. llamiltmi. 613 

Whence dost thon come to me Percival. 483 

Who is it knocks this stormy uight Blood. 897 

Who was it that so lately said Trench. 641 

When thalPhffibus his chair of gold so high Chaucer. 1 

When the mild weather came E. Sargent. 710 

Where are ye with whom in life I started 541 

With diamond dew the grass was wet Winter. 869 

With his gnarled old arms n. R.Jackson. 776 

With no fond sickly thirst f.u- fame Mrs. E.O.Smith. 619 

With all their misery, with all their sin Gilbert. 871 

With the same letter heaven and home begin Very. 712 

Woods, waters, h.ave a charm to soothe the ear Simms. 018 

Wmn with the battle, by Stamford town Collyer. 793 

Why should / slug? The scenes which roused. .J/. />ai>?'d«oji. 645 
Wouldst thou not be content to die Gosse. 920 



banks and braes and streams around Burns. 268 

banks and br.aes o' bonnie Doon Burns. 201 

braves of the Ancieut League Mc.Uaster. 831 

crags and peaks, I'm with you once again Knowles. 467 

distant spires, ye antique towers Gray. 184 

gentle birds, that perch aloof Hayley. 230 

gentlemen of England Parker. IM 

glasse was at my lippe Leiyhton. 7S5 

golden lamps of heaven, farewell Doddridge. 171 

hasten to the dead! what seek ye there Shelley. 433 

heavy-hearted mariners W. E. Channing. 744 

mariners of England CainpbeU. 332 

orbs that tremble through infinity Tuiviuhend. 588 

say they all have passed away Mrs. Sigonrney. 419 

SODS of Columbia, who bravely have fought Paine. 318 

stars, which are the poetry of heaven Byron. 395 

who think the truth ye sow 537 

who would save your features florid U. Smith. 3.53 

whose hearts are beating high KebU. 438 

s, happy friend, the cross was thine Williams. 701 



958 



IXDEX OF FISST LINES, Etc. 



Yes, still Hove Ihee ! Time, who sets Dmves. 

Yes, visiciiis of bis I'lUlU'e rest O. IV. U. Peabody. 

Yet I confess in this my pilijnm.ige Wither. 

Yet Hope, cast back on feeling, aijjnes thus SiniiomU. 

" Yet life,^' you say, " is life " Wordm..rth. 

Yet once moie, oh ye laurels, and once more Milton. 

Y'et one smile more, depailing, distuut sun Bnjant. 

Yon car of tire, tlioni;h veiled by day ' a, Lunt. 

Y'onderis a little drum, hau'ring on the wall Jerrold. 

Y'ou have outrun your fortune Lyttoti. 



PAGE 
6Sit 

523 
61 
912 
294 
93 
463 
621 
5S4 
C06 



Youug Rory O'More courted Kathleen Bawn Lnvtr. 

Yon meaner beauties of the night Wottuii. 

Yon bid me try. Bhie-eyes, to write Dobson. 

Your lower limbs seemed far from stout J. Smith. 

Your poem must eternal be Coleriilf/e. 

Youth, that pursuest with such eager pace .Milnca. 

Youth, thou art fled, but where are all the charms.H. Cuier«!7c. 

You know we French stormed Ratishon Drommiij. 

You might have won tlie Poet's name Tenni/mii. 

Yon've woven roses round my way Mrs.Osgood. 



PAGE 

501 
39 
896 
32!) 
31T 
659 
491 
710 
CS2 
7U8 



THE END. 



ERRATA. 

Page 1, 1st col., line 14 from top, for " 1489" read " 1389." 

Page 63, 2d col., last stanza but one, ror "thou shall" read "thou shalt." 

Page 67, 2d col., 6tli Hue from top, for " Othello quote a stanza of it " read " lago 
.quote two lines from it." 

Page 99, Milton's "Epitaph on Shakspeare," for ".star-y pointing" read "star-y- 
pointing." 

Page 160, "The Maiden's Choice" should be credited to Henry Carey. 

Page 16."), for "about 1700" (under Henry Carey) read "1663." 

P.ige 496, Ist fol., 17th line from top, for " tins folk " read " its folk." 

Page 681. first .stanza of "The Rainy Day," for "gush" read "gust." 

Page 638, 'M col., 17th line from top, for "gay" read "gray." 

Page 640, "Be Patient" should be credited to W. .1. Linton. 

Page 688, in last stanza of " Tears, Idle Tears," for " helpless '' read " hoiJeless." 

Page 763, 1st col., 3d line from top, for " the heaven " read " then heaven ;" 9th line 
from top, for "grasping" read "groping;" 15th line from top, for "or" read 
" nor ;" 19th line from top, for " illuminated " read " illumiued." 

Page 764, 3d stanza of " She Came and Went," for " orchard's " read " orchards." 

Page 771, in 4th stanza of "'Day is Dj ing," for ".Tnly" read "Inly;" in l.ast .stanza, 
for " requiem " rpa<l " recpiienis.'' 

Page 778, last stanza of "St. George's, Hanover Square," for "bosom'' read 
"bower;" and in last stanza of " The Unrealized Ideal" for "for" read "but." 



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